Un Séjour Avignonnais: Part II

Part I

(c) Angele Kamp

The next day is my birthday proper. As is now customary, I’ve booked a spot on a city tour. The difference this year is that, since there were none of the donations based set-ups to which I’m accustomed, I fork out the expense for a more official tour.  Apart from the individual so-called ‘murmur boxes’ through which we can listen to the guide, there is no qualitative difference for the price. I'd expect at least entry into one of the main historical sites.

Having paid in advance, it’s even more important that I'm not late. The tour begins late morning giving me time, in theory, for a lie-in. However, some life admin involving one of my banks cuts into my lazy morning plans.  So much for a leisurely indulgent breakfast at a café.

I nevertheless arrive at the designated meeting place with time to spare, only to realise it’s the finishing and not the starting point. I phone the guide, Ana-Luiza. With the help of her hastily memorised directions and a kindly local who accompanies me to the spot, I make it just in time for the start of the tour. Ana-Luiza claims she won’t go into too much historical detail for fear of ‘boring’ us. She’s being modest.  Formerly married to an Avignonnais but only having lived in the City for three years, she knows her stuff. She uses the inclusive ‘we’ when talking about her adopted city. 

I find out that Avignon has only 60,000 inhabitants; more like a town than a city. During the annual theatre festival, now in its 80th year, approximately one million visitors descend upon Avignon in less than a month. That’s why so many businesses take a break afterwards.

Avignon is almost as old as Marseille but doesn’t have as many visible reminders of when it was once occupied by the Greeks and Romans (most of these remains have been built over). I learn – or am reminded – that papal control of the region lasted several centuries from the middle ages to the early modern era. I discover that the nursery rhyme about Avignon Bridge apparently only dates back to either the 18th or 19th century, was written for a theatrical production and has nothing to do with local dancing traditions.  The bridge was once much longer, stretching into the Occitane region. Much of it has since been swept away by the choppy waters of the Rhône, given to serious flooding as recently as 2003. Legend has it that the saint after which the bridge is officially named, Bénezet, built it with his bare hands. Compelled by Divine order, he would carry inhumanly heavy rocks to and fro, when others refused to help. Alas, the truth is more pedestrian.

Unusual for Catholic Europe, Avignon was also once a haven for Jewish populations from persecution elsewhere under Pope Clement VI. 

Time is made for us to appreciate Avignon Cathedral.  Whilst we don’t enter the Palais des Papes, Ana-Luiza ensures that we get a little quality time in the adjacent Les Jardins des Doms. From that elevated vantage point, we can take in some of the architectural splendour of the old papal palaces, as well as the abundant verdure of the surrounding landscape. The Rhône shimmers emerald-like below; beautiful but potentially deadly. In the distance is Saint Bénezet bridge once again and Villeneuve-lès-Avignon, another relic of Avignon’s long dalliance as the seat of the papacy. I plan to fit these into my itinerary later in the week.

Avignon Cathedral (c) Eva Piermario

After the tour, I nonchalantly head towards the Halles area to lunch at an overpriced health food restaurant. En route, I allow for a little birthday indulgence by buying a huge decadent cookie for dessert. I intermittently interrupt my adventure to respond to birthday messages and read the cards that have been delivered to me in advance, including moving sentiments from my research team. On top of her lovely card, mum sends me prayers by text. Each year, I continue to be touched by friends who have a hard enough time remembering their own birthday but make an effort to send me good wishes, as they know it means a lot. 

I spend a long time on the restaurant terrace, even squeezing a quick-ish phone call (by our standards) with sis. She asks me when was the last time I celebrated a birthday where I stayed put.  It doesn’t take long to do the maths. It’s been over 20 years. During my economically leanest moments, or even when there were the constraints of the pandemic, by the grace of God, I’ve been able to get a change of scene on my birthday. If funds, circumstances and/or inclination meant I remained in the same geographical location, I’ve still been able to celebrate in a different city.  Sis asks if I'd ever consider travelling with others for the occasion. You already live alone. There's no novelty in travelling solo. Yes, I reply but it's less stressful. There's no one else potentially to spoil the day. I'm responsible for my own happiness.

As for the birthday itself, a mini-milestone… I can’t say how I’ll feel five years, three years or even six months from now. Yet, I’m not nearly as nervous about hitting my mid-40s – especially single – as the mere thought would have made me a couple of decades ago. Heck, I felt mildly anxious about it entering 2026. If I’m relatively relaxed, it can only be God.

My evening plans are modest: dinner at a local pizzeria with perhaps more elaborate dinner ambitions to take place later in the trip. That is until Didi offers to give me a lift to a local warehouse that has been converted into a food court and social space: ÔCargo. Why not? I’m in a festive mood. In addition to offering international cuisine, over summer ÔCargo hosts special events taking place throughout the week. Tonight it’s a free Bachata class en masse, as is apparently happening every Wednesday.

During the brief ride over, I learn that Didi works in PR and also manages his own properties, like the one where I’m staying. ‘I’m surprised the bank would be willing to lend to someone so young’, I say. ‘Well, I’m 32’. Even by ‘black don’t crack’ standards, I’m shocked. Up till that moment, I assumed Didi was 19. Still, for a baby millennial – or anyone under 50 for that matter – I wouldn’t expect he could raise the capital to invest in property. ‘I earn good money. The bank considers me worth the investment’, Didi replies. 

The warehouse is starting to get busier as I’m dropped off. A DJ warms up the crowd. A significant number of those who’ve shown up are here for the dance class.

Meanwhile, I hesitate between Greek and Tunisian. I opt for the former, given that I hear so much about how great Greek cuisine is. However, except for some home experiments, I’m not very familiar with it. What I have had hasn’t really lived up to the hype. Today will be no exception. Compared to how reasonable the other pop up restaurants are, I spend too much on a bland mixed kebab plate. It takes too long to arrive and the meat is undercooked when it comes. There’s more delay as I wait for it to be well done.

First world problems.

I have a good book and tasty mocktail to entertain me. I’m also keeping one eye on the Bachata class. The participants aren’t very diverse and despite the enthusiasm of the instructor, the moves looks rather stiff.

Oddly enough, the soundtrack to the class for most of the night is Afrobeats.  The instructor does a fluid-hip demonstration with a dance partner to round off the evening, before opening the floor for one last hurrah to an authentic Bachata tune. I decide to join in but from a safe distance in the corner. I want to dance freely and not be obligated to pair up. (When I return to the accommodation later that evening, Didi will sound surprisingly disappointed that I didn’t officially participate in the class). I try to remember some of the basic steps I’ve picked up from my Bachata-infused Zumba classes but it’s not coming together as I’d like. I’m not very good at internalising choreo. Setting aside instances of spontaneous grooving, I need someone in front of me to mimic.

As I step out of the air-conditioned ÔCargo warehouse into the humid night, a large ‘blood’ moon awaits like a coral-coloured celestial gift.

Soundtrack: Tuff Times Never Last by Kokoroko

Un Séjour Avignonnais: Part I

Avignon (c) mk s

More than half a year has passed since I last updated this blog. A year or two ago, this would have been unthinkable. Things change. Whilst my other writing outlets remain active, I just haven’t had either the mental or emotional space for La Vie Continentale. Neither have I had much inclination to recount in detail the drama that has preoccupied a significant chunk of the last year. I briefly referenced in my previous updates issues I had looking for accommodation, not to mention grievances at work. These both worsened before they got better. I ended up spending seven months lodging in the hotel, several of them turbulent. The situation at work became so grave that I had to involve my trade union to avoid being ‘constructively’ dismissed. Thank God my union rep is worth his salt, unlike the experience with my previous employer, The Trade Union Organisation (TTUO). As a result, things have settled down drastically at work.  In addition, as of April I moved into stable accommodation - a significant improvement on my last flat on a number of fronts. Thank you, Jesus.

I’m now bang in the middle of my PhD, and on the urging of my doctoral guidance committee, prioritising chapter writing. It requires a lot of mental stamina, even for a regular scribe like yours truly.

My birthday week is the ideal pretext to step away from the books and notes for some mental and physical respite. It comes off the back of an enjoyable if packed long visit from my mum and a few days seeing friends in my old stomping ground, Strasbourg.

My summer destination of choice in 2026 is also in France; Avignon in Provence. Specifically, I’ve come for a festival. No, not that one, nor its parallel fringe events but a Jazzy affair that I’ve had my eye on for 20-odd years. Inaugurated in 1992, the Jazz Avignon Musics (JAM) festival often – although not always – overlaps with my birthday. I can’t say exactly why it’s taken me so long to make good on my desire to attend, especially when I was living in France. Sometimes the dates haven't lined up. Sometimes other destinations have consumed my attention. This year, as I celebrate a mini-milestone, it feels like the right time to get acquainted with the City of Popes. This year, the festival dates align with my holiday plans. I’ve heard good things about Avignon but know little more about it than the nursery rhyme and that it took over Rome as the papal HQ for a period.

I’m so busy in the run up to my break that I’ve barely had time to draft an itinerary outline, as is my habit. When I do find time to research here and there, the info is surprisingly underwhelming. It appears that all roads lead to the Avignon Theatre and Off festival. Heritage sites notwithstanding, there’s not a lot going on. Considering Avignon is a main French city, there are very few of the donations-based walking tours that can be found elsewhere. None are available during my holiday week.

More to the point and much to my disappointment, JAM has been scaled back in terms of line-up and dates. The artists who will be performing during my stay either don’t seem worth the nearly 30 euros (student rate, mind you) ticket price or, as is the case for one of the bands, are from Belgium. I could probably see them anytime. There are some free events, like the opening ceremony. However, the band doing the honours doesn’t float my boat either.

I had hoped to satisfy my live music cravings at some of the local Jazz establishments. Alas, unlike Summer 2025 in Prague– where I was spoiled for choice– there isn’t as much Jazz going on elsewhere in Avignon as I’d have anticipated. The major Jazz bars are closed for the holidays (I didn’t think business shut down for summer in Southern France. Doesn’t the rest of the country head south anyway?).  Fingers’ crossed that the annual contest to find the next-big-thing-in-European-Jazz (also free) will compensate a little for this cultural dearth.

Perhaps I've chosen the ‘wrong’ year to come for JAM. It looks like I missed a good window in 2024. I could have swapped a mixed experience on the Croatian coast for some mind-bending syncopation, walking basslines and vocalese in (also sunny and warm) Provence. 

Having acclimatised to the momentary dip in temperatures post-heatwave in Brussels, it’s back to peak Mediterranean climes in Avignon. The heat is rendered more pleasant by a consistent breeze, nonetheless. This is Le Mistral territory, after all. The region being used to heat, the infrastructure is also adapted accordingly with high quality AC facilities on public transport, for example.

I arrive early afternoon at Avignon TGV station one Tuesday in late July.  My accommodation is a short commute away but trains to central Avignon aren’t very regular. Thanks to the help of some station staff, and a young lad who’s an expert on the network, I make my way to the accommodation sans GPS, as usual. 

(c) Elly Ch

En route, I note Avignon’s picturesque city centre, characterised by what looks like the remains of the city wall. To be continued.

My host, Didi (short for Didier), is surprisingly young. I’m guessing he’s barely out of his teens, if that. He could be my son. I assume he’s keeping an eye on the place for his parents. Didi’s welcome is reassuringly laidback.

I’ve committed to staying local on the first day, so that I take it easy. My neurospicy mind finds it difficult to rest, even when I have ‘permission’ – such as on holidays. Why sleep when there’s so much to discover?

In the end, I do venture further afield since, as I learn from Didi, the city centre is very accessible by foot if I follow the trajectory of the canal (a little bit of a stretch. More like a small body of water). En route, a drunk turns his attention away from two elderly dog-walkers who humour him towards me. I speed up my steps and promise myself I’ll take the bus back from town. I manage to put enough distance between us to lose him.

The city centre is indeed surprisingly close. I cover more ground than intended, skirting the old city rampart, observing the bilingual street names (French/Provençal), making a mental note of eateries and noting several establishments are closed for summer. Apart from some gob and a decomposing dead rat in the road, whilst not the cleanest European city, Avignon is not the worst either.  There are decent stretches of relative cleanliness, especially around the main historical sites.  I walk until my feet start to ache. I end up taking the bus back anyway, after a nearly 20 minute wait for the last one of the night. The summer evening timetable is very limited.

I get back at sunset, shower and grab my healthy-ish store-bought dinner from the fridge. Meanwhile Didi, who's playing video games in the living room, asks about my origins. When I mention I grew up in London, he informs me that he lived in Cambridge for a year working as an au pair to improve his English (I insist on speaking mostly French with him, however). Born in France to Ivorian parents, Didier considers England his ‘third home’ and would live there if it weren’t so pricey in comparison. 

We briefly discuss why I find so many mainland Europeans are drawn to the UK. The Continent, from what I’ve observed, has better work/life balance and more public holidays. If it’s less convenient that shops tend to close much earlier and are shut on Sunday, at least it points to a rhythm that incorporates rest, and life doesn't always revolve around the creation of capital. The cities in which I’ve lived don’t have the insane rents of London either. On the other hand, cities like London are streets ahead when it comes to cultural awareness. Considering the volume of micro (and not so micro) aggressions I’ve experienced in the past nine years (approx.), this makes all the difference in the world.

Part II

Soundtrack: Tuff Times Never Last by Kokoroko

Respite in Milan: Part III

(c) Mikita Lo

My last full day in Milan is set aside for a day trip to Lake Como, as recommended by Melissa and everybody else in the region, it appears. I’ve found a bargain return coach ticket. I just need to be able to arrive at Milan Porta Garibaldi in time. I sleep somewhat fitfully (again), no doubt worried about making the train connection at Garbagnate station. It also doesn’t help that the other guest is once more making a racket, as he prepares to leave for the day. The previous morning, he left as inconspicuously as a ninja.

It’s another morning shrouded in deep fog. Mel has mentioned that the Milanese mist is a well-known regional characteristic. I have researched an itinerary on Google Maps that should get me to Garibaldi with a good chunk of time to locate the coach station. I leave at least five minutes earlier than recommended to allow time to purchase my train ticket. I don’t want a repeat of the missed tour on New Year’s Eve.

So far, so good. Except when I arrive at Garbagnate, I learn that Google has misled me. The suggested itinerary doesn’t exist, at least not that morning. The next train to Garibaldi will only get me there two minutes before my coach departs. I don’t know the locality at all. It’ll take a miracle to catch the bus. I try to rebook my outbound for a later departure. No wifi.  The situation is complicated further

when the train terminates at Cardona. A helpful passenger explains Garibaldi is a 20 minute walk by foot. I don’t have that time, I explain. As I frantically look for an alternative, I notice that there’s a train directly to Lago di Como leaving in a quarter hour. Moreover, it’s cheap as chips- roughly the same price I’d have paid for a replacement coach ticket - and would get me to Como at more or less the same time. It means switching up my itinerary a little but it’s a positive resolution all the same.

Pulling into Como Nord Borghi station the fog finally begins to lift, revealing a breathtaking vista of Como’s magnificent hills and surrounding habitations.

At Como Nord Largo, the San Giuliano church catches my eye. Outside is a cardboard cut out nativity scene with (yet another) Aryan Mary and baby Jesus. It’s the same for every representation I come across. I scowl slightly and enter the tranquil church building.

During my trip, I consider how faithful a custodian Italy has been of cultural Eurocentrism (albeit exported around the world by various more powerful European colonial forces). Be it the Roman Empire and the Latin language, Christopher Colombus’ imperialist expeditions, the Renaissance or being the HQ of the Holy Roman Catholic church, there’s a narrative that puts this part of Europe as the erstwhile centre of Western civilisation and thus, as imperial arrogance would have it, the centre of the world. Like other colonial powers, there’s a tendency to cling to this past distorted form of glory. It should therefore come as no surprise (although hella frustrating) that these modern Italian artists stubbornly depict a young Middle-Eastern family, based in what would now be known as Palestine, in their own image. I find it somewhat ironic that Italians are so often (mis)treated by their Nordic siblings like the ‘blacks’ of Europe, as I like to joke. Historically, of course, in contexts like the US, Italians weren't always racialised as white. Maybe that partly explains this Eurocentric emphasis, reaching a nadir in the country's penchant to lurch to the extreme right. It's a way of asserting membership of the lilywhite club.

Lago di Como (Como Lake)
(c) Jef Willemyns

I make a mental note of the eating establishments that surround the church on the way to the cable car station. The closer the restaurants are to the cable cars - or Foniculare - the more expensive they become. 

It’s a punishing one and a half hour-long queue to purchase a ticket for the climb and to eventually board the car. My MP3 battery dies during the wait. I hope it’s worth it. The long-awaited ascent suggests it will be. I tap a boy in early adolescence, preoccupied with his phone, and point at the window. 

When we reach the mountain top village of Brunate, a safe distance from any sheer drop, I am stunned by the view of Lago Como, the homesteads sprinkled around, and the mountains in the distance. The haze that floats around the Alpine peaks, thickening the nearer we draw to sunset, lends the scene an eerie, interplanetary beauty.

I pause at a café for some transgressively thick, pudding-like hot chocolate and to recharge my MP3. I plan to do a little circuit around Brunate to justify such indulgence. 

The wait for the cable ride, although not a wasted endeavour, eats into my one-day itinerary. Dreams of a sunset cruise across the lake might have to be jettisoned if I’m to catch the other sights, have some lunch and make it back to San Giovanni station in time for my coach.

I prioritise two attractions in Brunate; the nearby Sant'Andrea church and chasing what I believe to be a waterfall, Pissarotino. After getting lost once along the away and finally locating the water feature, imagine my disappointment to discover that the ‘Fonte’ really is just a small alcove with spurting water. It's probably only significant because of some Catholic superstition associated with it. The accompanying paraphernalia appears to support my theory.  If I’d known, I’d have better spent the time walking to the local lighthouse. 

In the environs of Pissarotino is another incredible, if vertiginous view, with fewer guardrails.  It’s certainly one of the most picturesque detours I’ve taken.

Although my original plans included lunch in the main city, time is fast spent. I find a trattoria on the hill, if nothing else to wait out the crowds clambering to return on the cable car.  If the food is as mouthwatering as the view from the restaurant - and better than the head waitress’ customer service - it will be money worth spent. (In the end, the sea bass is tasty but overpriced for the stingy portions). The head waitress might be unwelcoming but her younger colleague is friendlier, smiling at me diffidently. I discover we have shared Ghanaian heritage.

After a late lunch, I try to make peace with having to truncate my itinerary even further. If I can take a peek at the Cathedral and the Piazza Cavour en route to San Giovanni, I’ll be pleased.

Unfortunately, the queue for the return cable car is still discouragingly long. The service runs every 15 minutes. However, the volume of people means that it’s not possible to get that many passengers on to the small-medium sized vehicle. Thus, the wait significantly exceeds a quarter hour. My itinerary rapidly shrinks with each passing minute. By the time I make it down to the station entrance, I only have time to hurry to San Giovanni. I’m told that it’s an estimated 10-15 minutes but that’s conservative. Como’s nocturnal iteration has its own strong appeal. I try to drink it in as I rush, looking with regret at the distant dome of the cathedral and the piazzas that I've run out of time to enjoy. The Lago di Como area at night reminds me of different places; aspects of the Dalmatian coast, the Nice/Monaco rivieras (without the obscene displays of wealth)...

Como at dusk
(c) Marco Angelo

I wonder if I made the right choice starting with the funicular. The mountain top views are amazing, arguably more so at dusk. However, I did lose hours just standing in line for the cable car. I initially planned to go straight up and back down again. In hindsight, it would have saved me a lot of time. Then again, I’d have missed out on so much of nature’s splendour from that vantage point. Make a decision and stick to it, irrespective of the outcome, sis likes to advise. It applies here. One thing is for sure. I wouldn’t recommend that a first time visitor to Como just stay for the day. It’s worth at least an overnight visit, with a whole day set aside for Brunate (including queueing time).

It’s on approaching San Giovanni station that it occurs to me that the online tickets I bought were for the train and not the coach after all. I play with the idea of taking a later train so that I can appreciate more of twilight Como. The bad connections to my accommodation back in Milan are nevertheless a deterrent.

That evening I return to the same restaurant for some flavourful custom-made Gorgonzola and kebab pizza. Back at the villa, I discover that the male guest has gone and been replaced by a young woman. I’m relieved.

I’m catching an evening flight back to Brussels the following day. It’s a Sunday. Since I have most of the day to spare, Mel suggests that the family pick me up from the villa with my travel gear, and I accompany them to their bilingual church that morning. I'm game. I’d played with the idea of visiting a church whilst I was in town but didn’t know where to start. It didn’t occur to me that I could tag along with Mel and the gang.

That morning, en route by car to the service, Mel mentions the leadership is North American. She forewarns that the church has ‘zero’ interest in social justice. A familiar refrain. I’ve come to expect little from the mainstream church in that regard, especially those heavily influenced by US evangelicalism. It’s a tragic irony given how much the bible has to say about justice in both testaments. Mel and I feel strongly about these issues but in our own way, each reconciles herself to doing the best with what’s available.

(c) Keagan Henman

Mel very much appreciates the diversity of the church, informing me of several Nigerians amongst many of African descent who attend. One of them, I’ll find out, is my exact namesake. He’s one of the volunteers who helps to interpret the service. Mel admits that she was won over when she saw a black man translating into Italian for the white pastors. The church also doesn’t impede women from leading or teaching.

Whilst I have not lost my faith in Christ, I find church spaces increasingly difficult. It’s partly a delayed reaction from past trauma - when I switched off critical engagement too readily and/or tolerated harmful theology in a misguided understanding of ‘obedience’. It’s also to do with the aforementioned deficiencies of mainstream charismatic/evangelical churches and the culture that engenders them. Mel’s family church, like so many others that boast of multiculturalism, is incredibly monocultural when it comes to musical worship, for example.

Regardless of how international their congregation is, for at least half an hour we’re subjected to bland imitations of soft rock. And because this so-called Christian Contemporary Music (CCM) is associated with white folk, it's considered more 'holy'. Racialised people who have not (yet?) disentangled their faith from colonial influences buy into this framing, usually without question.

All too rarely, if at all, do these supposedly international churches explore the sacred music traditions of African-Americans, let alone the Global South.  These days I mostly sit it out. Anything else feels like 'playing church' and people-pleasing. If God sees my internal conflict, there’s no point hiding it simply to impress other mere mortals. I believe God would prefer my musical worship to be muted rather than inauthentic. 

Before and after the service, I spend a significant period of time speaking to my namesake and his wife, Loveleen. My namesake and I discuss how uncommon it is to meet someone else with the exact appellation. It’s not especially popular even amongst Yorubas. Nigerians and non-Nigerians alike often mistakenly call me the more common ‘Tolu’.

I learn that my namesake came to Italy and threw himself into years of intense language learning for the love of his now wife. They met at the airport whilst Loveleen was dressing down a queue-jumping oaf in Italian. My namesake was intrigued and they swapped numbers. Fast forward some lapses and long-distance dating later, Italy-based Loveleen gave him an ultimatum; he would have to relocate if they were going to make it work. My namesake made the jump. I’m impressed, both by Loveleen’s refusal to upend her world for a man - as is so often the case - as well as his willingness to make the sacrifice. It’s rare for a man of his generation, all the more so given the cultural expectations.

After the service, we head for lunch. The majority vote for Indian. It wouldn’t be my instinctive choice but it’s better for gluten-free Mel. It’s an especially tough dietary requirement to have in a country like Italy. Eating out can be a challenge, albeit less so these days, observes Melissa. We eat well and relatively healthily at a cosily-sized café/restaurant with a reassuringly open view of the kitchen. Moreover, it’s popular with other South Asians, which is a positive sign. Another group from the church will eventually overlap with us.

 It’ll be my main meal of the day and stands me in very good stead. My flight will be delayed and I’ll be returning to a snowy Brussels much later than planned. Hunger pangs are one less worry.

(c) Lama Roscu

After lunch, the family has plans with other friends. We part company and exchange hugs. It’s been a truly special trip, made up of simple pleasures. Always the best kind. Poor sleep hygiene notwithstanding, I feel more rested, emotionally at least. (I'll need it for what awaits me back in Brussels). I couldn’t have asked for better. 

Mel instructs me how to walk to the nearest station to catch a metro directly to Linate airport. I surprise myself by not getting lost, having a dodgy sense of direction and only being guided by memory. It’s another brisk but bright day. I stop off at a gelataria for the first time during the whole trip and awkwardly make my way through the streets with an ice cream in one hand, a suitcase in the other and great music streaming through my ears.

I eventually find myself in what is by now the familiar territory of the high-end shopping district approaching San Babali station. I’m so focused on not losing my way that I don’t properly soak in the surroundings. Waiting on the platform for my train to the airport, I attempt to freeze frame the memory in retrospect.

Soundtrack: Best of...2023 mix Part I & Part II (personal selection)

Part I

Part II

Respite in Milan: Part II

 6 min. read

(c) Bolivia Inteligente

Part I

Part III

After falling asleep late, I’m woken up earlier than I’d like by the movements of the other guest. Assuming it would be a woman I find out the following morning that it’s a bloke, much to my unease. To his credit, he’s very discreet and we do our best to avoid getting in each other’s way.

New Year’s Day is relaxed; dedicated to catching up virtually with family and a couple of local walks before and after dark. My temporary housemate is out for most of the day. For the first time on the trip, it’s overcast. To my relief, I find some establishments open where I can order takeaway for dinner. Most ‘proper’ restaurants in this highly residential area are closed for the holiday. My celebratory sit-down meal will have to wait until another evening. Instead, I order a Calzone which turns out to be bigger than my head and probably just as heavy. That’s not mentioning the free focaccia that comes with my cheese-based salad, as well as the mini arancini I ambitiously ordered. It won't all be consumed in one sitting, especially after my already rich and carb-heavy breakfast.

The second half of my Milanese excursion is set aside for exploring further afield. Mel and I book a girls-only day trip to nearby Turin; a steal at just over 20 euros return by train per person.

Pius and Mel collect me from the villa, sans boys, arriving early to negotiate the thick fog that has descended upon the city. The extra time comes in handy. Pius misses a couple of exits. Thanks to Mel’s foresight, we nonetheless arrive at Rho Fiera station with 20 minutes to spare. Melissa perks up at the sight of a young black woman also being dropped off. I thought you said Milan was diverse? I remark. Mel replies that it is not so diverse that it can be taken for granted. She approaches the young woman to ask for directions to the platform. I’m quietly impressed Mel addresses her in Italian, not assuming she speaks English. It turns out we’re all taking the same train. The young woman introduces herself; Lucia. Polyglot Mel asks if she speaks French or English, so that I can be included. (I have a fondness for Italian. I earned a shallow A at GCSE after two years of study. I can follow some basics but if I try to respond, my lower-intermediate Portuguese comes out instead).

Lucia answers in the affirmative, although she’s more comfortable speaking French. She explains she’s from Cameroon, where she started learning Italian long before moving to the country. Lucia already had a lot of family living in the region when she relocated to Italy, and is just returning from a festive visit with relatives. Judging by her name, it’s an Italophile family.

Turin
(c) Nikolai Kolosov

Whatever fatigue I thought would overcome me lifts in conversation with Mel and Lucia. Similarly, the deep mist suddenly clears revealing brilliant sunshine and more attractive views of the Alps.  Amongst other themes, we speak about Lucia’s good fortune in obtaining a job in engineering so soon after her masters, finding decent and affordable black hairdressers in Italy (for Mel’s oldest), the notorious (and in my experience, frequently unfounded) monolinguism of Italians, reputable places in Milan for West African dining, the Cameroonian Diaspora in Europe and Lucia’s tips on what to see in Turin. Her stop is earlier than ours and it’s a bit of a rush. We say our farewells. I have no business cards on me to share. Ships passing in the night.

The rest of the journey, and throughout the day, Mel and I will catch up properly for the first time in years, having the luxury of time that we’ve lacked for too long. Between our collective research efforts (of which Mel has been more conscientious) and Lucia’s suggestions, we begin at the extensive Porta Palazzo market in the shadow of the Porta Palatina: a Roman ruin which is one of the oldest preserved in the world.  We weave in between working class neighbourhoods and the more well-to-do...

...It’s a time of shared vulnerability. Whilst strolling or enjoying a tasty Moroccan seafood lunch, we discuss trauma past and, in relation to my current professional situation, trauma present as well as effective therapeutic treatments. I inform Mel about my ongoing quest to obtain a firm diagnosis for my not-so-nascent neurodivergence. I open up more with Mel than I am wont to do with many. After 20 years of friendship, not to mention her highly compassionate and discreet nature, I feel she’s earned it. Yet I find it’s always a tricky calculation, disclosing ‘my truth’. A person’s stories never solely belong to or implicate just them. I also worry that I’ve trauma dumped. Melissa is understanding and humbly offers some sage spiritual insight. Having a shared faith is a blessing.

The conversation is rich but not always heavy. 

Turin itself has a varied and appealing cityscape. Surrounded by the Alps and nearer hills, aspects of it remind me of Seoul. I explain to Mel that I find the presence of mountainous forms in the urban context strangely comforting. Not being much of a nature girl myself, I’m not sure why. Perhaps it’s their constancy; the idea that these ancient formations have not been defeated by urbanisation.  We pass by the distinctively designed former Synagogue, Mole Antonelliana, heaving with visitors waiting to enter. We don’t even attempt to get in. In the environs of the temple, an elderly busker does a rendition of Simon & Garfunkel's Sound of Silence.

Our half-hearted Mole Antonelliana plans thwarted, Mel and I go in search for some Italian chocolate truffles that my sister has become besotted with. Afterwards, we leisurely make our way to the train station. The shops are still in Christmas mode. Mel explains that in Italy they take the 12 days of Christmas custom seriously. It ends, as it should, with Epiphany. Italy also has the peculiar Twelfth Night legend of a witch who deposits goodies for children into a dedicated stocking. 

Mole Antonellenia
(c) Tom Podmore

As the sun sets, we stop off at San Carlo Borromeo church which has caught our eye and, fortunately, is still open. Earlier, I mention to Mel how much I like exploring different Western orthodox spaces in countries with a strong Catholic tradition. My maternal family’s Catholicism was in the distant past by the time my sister and I came along, so it’s more a quirk of mine. Shattering my assumptions about all Italians being latent (at least culturally) Catholics, even if lapsed, Mel explains that she never had an affinity with the RC church. Her parents were left-wing agnostics who didn't humour the pretence of religion.

San Carlo has a wonderfully elaborate miniature nativity scene with little motorised devices; the kind I haven’t seen since I lived in Alsace.  Whilst the surrounding models of villagers reflect the multiethnic Middle East, the Holy Family is depicted as unapologetically white. Likewise for the lifesized cardboard nativity scene opposite Turin’s Porta Nuova train station; white Mary, white (red-head) Joseph and white Baby Jesus flanked by blond angels. 

Elsewhere in the city, I spot Palestinian flags, proudly-worn keffiyahs and anti-Zionist graffiti. It’s only very recently that I’ve come to learn of Italians’ longstanding staunch support for the Palestinian cause. The Zionist-sympathising Far Right government of Georgia Maloni is not, I'm told, representative.

Turin also has a number of eye-catching murals and what I imagine are pleasant park areas during warmer climes. I share with Mel that this is my idea of appreciating a new city. I’m not usually one for museums and galleries but I do like wandering the streets and letting curiosity guide me, with or without an itinerary. With its multifaceted character, Turin is a good place to get wistfully lost. 

Yet, I’m so used to doing this kind of thing on my own, it’s comparatively novel to have company. 

Despite growing up in the Piemontese region, it’s Mel’s first time in Turin. The verdict for both of us is that it has been well worth the visit.  The hours evaporate.

There’s just enough time before catching our train for me to grab some extravagantly thick Italian hot chocolate.

Pius picks us up from Rho Fiera station. The soundtrack to our journey is a mix of popular Burundian music and Afrobeats. On my request, Mel and Pius drop me off at a restaurant in the neighbourhood of the villa, recommended by my Airbnb host. He’s not wrong. I’m very pleased with my seafood gnocchi.

Soundtrack: Best of...2021 mix Part I & Part II ; Best of...2023 mix Part I & Part II (personal selection)