A taste of Italy

Last night I revisited the streets of Rome with Julia Roberts in Eat, Pray, Love. It took me back a few years to what was my son's best holiday ever. Well, what's not to like when you are 7 years old - pizza, pasta, the best ice cream in the world and adults running after you to pinch your cheeks and call you trezorro.

Italy is such a sensual place - the smells, sights, sounds, tastes make an indelible print on your memory. As Julia Roberts' character, Liz wanders through the cobblestoned streets and ancient ruins, I found myself transported back. I could feel the July heat and recognised the street taps, which must surely have been there since the days of the Romans, where my son stopped to stick his head under the cold water flowing from the bowels of the earth. The old buildings with solid doors that look like they can withstand battering rams, the flower boxes spilling geraniums outside every window and the fountains with ornate statues inviting you to make a wish, all form part of the charm. 

We travelled the length of Italy by train – Venice, Rome, Naples, Milan and ended our journey in a villa just outside of Florence, the perfect place to take time to allow all we had experienced to settle down  deep. The rolling vineyards, the beautiful sunshine, plenty of space to run around and a pool to cool off in – these were all the right ingredients. And if we wanted to exert ourselves, the museums were a short trip away. One day we came back to a feast prepared by our kids who had joined the chef in the kitchen and helped produce lunch brimming with goodness. 

But back to the movie last night - one of my favourite scenes is the one in the barber shop where Luca Spaghetti explains the concept of "il bel far niente" - the beauty of doing nothing and the simple pleasure of being. They do seem to have it down to an art - the way they speak, eat, live and enjoy the fine things in life. It has always amazed me how the chaos of Italy (the strikes, the mafia, the politics, etc) seems to go right over the heads of the people while they enjoy the good life. And if you think about it, there are many good things that come out of Italy - cars, bags, shoes, clothes, food, music, art, ice cream... The whole concept of  deserving pleasure seems bred into the bones of Italians, whereas we need to go to therapy to feel that we are worthy! I read once that Freud's theories never took off with the Italians - they don't repress anything so they don't need psychoanalysis.

Like all movies, it veered off the story in the book, but it was a real "feel-good" experience. The "Pray" and "Love" part of the story is subject for another blog ... I am still revelling in la dolce vita.

Exam-phobia

This morning I did an "exam". Actually it was an open-book quiz that I received via email, had an hour to complete and then return. In my head it took on the proportions of an "exam". And that word strikes fear into my heart, in the same way that Pavlov's dogs salivated at the ringing of a bell!

The quiz was the final requirement for the Magazine Journalism course I have been doing The SA Writers' College. I have enjoyed each module with its accompanying assignments, and have produced a 1800 word article about the World Children's Prize, so was feeling a sense of accomplishment. The fact that it was an online course made me feel even better, more with it (do people still say that?), like I had further embraced technology! Nevertheless, I allowed myself the slightest sense of panic at the idea that I would be put to the test and have to prove myself.

No matter that I did this test in the comfort of my peaceful study which looks out on to the garden and played music in the background, my sympathetic nervous system went into overdrive, getting ready for who knows what. In my technophobic defense I have to say that I did not trust the fact that this had to be done online and that I would have to rely on email to submit, but it was definitely that word "exam" that did it. I could feel that old familiar sensation creeping up the back of my neck, the sense of doom and the heaviness hanging over my head.

I think it harks back to school days where we were trained to regurgitate what had been taught in class and, woe betide, if you did not give it back exactly as it was expected. Yes, much to my children's horror, I did have the odd teacher who thought they could put the ruler to better use on parts of our bodies. I remember working myself up into quite a state on the eve of exams and then, many times wanting to kick myself for not doing as well as I could have.

It was only much later, post-university even, that I managed to enjoy the learning process and take assessments more in my stride. I have enjoyed doing courses in everything from neuro-developmental therapy to yoga teacher training and aromatherapy. I have enjoyed the sense of achievement along with the stimulation and really, the assessments at the end have not been the bogey they used to be.

I feel hugely relieved that I have completed the quiz. I know that I have done well in the assignments. As always, it seems almost pathetic that I could waste all that energy. Seems there is still a bit of exam-phobia left that needs to be exorcised!

Driving Lessons

My daughter turned 17 earlier this year and getting her learner's licence is one of the highlights of her year. I find myself in one of those ambiguous parenting moments - where you realise with pride, that they are growing up but fear what the next stage brings. She is very excited at the prospect of soon being able to drive and as I drive around the neighbourhood I see more and more of her peers navigating the streets with the red capital letter L firmly stuck on the back window of their parents' cars. It is a big mark of independence and very exciting to be able to take yourself where you need to be.

Her boyfriend recently got his licence and he is raring to go. Which has posed new challenges in the parenting game - do I let her go off with an inexperienced driver, who is dying to show off his new skill? He has won many brownie points by saying that he did not think that he would let his daughter be driven by a newly-licensed driver. 

Wearing of seat belts has always been non-negotiable for me with my kids and they rarely protested at having to be put into a seat and be buckled up. As an occupational therapist I experienced the effects of head injuries as a result of motor vehicle accidents. In recent years we have had uncomfortably close experiences with serious, and fatal, car accidents involving young students. 

In South Africa, you can legally start to drink on the same day that you get your driver's licence!? I thought that this was peculiar to us, but after a quick research, discovered that except for the US, it is pretty much the standard. In the US you can get a driver's permit at age 16 but the legal drinking age is 21, which makes sense that they get to master the skill before they have licence to do anything stupid. Here, at the age of 18 when kids are in the last year of school and ready to prove their independence, they are given permission not only to get behind the wheel but also to go out on the town and party. This coupled with the fact that they think they are invincible, is a potent mix.We all know that it is not only up to how you drive and I think that SA drivers leave much to be desired. As for the taxi drivers...enough said.


When Sandra Bullock accepted her Oscar award earlier this year, she thanked her mom for "not letting her drive in cars with boys when she was 18" - you can call me Mrs. Bullock. 

The Right to Write

Many of us have a secret book, just waiting to be let out. Like my friend who started writing a journal while she was pregnant with her daughter and then it grew into her writing to her daughter. She dismisses it by saying that her daughter will probably be the only one to ever read it since she is "not a writer".

I love writing. I love books that invite me to write in them, and writing on the first page is the best part. I love the smell, the sights and the feel of books. And the right pen is essential! I am always starting journals and then run out of steam halfway through and start another, with a supposedly different theme. I have done the gratitude journal a la Oprah Winfrey, the travel journal and also kept journals where I have poured out my deepest and darkest secrets - I often worry about those, as I fear someone will find it and all may be revealed - but it gives me such a sense of release and clarity to let it all out. Actually, sometimes burning the pages can be wonderfully freeing!

Reviewing these journals is empowering, as it can show how far I have come, and how much I have learned. When we write things down, they become concrete and real. When we write out deep and dark thoughts, they lose some of their power. Sometimes it just helps to complain or work something out in private. 

I have recently completed Julia Cameron's, The Right to Write, in which she says that we should write, because it is human nature and likens writing to meditation or prayer. A few years ago, while convalescing from an operation, I worked my way through her other book, The Artist's Way. In this book she recommends "morning pages" as "the primary tool of creative recovery". Morning pages consist of three pages of longhand writing which literally act as a brain drain. It involves simply moving the hand across the page and writing whatever comes to mind, first thing in the morning. Nothing is too petty, silly, stupid or weird to be included. If you can't find anything to write - write that! According to her, morning pages teach the logical brain to stand aside and let the artist brain play. 

I have been doing that on and off over the last few years and I can definitely recommend it - it is almost meditative and gives me insight into what is going on in my life. It is also hard to complain about the same situation morning after morning, week after week, without being moved to do something about it! It also helps to get rid of the negative stuff that clogs up my brain and makes space for more constructive thoughts. 

Writing about our experiences make them count and we don't have to be published to be called writers. Even if it is only our sons and daughters or ourselves who read what we have written, we are all writers. 

Mamma Mia, Dragon tattoos, Hornets Nests and Fire!

Sweden seems perfect - ordered, free and fair, things work. Sweden must be one of the few countries that I have visited where people really know about SA and apartheid. Over the last few years we have established strong links with some of the people through conferences on environmental issues and children's rights. Recently, we have become involved with a children's project started by two Swedish women in one of our townships. 

Stockholm is beautiful - it is known as the Venice of the North - thousands of islands, trees, people fishing in the lake in the middle of the city, skyscrapers next to mediaeval buildings on cobble-stone streets. On a recent visit I found myself thinking that I might be able to live there for a while, that is, if I could convince my inner African violet  to survive the winter. I watched the Swedish film, As it is in Heaven, four times (OK, maybe the fourth time was a bit too much) and bopped along with Meryl Streep to the ABBA (famous Swedish export) songs in Mamma Mia.  

So what it is the point of this little ramble? I have just emerged from reading the Millennium trilogy books by Stieg Larsson, a Swedish journalist who wrote the three books and died of a heart attack at the age of 50, soon after delivering the manuscripts to his publisher. The books have become a phenomenon, already being made into Swedish movies, with Hollywood versions soon to follow. 

These are not the kind of books I would normally buy. However, I found myself being sucked into each consecutive 500+ page tome (the third one is more than 700 pages), after being proudly handed them by a friend from Sweden. I was feverishly reading whenever I could, although I confess to needing a break between each book to read something "normal". I was slightly shell-shocked after each book - I had been exposed to the dark underbelly of the society, detailing human trafficking, espionage and prostitution. In spite of being a little distracted by the very foreign-sounding Swedish street names and places, I found the writing easy and the pace exciting - I wanted to know what happened to the "most unlikely heroine" I have ever read about.

So now I find myself wondering how much of this is in fact truth or a creation by an author who had experienced some of the danger and intrigue as a journalist known for his outspokenness against neo-Nazism and the like. How much of this darkness is really being covered up by a facade of perfection? Certainly the grass is never completely greener on the other side, but the book has succeeded in rocking the boat and making me wonder.