Down Our Bay

You saw the submarine down our bay?
I thought it was an island, but it's just iron,
the moon light on its surface seems too bright,
the sea under its weight just seems to struggle -
like hopes that linger silent on the smooth waves.

It's not the first deceit that this sky brings us,
it's not the first time things sound strange tonight -
whilst life reveals its plans and its next chapters
it all feels kind of peaceful, kind of right.

One year has passed and those familiar shores
have started to feel exotic, almost unreal,
the final night - the rain drops at the Chapel,
are only half exposed under the haze.
Like something which you fear might just go and fade.

And whilst the two of us walk down the Exchange,
and Darlinghurst outside doesn't know us,
I think this year may feel like a surprise,
just like this submarine down our the bay.

Fair Go

Over the last few months I have started picking up glimpses of revelations around the Australia's psyche - some of the key building blocks that make up this society. Australia is such a fascinating place, and I don't think that people like me really get how incredible and interesting this place is until we stop a second and think about it.

The country as we know it was 'discovered' (I am not going into the whole aboriginal issue here) in the later XVIII century. Now, let's face it: once you take out all the time that it took to start colonizing the place properly and turning it into a developing Western- style society we could probably argue that things really kicked off in the late 1800s.  This makes this place seem even more recent to European standards than it really is.

Whilst lots of people see this almost as a fault and the reason behind an alleged lack of culture and all that rhetorical blah blah blah, I see it as a big opportunity. Whilst our legacy helps us describe who we are, it also represents societies' weakest point. Just like a company that has to deal with old IT systems, that determines to some extent what can and cannot be done, societies can be crippled by their history and their legacies.

As I see it Australians' psyche reflects this position. One of the key things that I have picked up is that Australians are very keen about the concept of 'Fair Go'. This is actually more intricate than it sounds, so I'll have to simplify. Fair Go is giving an opportunity to honest people to make a good life for themselves. When I went to the museum of immigration in Melbourne it was pretty interesting to see how a lot of the campaigns aimed at getting the English over revolved about 'giving their children a better future'. A Fair Go. That concept has evolved, but not died.

If you couple this with the constant reinforcement of the 'hard working Australian' image, a country where farming and 'the land' are still predominant, the feeling that since you are so remote you need to put in twice the effort,  you get a place that is the closet I have seen to the romantic New World image and that has given birth to great intellectuals, scientists, actors, travelers and athletes.

I will give you an example. Whenever an Australian actor makes it into Hollywood without fail the interview by Australian press will contain the question :'So how are Australian seen in Hollywood?' and the actor will say 'They like us because we are down to earth and hard working'. I kid you know, Australians love this.

The concept of 'Fair Go'  also means that modern Australia value meritocracy and simplicity. Also it means that the concept of class in Australia is somehow loose, and there seem to be a massive middle class and the upper class keeps somewhat a low profile (more on this in a future log).  

What can I say? There are my impressions, so Terms & Conditions do apply.

Growing up with Berlusconi

I was 13 when Berlusconi came to power in Italy, after a colorful campaign revolving around the promise that his party Forza Italia would create one million jobs. There were a lot of blue banners and catchy jingles.

Back then people wanted to believe that one million jobs could be created, as well as we wanted to believe that Italy was in fact the 6th largest economy in the world.

Berlusconi was already one of the most powerful people in Italy, as he owned significant part of the media and a number of lucrative businesses. During his campaign Berlusconi traveled a lot of the country - a bit of a poor's man American president election campaign. I guess people liked him. One of the reasons must have been the fact that he was a business man who had actually accomplished a lot, rather than just talking about it. There was fluff - there always is in Italian politics, but behind the fluff there were results. Even if these results he had been achieved for himself, they were still results. That appealed to the Baby Boomer society.

What we might have failed to see is that Berlusconi was indeed a great achiever, however like many great achievers his desire and drive was more rooted in the selfish pursuit of self validation than a genuine care for the country he was supposed to lead. Someone who tries to change the law in preposterous ways to escape persecution himself is certainly not driven by selfless principles.

That is no news: Italian politicians have carved a delightful little niche for themselves over the decades...They come to power and there they stay, until like defeated geriatrics dinosaurs cannot do it any longer.  They seldom resign, never mind how insane the scandals they get involved into - or how detached from modern life they become because of their reverend age. There they stay. Whilst their international counter parties step down over what to Italians seem to be minutia, there they stay.

In Italian we say that they are glued to their armchairs.

They don't care. Inside their bubble they are powerful, untouchable, they are beautiful, they frolic with attractive young girls, they are politically incorrect, they are above the law, they are rich....In a word the own the country. The reason why they are so powerful and the normal people are so powerless is simple: there is no such a thing as meritocracy in the country.

I remember being more than shocked when I won my government scholarship for boarding school. In fact, everyone I knew was shocked that a nobody like me could have such a lucky break, beyond the corruption, the favours and the crap that go with anything that has to do with the government. It was like a small miracle, a Deus Ex Machina moment that allowed me to transcend my own destiny.

Meritocracy is a foreign word in Italy, where merit is carved through obscure networks and where power is like some sort of golden inheritance which is passed among a finite number of families and names.
So the dinosaurs stay up there, while the rest of the people wine Nietzsche's retaliation theory- style, alas they do nothing to drive change. The don't do anything partly because the dinosaurs don't care - there is hardly a scandal which is big enough to overthrow them.

Hard to agree that this is a First World country - more like a Third World Country which has been pretending to be evolved. The legacy of a great past has become a crippling baggage of self destruction. If you go to countries like Argentina, beyond the beauty of the country you recognize the same underlying issues that have taken Italy to the place it is now - well Argentina is full of Italians after all.

Berlusconi represents all the reasons why I have left my own country and why I would not live there again. In Italy I feel like a cripple, I feel like half the man I can be. I feel the weight of the dinosaurs, the weight of that baggage of self destruction. I feel powerless.

Italy was a disaster when Berlusconi took it over. I was 13. Now I am 31 and things seem to be pretty much the same, which makes things worse.  So whose fault is it? Is it Berlusconi, for making the most out of it, or is it the Italians' for doing nothing about it for the last 18 years? I do not know. What I do know is that the country is so entrenched on this journey that 'more of the same' is not the answer.

I wonder why the EU countries do not police each other more intensively - why don't premiers provide independent oversight to what happens in other countries? Each premier could be allocated a country to monitor. And by independent oversight I mean real scrutiny of policies and progress against them, not just summits. Independence is the only thing that can cut through the bullshit, through legacy, through the 'we have always done it this way'. If you don't get a person that is not part of that roundabout of crap to see through the crap and identify and address the real issues in a timely manner, you will only end up with yet another horror story.

I was 13 when Berlusconi came to power in Italy, after a colorful campaign revolving around the promise that his party Forza Italia would create one million jobs. There were a lot of blue banners and catchy jingles.

That's why I only smiled

[Feb '09]


I wanted Revolution but I got Silence.
Perhaps my penitence was blatantly insufficient.
I reached out to the memories
of tense-less strident verbs
and perfectly round rocks on a free fall;
I did it to recall
the elusive consistence
of long lost strange philosophies,
of my anarchy.

You thought I would have made it,
you thought I'd do the things I promised to you that day
on a cliff path.
You see, I could have made it,
I guess it was too tough to play that part.
Perhaps I could do nothing,
that's why I only smiled:
I knew I'd drift apart.
And hence my Revolution became Silence,
and hence I am left here wondering if I have lost.

The next phase is slowly nearing.
I fear the cost to pay
to honour such a role.
These things demand a miracle, and strength beyond my own,like excellence requires a restless soul.

 

Familiar Shores

My trip to London/Italy/Singapore has come to an end, and I am about to jump on a plane back to Sydney. I am feeling as I hoped I would feel: excited about going home, after what have been an incredible and fantastic 4 weeks. London was a lot of fun. Meeting everyone again, Laura and Baz's wedding in York, a couple of big nights out at Brewers, a flat date at the Sanderson's, a lunch in Regent's Park, a bad rendition of Bad Romance at a Karaoke Bar, too much pasta in a basement trattoria, a Cheeky Tuesday, a toasted sandwich at Starbucks, a jet lagged drink by a rooftop pool, rude waitresses at Paul's, a trip on the 607 (Express), a few day long sessions at the pub or just hanging in the flat of dreams (the place where I spent my last 3 and half years in London) have been just amazing. I haven't eaten and drunk so much in such a long time!

Going back has reinforced my love for London, for the city, but most of all the people that mean so much to us there. It all felt so comfortable, natural, like I did not dare to hope it would.

At the same time it's like being back closed a circle. It was always going to be the validation on whether the move to Sydney had been the right thing to do, and I would lie if I said knowing this did not make me nervous.  I knew I would love being back, as I did, but I also wondered whether part of me would have felt like there was more for me to do in London before moving on. Now that would have been troublesome.

I felt very happy in discovering that London feels to me like family: a place I love and I will go back to, but that I do not need to be around all the time.

As for the people, I just realised what I already knew: it doesn't matter where you are or how often you see each other, good friends will always be good friends. Good friends always meet and recognise each other.

The truth is that one is never really ready to leave London. One takes the plunge hoping it was indeed the right time. It is easy to get it wrong.

The other day I was thinking of when I came back to London after a year travelling, in 2007. I went back to no job and hardly any money and certainties. The same day I arrived I went to a BBQ at my friends Emma and Damon's.  Over a roasting leg of lamb Damon had provocatively asked me: 'so why are you back?'. My answer was "I haven't done with London yet". I was right: I had not.  Now I feel I have.

So here I am, waiting for my 20:10 to Sydney, looking forward to seeing Patata and feeling like now I am fully ready for my life Down Under.

Returning

I am writing these first lines from the airport in Sydney. Destination London, via Singapore. The day: 2nd September 2011, about 1pm.

Over the last few days the excitement of our upcoming trip has gained momentum, manifesting itself in a myriad of emotions, ranging from stress (to get everything done at work etc before leaving), excitement to see all the people and the places that we love so much, apprehension (for not knowing how we will feel about being back), delight at the thought of all the fun things that we have planned, a twinge of fear (of not feeling 'at home' in a city that was very much our home for a long time) and just pure plain holiday happiness.

I have always believed that London is a city that forgets, and now I am about to see how it has forgotten me.

It feels like the right time to go back. Building a new life in Sydney was not a walk in the park, and I would be laying if I said that the beginning wasn't tough. Starting again felt like a mammoth task, and we just missed our friends, our city. At the beginning it just felt like I could not be arsed.

However, in many ways that was a process that we had to go through. In many ways now Sydney feels like London did back in the early 00's: new, puzzling, full of possibilities, exciting and just right for the stage we are in our lives.

I recall very clearly that it took me 3 years to feel part of London. I remember a day when I was walking down Glocester Road towards Hyde Park and I suddenly thought that I felt like I knew this city, like it had let me into her secret. It was like an epiphany.I was walking by a little church on Gloucester Rd that will always remind me of that moment, the spring breeze on my face, the brightness of an early summer sun, the traffic noise almost disappearing for a microsecond. It was one of the most important instants of my life, that specific instant, because that feeling of 'belonging' served as the basis to defining myself over the coming years.

In moments that I did not know where to go, or when I felt lost, in the many moments I would doubt myself,  I still felt London protecting me, accepting me for my flows and insecurities. I felt like I knew the rules of the game and I could play pretty well. 

I am no fool and I know that that feeling towards Sydney is yet to fully manifest itself. In many ways, after 8 months, we have just began. God knows I can hardly pronounce many of the suburbs' names.

However, if I look back at the Piero and David that landed here last December and the people we are now, and our lives, the difference is astounding, We have definitely embarked on a life's great adventure, started a new story that we are excited about and want to see through. We have been given the gift of reinvention and discovery. Personally I feel like I have also started a process of 'consolidation'. By this I mean that I have never felt so comfortable in my own skin, and calm inside.

I have recently stopped to think how fortunate our generation is, for (compared to many of our parents) we can lead completely inorganic lives. Rather than being born and organically grow within the same environment/conditions, we have been able to start new chapters, new destinies, in our case on the opposite sides of the world. And what is life as a great exercise of exploration (both internal and external), of challenging ourselves on what we can be, what we can become.

So yes, it feels like the right time to go back to London.  To go back and discover how London has forgotten me.

The Strength of Fighting

January 2009

Memory.

We are driving back home. Outside, the sky is moody and strangely expansive, mixing the natural light blues with clouds. It is afternoon, but I feel tired. I feel tired as though I haven't slept for years. It is only afternoon, but I feel tired as though my tiredness is trying to mask other feelings that I sense in the perifery of my conscious thoughts. It's only me and my mother in the car.

The news of my father's condition hit me on a sunny roof of a cold Milanese Thursday. 22nd of January 2009, just after lunch. My father has not been well for a while, so somehow I should be ready, but I am not, and when my mother tells me that things are 'complex' and I hear in a far away corner of my mind the tears she has just cried and she is trying to hide from me, I suddenly realise on a rooftop of Milan that things are not as I had hoped they were.

When I walk into my father's hospital room, the room feels too big for him and he feels too small for the room. He has lost 12kg since last time I saw him -when was it?- eighteen days ago. He looks at me, and I see surprise, but not at my visit- he knew I was coming- surprise at the way seeing me makes him feel.

He has got small tubes coming out of his nose, and the tubes are attached to a bottle full of bubbles. I push the need to cry away, and we hug, and I let him cry. My father has never been as human to me as in this very moment, and we are both genuinly happy to see each other. We talk about nothing and we exchange empty promises that things will be alright. My role is to bring some strength to my family, and I play it well: I am confident, I make fun of morbid things, I look like I know all this is futile and we are about to find out that it was not even necessary in the first place.

On the way back home it is only me and my mother in the car. We keep saying that things will be fine. We drive under a blue sky and clouds made of iron. I look at my mother and for a second I marvel: somehow she looks younger today, as though the strength of fighting, that determination that only comes when we want to save somebody we love, has given her some of her youth back.

I look at her and she looks younger, and I think that perhaps she will do it. She will save my father and the whole family. Perhaps we will be alright.

I say goodbye to my father at around 11 in the morning, on the 27th of January 2009. He cannot push away tears when we say goodbye. His last words are : when I feel better we will have roast fish. I smile and tell him to be strong, and that things will be ok. He looks like he believes me.

The reality is quite different, and when I jump on a plane to go back to London I discover myself wondering whether I will even see my dad again. One day later my mother calls me and tells me that the cancer has been diagnosed, and the way it is it cannot be operated. We let the news float in mid air, and we look at it, like we would look at a painting we do not fully understand.

I look at it, and I try to understand, but I cannot.

Just like I could not fully understand the moment when I had looked at my mother in the car and I had thought that the strength of fighting had made her younger.