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overleftdown · 5 months

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can u talk more abt his apparent affairs w teachers and relationship w sex in general? so many ppl gloss over that bit

of course! i'll link a couple posts for preface, although i'll probably paraphrase some stuff anyways.

[my commentary on sex and consent in saltburn.]

i received an ask regarding farleigh's queerness the other day, to which i tied in this little tidbit about farleigh's affirs with teachers. the explicitly male/male language that felix used when recounting farleigh's sexcapades with teachers was interesting to me. farleigh is pansexual (as stated in the screenplay), but felix uses male/male language exclusively. part of this could be the erasure of pansexual or bisexual reality. people either exclude the homosexual aspect of someone's identity, or the heterosexual aspect. but this could also mean that farleigh did only harbor affairs with male teachers.

that would be an interesting complex to think about. although women in positions of power are absolutely capable of abusing that power and asserting dominance over others, men have a different dynamic within that. the fact is, farleigh does things to gain the affections of other people, because he isn't automatically handed that affection. farleigh does play into teacher/student dynamics, whether it's overtly sexual or not. you can see this in the tutor scene and the brief montage moment where fareligh is sitting on the floor in front of the tutor, while they both ignore oliver. consider it an investment, of sorts. there's always a possibility that a white teacher will have academic bias against you, and the need to mitigate that is strangling sometimes. teachers are also just dicks. i find myself in "teacher's pet" positions for a number of reasons, a few of them are bias related.

where it gets complicated is the sex aspect specifically. if it is true that farleigh has been expelled from an absurd number of schools specifically for harboring teacher/student sexual affairs, then this is can really only be perceived as compulsive. also, can i just say, the fact that farleigh was expelled instead of the teacher being fired is disgusting. i kinda wanna call this evidence of discrimination, as well. queerness and perceived sexual deviancy, blackness and the constant inability to be seen as human and innocent. arghgh. i digress. the fact is, if farleigh truly was harboring sexual affairs with teachers for his own benefit and that alone, then he wouldn't have made the mistake so frequently. he would've recognized that the disadvantages outweighed the benefits and found other ways of playing teacher's pet. archie talked about the quickstart dynamic and said that although it was ambiguously consensual, farleigh is attracted to and aroused by power dynamics. many people are. where that compulsive need to buy into power dynamics comes from, i'm not sure. it could be a lot of things.

the neglectful nature of farleigh's upbringing could've resulted in a need for validation and attention from those who are in a position of authority. farleigh's queerness could've resulted in an internalized feeling of perversion that was then externalized through a desire to be taken advantage of. the nature of submission is also often linked to a need for control in other areas of life, and therefore relinquishing control in sexual dynamics. some marginalized people play into eroticization because it can be more validating than exclusion. many people learn to crave their own objectification, and it's often a manifestation of sexual trauma or other forms of trauma. if i get really convoluted and let my angst-fanfiction brain run wild, i start to imagine what environments farleigh was in throughout his childhood. as archie said, farleigh was involved in overly "mature" conversations and situations through his mother. what that could mean for farleigh's perception of sex, nobody knows. i can let my imagination go insane though. i can imagine a lot of weird scenarios. those are all conjecture, of course.

i'm just going to conclude that whatever sexual complexes farleigh has, they're not healthy. i don't think that they should be fetishized or ignored. i think that they're relevant to farleigh and oliver's on-screen dynamic, especially considering oliver was in a position of power over farleigh when they had sex.

#farleigh start #saltburn #meta #so much meta #i'm yapping and i love asks #thank you for the ask teehehehe #hope this was a good response <3 #oliver's absurd extrospective posts #just constantly yabbering away #you guys are validating me though ^-^

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lindoig4 · 5 years

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Now for Toronto

Our train to Toronto (actually two trains, one to Montreal and another from there to Toronto) didn’t leave until 5:30pm so we arranged a noon checkout and left our bags in the luggage room while we went shopping. We needed lunch, but also food for the 24-hour train trip. We stocked up, perhaps overstocked, with the necessaries, only to be told at the station that our meals were provided - contrary to the information we had been given previously. Hopefully, we now won’t need to buy much in Toronto.

The meals on the train were quite good, but there was not a lot to see on the first leg because it was dark for a little more than half the trip. Our cabin was cute with a bathroom at least as big as the one in our caravan, but it was a bit of a challenge for me climbing up to the top bunk without any sort of ladder. It was pretty rocky at times during the night, but not enough to warrant seasick meds! The most impressive sight along the way was the St Lawrence Seaway. It is MASSIVE and we crossed it twice - or was it thrice? We got into a long conversation at breakfast with a Canadian woman who is on her way to Australia for another holiday - she has been there before - and I think I missed one of the crossings at that time.

Our second train was a little less luxurious, seats rather than a cabin and only meals to purchase, so we used some of the goodies we bought yesterday and only bought our drinks. This was a more varied trip as far as scenery went. The first train went very largely though natural forest, but the second opened up into a lot more agriculture, corn farms mainly, but less trees adjacent to the track so we could see a lot more of the countryside, especially where it has been cleared. There are a lot more small towns, usually with very neat houses, with everything surrounded by green pastures, often sprinkled with clusters of yellow, white and pink wildflowers – very colourful.

Toronto! (Just for the record, according to my (previous) dentist, I am now officially dead! But I don’t believe it…… A couple of years ago, I had some outstandingly expensive dental work done, including some ultra-special porcelain fillings that he guaranteed would still be in pristine condition when I carked it. I have had a series of problems with the work done, or not done properly, and a couple of night ago, one of my $1000+ fillings came out - so I am obliged to conclude that I am now officially/dentally deceased. His guarantee obviously wasn’t worth much and I have long-since chosen a different dentist because of the other problems I have suffered so if anyone is thinking of using The Dental Company in Windsor, I suggest you consult widely before committing your superannuation fund to this practice.)

Toronto is a moderately big city – not sure what else I can say about it. We quite enjoyed our stay, but the city itself didn’t leap out at us as having anything to really recommend it to us.

Our first day there was Father’s Day and I got some wonderful message from the kids – so thank you! We had a fairly busy morning with washing, unpacking, downloading and sorting photos and so on and after lunch we just strolled down to a nearby parkland that had some great gardens, mainly in hothouses. There were several different areas with tropical plants, desert plants, orchids, and so on and we spent up to a couple of hours there browsing and photographing inside and outside. I spied some cute squirrels there too – darker and smaller than the others we have seen so tried to photograph them too – without a lot of success. I just love the cute little things. They are almost fluid in their movements and glide along quite beautifully – Heather thinks I am a bit obsessive, but they are such lovely little creatures that I can’t help myself. On the way back to the hotel, we found a supermarket and topped up a few supplies then went to the bar for Happy Hour drinks and a delicious snack.

Monday, we became uber-tourists (something we almost always eschew) and took a tour to Niagara Falls. It was the Labour Day public holiday in Canada so there were even more people there than normal (13 million tourists each year and most of them were there with us). It was nearly 150km to get there and it didn’t start well. One couple who were supposed to board the bus at the first stop with us never turned up – until more than half an hour later o the bus had to divert back to the starting point to collect them. They sat behind us and were also late back on two other viewing stops along the way. The also yabbered away in German right through the commentary, making it hard for us to follow what was being said. They were not the only people constantly talking and I finally shouted out for everyone to quieten down and it did improve a bit after that – except for the German couple.

The bus ride was very bumpy. I am pretty sure they left the suspension in the garage for repairs that day. And the emergency escape window near my ear has to be the loudest rattliest window in North America, but we made the best of it and enjoyed the day. The driver gave us a huge amount of information, talking almost continuously for the 90-minute trip to the helicopter field where a few of our number took a ride ($CA149 for 10 minutes) while the rest of us went a little further to the Whirlpool. The river (a huge torrent) comes in over some rapids into a big basin where it swirls around quite dramatically before taking a sharp turn to starboard and thence races further along the deep valley. While we were gawking at that, the bus went back to collect the helicopterists and we then went on to the actual Falls.

It is massive! The border between the US and Canada runs down the centre of the Niagara River and divides just before the Falls making it two Falls – the American Falls and the Canadian or Horseshoe Falls – the latter being much bigger than the former. The statistics are simply phenomenal – I think it was something like 20 million cubic feet of water a day – but looking at it, it might well be 2000 million! It is basically indescribable – and the photos don’t even start to do justice to the magnitude, the noise, the power, the beauty, the sheer magnificence of it – and remember that more than half the volume is already diverted to generate hydro-power.

We strolled along the viewing area ,a few hundred metres of it, gaping and photographing as we went before returning to the bus to take us to lunch We had a really nice 3-course meal in a restaurant that gave us a great view of the Falls – so out came the cameras again. After lunch we drove through the town area to where we queued for a boat trip to the foot of the Falls. You have to see the town to believe it. It would put Disneyland to shame I think, loaded with stalls, rides, every imaginable theme house, glitz and razzmatazz like you wouldn’t believe – not the least attractive to us, but I am sure it all makes many people very rich.

We all got kitted out like pink lollypops with flimsy ponchos before being crowded onto the boat. There was quite a breeze, mainly generated from the massive volume of water crashing down around us, so half the time, my poncho was blowing around my shoulders instead of keeping me dry. Approaching the gigantic curtain of water was like standing outside in a huge downpour. Even with my cape on and covering up as well as I could, my camera and one of my Hearing aids stopped working part-way through the 20-minute voyage. The noise was tremendous and floods of water assailed us constantly – so much so that a lot of the time, we couldn’t actually see a lot – we were too busy trying to wipe the gales of water out of our eyes. Back on shore, we dried out as much as possible and I got my camera and hearing aid working again (thank goodness for that – I was dreading not being able to hear for the next 3 weeks) but we were back in Toronto before our clothes were dry again. It certainly was an experience and I am glad we did it, but I am not sure I would rush to do it again – no matter how iconic the experience.

On the way back to Toronto ,we went to a winery – actually a wine college (4-year intensive degree course) for a tasting. There were 3 wines, but the special one was icewine – a name like Champagne that is only legally used in 3 wineries in the world – one in Germany where it was ‘invented’ (but it now not producing) and two in Canada. The grapes must be picked frozen after 3 successive days with temperatures between -8 and -15 degrees C – after 15 September each year and every part of the process must be completed within Ontario before the end of September to be called icewine. It is quite low in alcohol (hard to crush or ferment at those temperatures) and is very sweet – and consequently produced in very low quantities (in small bottles) and it is very expensive, being sold in only a few outlets. In Canada, all alcohol is sold and closely controlled by a government agency (you should see its huge HQ in Toronto) so if you want any booze at all, you have to find an store or outlet with LCBO splashed across it – we believe it stands for Liquor Control Board of Ontario.

We arrived back at our hotel after 7:30 so Heather just picked up some hot food at the supermarket and we ate in the room. The supermarkets carry quite a range of ready-to-eat meals for one, or two, or a family and although not that cheap, they are quite affordable and very good tasty meals.

On Tuesday we ventured onto the Hop-On-Hop-Off bus for a tour of the city. The first bus we got on was pretty poor. The woman giving the commentary spoke much too fast and had a heavy accent so it was very hard to make out what she was saying and this was complicated by the dreadful sound system onboard that converted everything to an unintelligible blur. We got off at the next stop and waited for another bus, one with a pre-recorded commentary that was easy to follow. I can’t say that Toronto grabbed me. It doesn’t seem to have much that attracted me. It wasn’t ugly, but just plain and with nothing that stood out to me – but maybe I wasn’t looking or listening properly. The best part of the tour was that our tickets entitled us to a boat ride around the harbour and inner islands. It was quite short (less than 30 minutes), but I enjoyed it and picked up 8 more new birds along the island shore.

One interesting note was that we saw a lot of pretty brown butterflies around the lake (and have seen more since). When we asked about them, we were told that they are Monarch Butterflies, just starting their annual migration – to MEXICO! These flimsy little bits of fluff fly well over 1000 kilometres to catch up with their boy- or girl-friends and make more new butterflies who do the same thing next year. What a phenomenal feat of nature. Must be equal to the beautiful Arctic Terns that fly close to 50,000 kilometres a year – about 3 times to the Moon and back in their lifetime.

We had a latish lunch at a lakeside restaurant before strolling along the harbour a way (more birds) and catching another HOHO back home. On the way back, we stopped off at what National Geographic claims to be the world’s best food market! Regrettably, they obviously haven’t visited many of the other ones we have because there was absolutely nothing to set it apart from many we have visited before. The appellation was certainly a mystery to us!

We had a short Happy Hour in the bar – only to be charged full prices because of their misleading information – but hopefully Tripadvisor might reflect our disappointment in due course.

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travelletto · 5 years

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I came across this article I’d written some time ago, La Bella Vita, that never made it as a published story. It’s from 2007, about realising my dream to live in Rome and thought you might like to read it. My experience happened before Eat, Pray, Love was published, and in fact, I started writing a book much like said-best-seller while I was there…I should’ve finished it!

Grab a cuppa and settle in xx

My first day of my new life in Rome, 24 April 2007

La Bella Vita

Where post offices are banks, where tobacconist sells postage supplies and dramatic chaos is the norm

Someone visits Italy. They return home only to bore their friends recounting stories of a magical time, how good the food tasted, the delicious wine they drank for just five Euro per bottle, the mesmerising history, the rolling countryside, the azure sea, how friendly and animated the locals were and how the experience has changed them. Their stories usually end with how much they love Italy, how they’d love to return, buy a villa and spend each summer in Tuscany / Umbria / Amalfi Coast / Puglia / Sicily. It happens so often it’s become cliché.

After my first trip to the Motherland in my early 20s, the country where my parents were born, I too became one of those people, for about eleven years in fact. I visited Italy multiple times in those eleven years and each time I felt a little more Italian, like I belonged there. The notion of living life in Italy grew stronger after each trip. I would breathe relief with a feeling of ‘I’m home’ every time the plane touched down, and as it lifted off the tarmac on departure, tears would involuntarily run down my cheeks. My soul wanted to be in Italy. Whimsically I’d dream that one day I would live there, one day.

It took a pretty big and emotional relationship break up in my mid-30s to decide to stop dreaming and starting living. It was a typical ‘girl-gets-heartbroken’ story, but for me there was only one remedy.

I put my life in Perth on hold. I was granted a seven-month sabbatical and I left for Italia, for la bella vita. My plan: find a job, a place to live, become a Roman and stay forever.

Travelling in Italy, 2007

Despite my trip not getting off to the best start – I was fleeced $500 at the airport for excess luggage – I left full of fantasies of what my new life was about to become. I had visions of taking la passiagiata, a leisurely stroll in the piazza every evening before a late dinner with new good-looking friends. I’d dream of wearing stylish clothes, perhaps a white linen suit with tan shoes, wandering the ancient city marvelling at the art and architecture.

Trastevere, 2007

My taste buds were anticipating the fruit-packed flavour of a daily gelato and the punch of ruby red tomatoes that taste like tomatoes should. I couldn’t wait to put my broken Italian into practice, to interact with a handsome local barista each morning before dipping my brioche into my lukewarm cappuccino. I was busting at the seams to fully immerse myself into daily life in Rome, a city that first frightened me with frenetic traffic but now excited me with the busy activity of a proper major capital. One never knows what to expect in Rome, and that’s what I love about it, daily surprises like seeing a well-suited middle-aged man cycling one-handed whilst chatting on his mobile to mamma explaining what he ate, or witnessing a nonna scolding a grandchild for not wanting to eat anything more.

Moving to Rome

Once my decision to live in Rome was made, the universe aligned. I picked up a two-week contract with an international event that started as soon as I landed. Perhaps it would set me up for longer-term work? Optimistic, I felt as if I was ahead of the game. Winning at life in Italy.

Working at Rally d`Italia Sardegna with Claudio Bortoletto who could be a relative, not sure – that’s another story…

After my contract ended, my supervisor let me stay at her beautiful apartment in central Rome for a couple of weeks in exchange for helping her improve her English. It was like living in the pages of Vogue Italia. Not able to freeload forever, I eventually found a room in an apartment in the uber-hip neighbourhood Trastevere, just over the Tiber River, sharing with an Australian girl who’d lived in Rome for eight years. She didn’t seem psychotic when I met her, and it was comforting to be able to speak English with a native. The room was so cheap, probably because it had a curtain instead of a wall to separate it from the living room. A bit like being a student again. It was in a great location, cheaper than a hostel and I didn’t need to sign a contract.

Trastevere, 2007

Working in Rome

In another universe-aligning moment, the American who moved out of my new room told me about a cash job available teaching English. I applied, was given an interview, the type of interview we refer to in Australia as ‘a grilling’, and hurrah! I got the job. It only took me an hour by bus to get to work, and I had short shifts of just three hours that paid ten Euro per hour. It was hardly a career move, but it was a start.

My favourite part of the job was Friday’s lessons: conversation. The rest of the week consisted of teaching a repetition method the school adopted, following textbooks that were decades old and subsequently teaching words that were no longer used in every day English. It felt fraudulent to teach these students how to be parrots rather than how to understand. The repetition method also consisted of using a non-stop assertive loud voice, constantly demanding they repeat what I say with no pause for explanation, questions, or discussion – hence my love for Fridays. My head would be thumping after every non-Friday shift.

I’d been working for two weeks when July rolled around. It felt like someone had hit an ‘on’ switch in Rome. Every single day saw temperatures reach over 30 degrees with super high humidity – it felt like I was living in an open-air concrete sauna, constantly sweating. Spending two hours per day travelling on crowded buses without air-conditioning suddenly became unbearable. For ten Euro per hour, in the words of supermodel Naomi Campbell that I echoed, “I’m not getting out of bed for that”. It was ruining my la bella vita. So I quit.

Blogging and not really job hunting in a cafe with free wi-fi in Trastevere, 2007

I had my days to myself and I focussed on finding a proper job. With less than perfect Italian language skills, my choices were limited. Still, I remained hopeful and steeled my resolve to make my new life work.

Becoming official

I had an Italian passport, but I needed a Codice Fiscale, a tax-file number, to be able to work. There wasn’t a facility to apply online, so I went into the Italian Government office and took a ticket. I sat in a vinyl chair and waited. And waited. In those 209 minutes I tried to find amusement watching irate customers wave their arms about as their voices rose over the counter. I took note of everyone’s shoes; most sported American Converse or Nike trainers, the only exception being the over 60s.

When my number was called, I explained my mission to the official. He gave me a form and told me to fill it out and come back with identification. I protested, I had my passport with me, I’m here, now, ready, pronto. I tried to tell him I’d fill out the form right away. My dreams of la bella vita did not include sitting in a stinking boring waiting room for another day. Arguing was futile, and I didn’t have the vocabulary to argue in Italian with any effect. He buzzed in the next number and I was shooed away.

It took two full days of my life to get my Codice Fiscale. When it was finally issued, I was unceremoniously given an A4 sheet of paper with my number on it and told to keep it safe.

No.8 tram to Trastevere, 2007

Next on my ‘become a Roman’ to-do list was to open a bank account. A local had told me that the Poste Italia, the post office, was the best bank in Italy. Go figure. My ankles worked to stay upright walking along Rome’s ancient cobbled streets, until I reached the 15th Century palace that housed a branch of Poste Italia. I look a number and wait for it to be called. After an hour or so, I was ushered into an office. On the other side of the desk sat a smart looking but casually dressed middle-aged woman, her specs balancing on the end of her nose, a computer perched on the corner of her desk, and behind her, a wall that had been converted to a bookcase that was jammed with files. She proceeded to get a form, a sheet of carbon, and a duplicate form that she placed on top. Carbon. This was 2007 not 1967. She passed me a pen, she asked me to fill out the carbonated form. In my best, most polite Italian, I asked, “A form? Why not just enter it straight into the computer?”

She sighed, pointed to the files behind her, and said that it’s the way they did things. Manually. Italians have always been suspicious of the online world, one reason why eBay has never done well in Italy. Plus, eBay relies on postage.

It took two weeks to open a bank account, and two more weeks to receive my pin number and cards.

Job hunting

Whilst waiting to become Poste Italia’s newest customer, my job search continued. I would take my laptop and a fold up chair up to the roof top terrace of my apartment building and walk around until I could find an unsecured Wi-Fi signal. The roof top was my secret Utopia. The distant umbrella pine tree-tops seemed nearer. The buzz of Vespas and other motorini was lessened, and I had the terrace to myself, only ever seeing a neighbour who would waste no time hanging out their washing before scuttling downstairs. It was also a way to escape the confines of the apartment and my neurotic Australian flatmate who yabbered about Gianni calling her fifteen times a day or not calling her at all, which all seemed to revolve around him wanting sex. She wanted advice. My healing-heart was in no state to be drawn into another person’s messed up affairs.

The view from the roof terrace of my apartment building in Trastevere, 2007

The roof terrace had the best view of Trastevere and of Italian life below. On Friday mornings, I would watch the activity in the market in the piazza, of stalls selling fruit and vegetables, loud lycra clothes and cheap luggage. Other mornings I’d watch mothers walking their children to the nearby school, politely smiling and nodding to those they knew without breaking stride. Students with colourful backpacks, ripped jeans, and converse shoes gathering for a morning gossip, men dressed in orange trousers with navy or beige sports jackets and designer specs would walk purposefully to their destination, or stand with one foot up on a bench as they talked loudly on their mobile phone.

Italians love their mobile phones. At that time, Italy was the highest consumer of mobile phone devices per capita in the world. On average, each Italian owned 1.75 mobile phones. Children included. In any given café, the people on the next table would line up two or three mobile phones each – personal, work, and sometimes a secret phone that their wife / husband / partner didn’t know about.

Learning about Italians in Italy

I learnt that 75 per cent of men and 62 per cent of women cheat on their husbands in Italy. This interesting but somewhat disturbing stat was brought to my attention by Grazia magazine. That would explain the secret mobile phone. I owe a lot to the weekly women’s publication – their insight into Italian life and behaviour helped me with my Italian language skills. Every Thursday I would pick up a new edition and read it from cover to cover in a café with my Italian-English dictionary as company. I looked up words I didn’t know and contemplated what I was learning about real Italian culture, like the cheating stat, as opposed to the holiday version of Italian culture that tourists see.

Despite being shocked at how every-day infidelity seemed to be, I was just as shocked at the Italian fashion. Where had the smartly dressed Italians with chic handbags and stylish leather shoes gone? American fashion of jeans and sneakers was on trend. Casual, almost dishevelled reigned, rather than the stylish fashion I remembered, where even the ugly people looked good in Italy.

With some new and old friends in Rome, 2007

The Post Office

To match my new life in Rome, I needed new clothes, so I shopped for new things while waiting for a job. I’d also bought presents for family in Australia and headed to the post office to send them home. After taking a ticket, I waited 52 minutes for my number to be called. At the counter I was told that I needed a box to put the items in before I could send them. “Well, of course,” I said. “Could I buy a box?” That question was met with a stern, “No.” I was instructed to go to the Tabacci (tobacconist) to buy a parcel box and return.

I followed those instructions and returned a few days later. The cost to send my package to Australia was 85 Euro. The contents inside were probably only worth about half that. I asked if that was by sea or by air. I was told that only most expensive option was available, sending it by air, because they had run out of the forms required to send the parcel by sea. “Could you possibly print off another form so I could send it by sea?” Another stern, “No.” Frustrated, I had to walk fifteen minutes in the searing summer heat to another post office where there might be sea parcel forms. I quickly learnt that I had to allocate half a day to post a parcel to allow for eventualities such as running out of forms, buying envelopes or boxes elsewhere and other such Italian bureaucratic idiosyncrasies.

Even if it feels like an ancient cobblestoned-oven in summer, there are benefits to walking around Rome. Around every corner, in just about every piazza, you’ll find a church that’s one thousand years old or more and breath-takingly impressive. When the pavement feels like it could crisp-fry bacon, walking into a cool church is a relief worth thanking God for. Plus it’s free, and usually filled with incredible art. But mostly, it was a great way to give my sweat glands some respite.

Inside a Roman church, 2007

One day I stepped out of one such church into a pedestrian piazza and thought my ears were going to bleed, her shrieks was piercing. A hysterical woman was yelling and wildly waving her arms around and there was a carabinieri police car parked out of the front of a store. I asked the newspaper seller what the commotion was about and he said that the police car was parked in front of her store, making it difficult for customers to walk in. Nothing dangerous, no armed hold up, no theft, no hostages. The drama that ensued from a parked police car had nothing to do with policing at all. I burst out laughing, hardly able to believe the woman’s completely over the top reaction. The newspaper seller seemed confused by my reaction.

As the job search continued, my reality of la bella vita sank in. Daily life in Rome dished out moments of hilarity of such proportions one couldn’t possibly script, yet it was plagued with frustrations of systems that are designed to be difficult. I hadn’t even delved into the world of utilities, which every Italian can tell you story about.

The romantic notion of shopping at markets, daily interactions with Italians, breathtaking beauty, being surrounded by significant history, a new life in an ancient city evaporated as quickly as a spilled spritz on a cobblestone in summer.

Finding a career job in Rome in summer proved fruitless. No one was hiring. Every worker in every workplace seemed to be hanging on by a thread, watching the clock for August to arrive, the month when the entire population enjoyed summer vacation.

I have no idea who these people are. Rome 2007

My sabbatical period was coming to a close. I had to decide if I would return to life in Perth with its glorious beaches, clean air, obedient traffic, modern banks and practical post offices. Or stay in Rome, in a city that dealt unexpected rewards but felt like a daily fight to survive. My soul had yearned for Italy for so long and I didn’t have that same deep-seeded ache for Perth. My experience during the previous six months hadn’t diminished my love for Italia, but it had made me understand it better.

I was living in the coolest area of Rome, albeit in student conditions with a painful flat mate. To afford to stay in Rome and rent a room that had four walls and a window would require a salary that didn’t match my imperfect, but much improved, Italian language skills. In Perth everything worked. I had a well-paying job waiting, I could send a parcel with confidence and I could sort out most bureaucratic issues online or over the phone.

Taking stock, I viewed life from the roof top in Trastevere and breathed deeply, the slight taste of exhaust fumes coating the back of my throat. My romantic, holiday version of la bella vita seemed a world away from reality. With that, I decided to continue my love affair with Italy. To always visit Italy and enjoy the romantic offerings of the holiday version of la bella vita, but to live every day in functional, pretty Perth. With that decision, the cliché had been lived out and I took comfort knowing that I would never die wondering ‘what if….’. My soul had made peace.

Here’s a gallery of some photos from my time in Rome in 2007. I’m pretty impressed that I was taking selfies on a digital camera before selfies were even a thing!

Thanks for reading xx

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From the vault. One of my stories that was never published: La Bella Vita, my story of packing up life in Perth and moving to Rome in 2007. Along with some photos taken on a Canon compact camera. . #dolcevitabloggers #Italy #Rome I came across this article I'd written some time ago, La Bella Vita, that never made it as a published story.

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