My temporary house is in Brunswick, East Melbourne, and the
black taxi-driver, as soon as I tell him I’m italian, phones right away at his
brother-in-law who lived for five years in Naples. Ciao, como stai? Di dove
sei? Io sono lavorato a Napoli e a Milano col camion, tu conosci lago di Como?
I don’t pay enough for the taxi and the neighborhood looks nice,
frame one-story-houses and pretty trees. The guy who hosts me he’s a fella from
Bologna, friend of a friend of mine who passed me his contact. When the door
opens, Genna comes to greet to me and we strongly hug. The living room looks
like a camp, there are backpacks everywhere on the floor. They belong to the
roman Marco and Filippone and to the bolognese Giuliano, whereas Domenico from
Calabria and Andrea from Verona live in the house with Genna.
Tobacco on the table, tips of a smoked cigarettes and cigarette
papers, full ashtrays. Genna says he’s doing pretty well for himself in
Melbourne, nice friends, kind wages, opportunity to have a good career,
although he still doesn’t know what he wants to do. Into the room everyone is a
chef or a kind of. Filippone has got a thriving restaurant in Rome, he moved to
Australia for to open another one. He hopes to bring all his family here, but
the application to became an australian citizen is long-lasting and hard: first
you have to find a job, then to hope your boss helps you with permanent visa
application. And, man, that means a lot of fucking money. I tell them, I don’t
care about remaining in Australia and neither taking the second working and
holiday visa. I just want to go adventuring and take my chance, what is to be
it will be. To be honest, I contacted some graphic studios when I was staying
in Italy still. Just a couple replied to me, they liked my works but not my
visa. I don’t want to complain myself, I know that if part of me is looking for
a stable job and a stable relationship, the other part loves to be on the road
and to vagabond. And, time ago, there was someone who told me “as long as you
don’t allign your desires with your heart you’ll keep living in the same way;
but, maybe, that’s all right”.
I take a beer, what pleasure! It’s quite two o’clock in the
night, I don’t feel too much tired.
«Where’s Giuliano?», I ask – it was him that gave me Genna’s
contact – «He’s gone out with Marchino, they should come back quickly.».
And infact they arrive soon after and immediately it turns
into a party. Both Giuliano and Genna seem freaked out.
«Hey, you should look at your pupils… »
«That’s mdma, Cate, cocaine is too expensive.»
We move to kitchen, the others in living room are just in
their sleeping bags.
«Hey, Baldi, do you want a line?»
I met Giuliano last summer on the beach, in Pesaro. We
barely talked, he’d seemed to me nice-looking with his unquiet eyes, but that
was it. Then, talking with friends about Australia and bla bla bla, someone
told me he was there by time, and that maybe he could help me. Actually, I have
other friends in Melbourne, they aren’t just from Pesaro, even they are from my
neighborhood. But there was some problem with accomodation because no one of
them have got an house, they are hosted by other italian friends. That’s Italy!
After a time we go to bed, I open my camp-bag over an air
bed. I could start sleeping if Filippone’s iPad didn’t light up and vibrate
every two seconds for messages coming from such fucking application.
There are four sleeping people in the living room. Two on
the two couches, the others on the floor. After a bit time, finally sleep wins
over me. The day after I should be doing a lot of things like to apply for
medicare, to open a bank account, to buy a new australian sim card and to seek
a job.
Giuliano wakes up pretty early and me too. We decided to
meet Marchino in the city, he came back to the hostel the night before. There’s
also Filippone with us, the Anxiety-Man, a good boy but I can’t really stand
him, seriously, he talks no-stop. Anyway, we roll all together through the
streets of Melbourne. We clearly are a clique of immigrant, you can guess from
a mile off. Italians, easily recognise each another. The face features, the
gait, the way we like hairdressing and to dress. Combed gel hair, stretch
brand-designer t-shirts, faked worn-out jeans. Melbourne is a kind of little
Italy. You can move to Australia without talking one english word, it’s enough
you know someone that for sure knows someone else who throws you in any
restaurant in Lygon street to do the dishwasher. Sometimes it could be easier
to find a job for an italian than an english or german with very good english.
Because if english and germans prefer traveling and coming back to motherland when
their visa expires, for the italian is different. The italian moves to
Australia hoping to end up here forever; he’s a desperate permanent visa
seeker, he places himself in a big city like Melbourne or Sydney and he doesn’t
want move any more. He saves money and then to bleeds dry for the cost of the
student visa. He works for 10, 12 hours a day or more, the main thing is
doesn’t come back to Italy. I don’t know if it’s an authentic desire, I mean,
staying in Australia at any price; sometime it sounds to me like “in so far
everyone runs, I run too”. Obviously, this is in general.
Thank heaven, Filippone moves away to see a room so that me,
Giuliano and Marchino can wander around the city in peace. Melbourne is a very
nice place. Victoria Market is a covered-market where you can purchase
everything at low-cost. There are a lot of stands which sell italian products,
from mozzarella di bufala to under-oil-hot peppers. The most popular little
Italy in Melbourne is Lygon street. Here there’s an obscene souvenir shop that
you suddenly notice for the Eros Ramazzotti and Gigi D’Alessio songs coming out
at full blast. It sells Del Piero football t-shirts, flags, gadgets, shit in a
few words. Instead, the best italian shop is Mediterranea, a supermarket in Sydney road, maybe a little
expensive: a Bialetti moka for two small cups of coffee costs $36.
There are a lot of shopping centers in the city. They are
enormous, you can loose yourself inside, labirynths with four or five flats. I
need just an adaptor plug so Kmart is
perfect, I find one at $9. If you are a backpacker you became aware very
quickly of the weight of everything. In ethical and physical sense. Would you
have got less money and a heavier bag? The equation couldn’t be worst.
We move to an asian restaurant to eat something. Melbourne
is full of asians, maybe australians hide themself during the day and just come
out just in the night, like the coackroaches. Filippone, the Anxiety Man,
catches up with us in spite of myself, and, with my big surprise, I ascertain
he can chat while is eating too. I’m feel nauseous. I can’t eat nothing. It’s
like my stomach were tied by an elastic. Giuliano insists that I grab a bite,
so, just for his kindness, I order a vegetable soup. I think that’s for the jet
lag, anyway.
After coffee time we go for a stroll in Swanston street,
where every ten metres there’s a street artist. Also in this case, the most
part of them are asians: you can find the chinese pop singer, the indonesian
illusionist and, Jesus, a crazy Sailor Moon hairdressing korean girl sings with
a carrot in hand.
Luckly we don’t stop, keep on walking. We decide not to go
back home. Genna catches up with us in a pub close to Backpackers Hostel, the
most popoular hostel in Melbourne. A lot of guys live in the hostel for months,
usually as long as they find a job, but it depends. In the pub Giuliano tells
me his only romantic relationship in Australia is with an italian girl from
Treviso who does the streaptease. He sold marijuana, she bought it. So they
start a challenging sexual relationship, a tour the force under the sheets, a
sort of chinese torture, he say.
«And then?»
«She was completely crazy, it couldn’t work.»
We order a couple of jugs. I discover for the first time
what was a jug. It’s very cheap compared to a normal beer which generally costs
$10. Beer and alcool in general are bleed the wallet in Australia. And you
cannot buy them at the supermarket, you have to go to Liquorland and, anyway, the cheapest tin costs $3. If you want
became drunk without spending too much, you should buy the wine in the paper
box, 12 liters at price of $10, less or more. Wait, there’s a supermarket that
sells bottle of wine, very cheap too, Aldi: $3,50.
After two glasses of beer I’m quite drunk. Near to us, a
table of chinese are celebrating something. I go to them for calling out one at
arm wrestling. Obiouvsly, I lost. But I did just to be a little funny. And so
that, this my bravery ends up in two Hong Kong girls’s mobiles.
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