Liberation Day

Still somewhere between being asleep and awake but favouring the former, I rolled over and tried to ignore whatever commotion was going on outside. Living in the very centre has definite advantages, but every silver lining inevitably has a cloud and it’s noisy until the early hours and then starts again from daybreak, but I’ve learnt to like it, and the general buzz of city life is the background to my sleeping. However, I draw the line at the full brass band, drums and marching that disturbed my happy slumber at the unearthly hour of 9 this morning. Having been dragged reluctantly to consciousness, I remembered that today is Italian liberation day, and immediately leapt from bed, curious to see how elaborate the Italian’s were making this celebration. From my window, I could see rows and rows of white helmets marching down the main street in perfect unison, aside from the two stragglers at the back, it has to be said. They kept stopping to look at shoes in the shop windows! Following them was a police escort, comprising of four armoured cars, and an ambulance. From the disgruntled look of my neighbour, who also came to his window to see what had got him out of bed, he shared my belief that four armoured cars was perhaps a little excessive. They’re nothing if not dramatic.

 

Later in the main square, Piazza Bra, the festivities continued, as did the excessive police presence. The Ayuntamiento was adorned with Italian flags and the red carpeted steps were topped with important looking people. The city’s five free local papers were out in force, but seemed rather unoccupied until a group of hippies began chanting and waving banners with “El circulo Pink” (The pink circle) emblazoned on the front. I don’t know what this signified, but from the sight of armed police officers charging towards them, I’m guessing it’s not what they wanted to see. I moved a good distance away to watch what would happen next. Confrontations, arrests?  Just photos as it turned out. Look this way boys, a photographer called to the armed police. 11 heads turn sharply and in sync towards the camera, confirming my belief that a chiselled jaw, moody face and fully reflective designer sunglasses are job requirements of the Italian police force. Those who don’t fit the criteria must instead join the department that have to wear the silly white hats, not nearly so affective in chatting up women on your beat.

 

Later on in the day, we stumbled across a protest around the edge of the centre. The ethnic minorities and immigrant population of Verona were campaigning for equality in the workplace and in society, with most of the banners alluding to the extreme right views of the newly elected Lega Nord and their intolerant attitude towards foreigners. The protest itself was big and noisy, with music, singing, chanting and shouting. And the mix of people was really diverse, from all different races, ages, social groups, all coming together on liberation day, asking to be treated equally. It then seemed slightly ironic that they were refused entry to pass through the centre of the city by not four but eight armoured police vans, meaning that the tourists and people of Verona could enjoy lunch in the sunshine in peace, blissfully unaware that the marginalised people of the town were protesting, well, on the margins of the city, just outside the walls. Out of sight is out of mind, it seems.

Oooops!

“How long have we got until we have to leave?” “Ooo, I reckon a good half hour. Shall we get another bottle of wine?” “Excellent idea.” This is a re run of the conversation I had with a friend who came to visit. The topic, as you’ve probably gathered, was whether or not we had enough time for another bottle of wine before getting the last train back to Verona from Venice. As it turned out, our maths was a little out; we didn’t have time, not nearly enough. At 10.20 we looked at our watches, back at each other, and back at our watches again, stupefied as to how the time had flown by. Probably had something to do with trying to catch up on 4 months of chat in one evening, but anyway, in our slightly tipsy and ever positive state, we honestly believed we could make the train, despite not having a map of Venice, and having been told by the waitress that we had no chance. So, 20kilo bag in tow, we began running, yes, actually running, through the back streets of Venice following signs for the Ferrovia, in the vague direction that I thought the station was. Anyone that knows me, knows I should have a Tom Tom strapped to me at all times, and my ‘gut feeling’ surgically removed as it’s useless, so taking the lead probably wasn’t my best plan of attack. At 11pm, 10 minutes after the train had left, we decided to call it a day on the station search, and think about our next plan. Luckily, although probably not for them, I had two friends in Venice on a romantic weekend away, so they came to rescue us. We had no idea where we were…200yards from where we had dinner it turned out! I don’t think I will ever this down. So our little knights in shining armour came with us while we asked at a few hotels for prices of rooms, for which we were mercilessly ridiculed. Apparently, it’s not the done thing to shop around for a hotel at 11.30p.m., but we were amateurs at this missing late night trains business. Eventually we ended up staying in their hotel, declining their kind offer to share their room, I think we’d disturbed them enough!

 

Cock up number two of the week came a few days later, and was of a very different nature. In Verona, you can take mid term written exams meaning that you only have to do an oral exam on the second part of the course. Excellent. I asked the professor about it, was told it was Tuesday, so poor Alice came back from a lovely relaxing weekend at home on a 6am Monday flight to a day, evening, and morning of revision. It’s amazing how productive you can be in that time though, so at 11.30 on Tuesday morning we were there, prepared, good breakfast inside us, bottle of water out, dictionaries at the ready, pens poised… “Good morning class, today I want to finish the topic of morphology.” Pens still poised, we looked at each other, to the teacher and then around the room. This didn’t seem to be a surprising start to anyone else. “I’m so so so sorry”, I whispered to a gob smacked and sleep deprived Alice, “maybe I got my martedi and mercoledi mixed up!” She was far kinder about it than she should have been, and a quick check in her diary, where she had written the date down weeks before, confirmed that it was, in fact, on Wednesday morning. Every silver lining has a cloud, it gave us an extra day to learn it, which we needed, but as we lowered our pens from their highly poised position, this cloud’s lining didn’t seem all that shiny! My mission this week is to get through it cock-up free, but to be honest I’m dubious even as I write. It’s all part of the ERASMUS adventure, and it makes a good story!