#third year abroad

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No place I’d Radler be

“Plans are what you make to keep God amused.”

This is something my mother’s said to me countless times, and although you may not agree with the religious element, the sentiment is still a good point. It’s impossible to live your life the way you want to. Things, people, natural disasters get in the way, and some would argue the beauty of it all is precisely this unpredictability. An algorithm impossible to understand.

However, this was not the remark I particularly wanted to hear when I was planning my year abroad. For some reason I was convinced that I would be given a placement in the centre of Bolzano, with easy train links to Verona and Padua where two of my best friends are studying, alongside all of the benefits that come with living in a university city.

You can imagine the profanity that ensued when I got the email telling me that while I was going to be in the province of Bolzano, my actual placement was situated 75km north east of the city, in Bruneck. A skiing town, which is apparently the Aspen of Italy, with a population of approximately 16,000 (not including mountain cows). I don’t ski, and my home town in rural Herefordshire has a population just 6,000 less than that. To put it in Shakespeare’s words, I would have bitten my thumb at anyone who got on my nerves that day.

Some would argue that I really got one of the worst deals in terms of placement. The nearest other teaching assistant to me lives an hour away (depending on traffic in the valley), the choirs and societies that I’m interested in are a similar impractical distance away, and teaching in a high school with the drinking age being 16 here, the very thought of a night out is completely off the cards.

It really could have been a recipe for disaster, sat in my mountains with no one to easily socialise with, I genuinely could have lost my mind.

However, the past 7 months have taught me that much of your mental state depends on you staying proactive. Now that’s not me saying that people with depression are lazy, not at all. My point is that it’s easy for me personally to get into a low mood when I just sit around, wallowing for hours on end, which I was very tempted to do on several occasions.

To stop myself from doing exactly this, I’ve tried to plan something every weekend. Whether that’s going on a weekend trip to some city or simply meeting for a coffee in Bolzano. Literally just doing anything to prevent myself from sitting on my laptop all day, inside.

This got particularly difficult in February. The weather was grim, which meant I really didn’t want to do any exploring, and I had an essay deadline looming, so adventuring off into the unknown was the last thing on my mind.

Somedays I did just want to lock the front door and snuggle down with a blanket and netflix. One of the pieces of advice you get repeatedly thrown at you before your year abroad is to “say yes to everything”. That’s all well and good, and I can appreciate the want to encourage us to go out and explore. The problem is that sometimes, for your own mental wellbeing, you do just need to say no, and that’s okay. It doesn’t make you introverted or antisocial, it makes you human.

There’s a big difference between being independent and isolated. There’s also a big difference between experiencing loneliness and experiencing solitude. I flick between viewing myself in these two states constantly.

Being by yourself means you really get to know yourself. Not really having had any outside influences, I’ve learned how I like to dress, the sports and films I want to watch and the music I like to listen to. In fact, I’ve missed the sound of my Dad’s turntable so much this year that I’m determined to buy my own as soon as I’m back, so I’ll never be deprived of that sound again.

That brings me on to homesickness, another big thing we were warned about pre-departure. This is something that can strike at the most random moments, triggered by the most random things. I saw some Weston’s cider being sold in the supermarket and immediately wished I was sat by the River Wye on a sunny afternoon with my mates from 6th form, even though it’s been almost three years since I spoke the majority of them.

I was in a bookshop when my eye caught a book on architecture which had a photo of the Birmingham Bullring on the cover, and straight away I felt a longing for Selly Oak, with its glorious odour of fried chicken shops and whatever my fellow students had regurgitated the night before.

One of the worst cases though, is always having to ask for a jug of milk with my tea whenever I go to a café. I could shake off all possible signs of Britishness in both my appearance and my accent, but this request has the power to shatter all illusions in a matter of seconds. The homesickness only increases when they bring you a jug of warm, frothed milk.

So how’ve I coped with this? I’ve surrounded myself with Britishness in the broadest possible term. Watching The Crown has helped a lot, as has being able to listen to everything and anything on Spotify. I truly take my hat off to anyone who had to do a year abroad before Skype, before YouTube, before the internet. Being able to talk to my family and friends at home with just a few clicks has undoubtedly kept me sane, and kept me going.

However, social media is by no means a completely positive thing. I’m guilty myself of always posting the most rose-tinted view of whatever I’ve got up to that week. The problem with that is other people only ever see you having a good time, which is in no way realistic. For me, watching my best friends post photos and updates in the same sunny manner has caused me to enter countless thought spirals worrying that I’m not doing this year properly, that they’re all having a better time abroad than me, and that the last thing they’ll want is me bothering them with my problems when they’re all having such a great time. The reality is that they’re looking at everyone else’s posts and worrying about the same things.

Something that’s really stood out to me over the past few months is how I’ve come to terms with the idea of Heimat. It’s a German word which has no direct English translation, I can only describe it as a sense of home. It’s not necessarily the same as your actual home where you reside, but a feeling of where you belong in the world. This was a tricky concept for me. While I was born in Guildford and spent my early childhood in Surrey/Hampshire, I grew up on the Welsh borders. Yet, I don’t feel I can securely say I’m from either one. I’ve never felt a sense of belonging in Herefordshire, in fact I loathed it most of the time I lived there, but at the same time, I’ve spent such a small fraction of my life living in the home counties that I can’t identify with there either.

Living in South Tyrol has taught me that your Heimat doesn’t have to be an exact grid reference. The majority of people I’ve spoken to here have very cloudy opinions about whether they identify more as Italian or Austrian. It’s a very sensitive subject, in fact. I’ve been shown that it’s okay to simply say you’re South Tyrolean. It is an identity in itself, and regardless of whether I feel more like a Southerner or a Midlander, I’m undoubtedly British.

Going back to the idea of planning, I wouldn’t change my year abroad for the world. Yes, it’s been hard, and yes, I could have chosen to do my Erasmus somewhere completely different like Vienna or Florence. I could have gone for the complete Lizzie McGuire experience in Rome, but I wouldn’t have met any of my hilarious students or my wonderful colleagues. I wouldn’t have proved to myself how amazingly independent I can be, and I wouldn’t have had the opportunity to live in one of the most beautiful locations in the world. I can’t put into words how much I love the school I’ve been placed in. The students never fail to make me smile and as challenging as it was in the beginning, (teaching in an institution with 90% male pupils aged 14-19 was daunting to say the least) it’s going to be very hard for me to leave in seven weeks time.

Until next time,

Beth ❤️

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“I believe in luck: how else can you explain the success of those you dislike?” — Jean Cocteau

I apologise again for the huge expanse of time I’ve left between this update and my previous one.

My only excuse is that it was a particularly dreary February with snow that did not want to shift, meanwhile I’ve actually had to do some uni work (see, it’s not just a holiday).

Ahead of my 21st birthday this week, I went to Salzburg with a couple of the other assistants for an explore and a break from South Tyrol.

We had a gorgeous weekend, stuffing ourselves with Mozartkugeln and Sachertorte, as well as the occasional Radler.

However, it struck me on the train home, gazing out over one of the many lakes between Bavaria and Salzburg, that I couldn’t believe how I’d got myself to that point.

There I was, sat on a train with two people I didn’t know 6 and 1/2 months ago, rocketing past one of the most beautiful landscapes in the world, pretty confident in three languages at the age of 20, and completely content.

One thing that people often say to me, and have said to me pretty much since I started uni, is the phrase “wow, aren’t you lucky?”, and to be honest, it really annoys me. 

The thing is, (you may want to sit down) there’s no such thing as luck. Doesn’t exist. It is not a real thing. Fake news.

There are two factors that have got me to this point in my life, and they are privilege, and hard work.

Let’s start with hard work.

I’m the one who got myself here. I’m the one who sat the A Levels and the GCSEs, the one who spent hours scrutinising my personal statement, who poured over German grammar books for hours on end and got myself my unconditional offer from Birmingham.

I’m the one who managed to get my Italian to the same level as my German in a fraction of the years it took to learn that first language. I’m the one who made the decision to apply for an assistantship in South Tyrol, even though I was advised that there were only a few places, and the chances of me getting one were next to none.

These are all things that I did by putting my nose to the ground and just persevering. Luck doesn’t come into it.

What does come into it, however, is a very underestimated factor called privilege. It would be completely naïve of me to suggest that all of the factors that got me to this point were things under my control.

I am privileged by the fact that I am white, middle-class, and I was born into a family who spoke English as their mother tongue.

I am privileged by the fact that my parents were married at the time, and are still married, and I had a stable, warm home to go to every night after school.

I am privileged by the fact that those very same parents did not need me to help out with the household finances, and I could spend my time reading books and studying rather than having to get a part time job.

I am privileged by the fact that when I did get a part time job in sixth form, that was my choice, and I did not have to share my earnings with my parents.

I am privileged by the fact that, as a female, my parents supported my education, and encouraged me to shoot for the stars.

I am privileged by the fact that I have had innumerable strong, female role models to look up to my whole life.

I am privileged by the fact that I adore my colleagues on my year abroad, and do not have any issues or conflicts to deal with.

It is the combination of my hard work and my privileges in life which brought me to that point on an Austrian train on the edge of 21.

Now I do appreciate that the line which defines the differences between luck and privilege is a little blurry. You could argue that there really isn’t a difference between them. However, in my opinion, you would be wrong. 

According to google, luck is “success or failure apparently brought by chance rather than through one's own actions.”

Privilege, on the other hand, is “a special right, advantage, or immunity granted or available only to a particular person or group.”

There is no success or failure when it comes to privilege, only advantages and disadvantages, a leg up or a few extra stairs to climb. Luck is some power from the gods, a series of fortunate lightning bolts striking down at random. Privilege is a calculated set of rules, which determine the opportunities available to certain individuals before they are even born. Luck is folklore, privilege is reality.

The next time somebody remarks at how lucky you are, I don’t expect you to give them a long speech about how luck is a myth, I am British after all, and the fact is that I would probably smile sweetly and agree in the same situation just to avoid conflict.

Just remember that whenever you do achieve something, whether it’s buying your own house, passing an exam or learning a new language, luck didn’t do any of it for you.

Until next time,

Beth ❤️

n.b. some people have expressed concern about the fact that I consider having married parents to be a privilege. Stability comes in many forms, and is not purely a side effect of a nuclear family, however I still stand by my view that this stability in itself is indeed a privilege. My opinion is something also expressed in this video which I think perfectly displays the whole concept of privilege: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EIJqtWUiUCs 

I shouldn’t have to write a disclaimer, but this blog is purely a hobby, and nothing written on it should be carved in stone. 

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Back into the mountains

Only been 8 weeks since my previous update - bit awkward.

So, what’s happened since my last post?

I returned home to the UK for a couple of weeks around Christmas, and made sure to eat as many servings of fish and chips, baked beans, roast dinners and pigs in blankets as I physically could.

I have to admit, being at home this time was nowhere near as challenging as it was when I came home after this summer. I guess your brain just gets used to being all over the place. Saying that, I can never remember which direction the traffic’s supposed to be coming from in either direction, so maybe it’s just me. 

I experienced the two most horrific flights in the history of all my travelling. Try being diverted to Exeter on the way home due to Bristol airport being closed (shout out to the pilot who drove a 22-passenger plane off the runway while taxiing), and having to get a coach up the M4 on the busiest travelling day of the year.

Then try being grounded at Bristol for two hours on the way home, then flying, then having to circle over Innsbruck for another hour, all because of low cloud. People think it’s admirable that I’m trying to stick out the next 4 months without flying home - it’s honestly that I’m more sick of flying British swallows when they finally get to South Africa.

I got glasses again and diagnosed with actually pretty bad acne. Yep, after having not worn glasses full-time since the age of 14, my eyes have decided that they just don’t want to play ball anymore. Which is fine, all fine, it’s just, in combination with my hair, I now look like the lovechild of Hermione Granger and Harry Potter.

And as for the acne? I think a very large part of my personality is being able to put up with things, and not wanting to make a fuss. You can put it down to being British, but I was always told that everybody gets spots, they’re terrible when you’re a teenager, and after a few years they’ll ease up. Only, mine weren’t easing up. In fact, they were far worse at age 20 than they’d ever been in all of my teenage years. So, thanks to a worried mother (who I am very grateful for) and an absolutely incredible NHS, I’m all antibioticked up. Glow up: coming to a 2018 (or maybe 2019, who am I kidding?) near you.

Speaking of this sudden changes in appearances, it struck me the other day how much more confident I am now than 14 year old me was. Not to make this post too depressing, but I grew up adoring films like The Princess Diaries. As a result, I grew up thinking that to be attractive you had to straighten the frizz out of your hair and ditch the specs - you had to believe in the “ugly duckling narrative”. So I did, and the thought of having to wear glasses again genuinely knocked me a bit. But the world is a very different place to what it was when Julie Andrews prepared to make Anne Hathaway the Queen of Genovia. Non-prescription, plastic lens glasses are now actually sold in shops as a “cool, fashion accessory” - something that little me would never have believed could happen.

So, approaching the grand age of 21 next month, I have been thrown back into my teens appearance-wise. I did wonder watching a skincare advert if this was what they meant by offering flawless age-reduction creams, in which case I have something money can’t buy.

In school this week I had to discuss appearances with a few 3rd year classes (aged 16-17). Posing them with questions like “what if I came in tomorrow with a buzzcut?” and “what if he came in tomorrow with hair as long as mine?”, I was surprised (and actually a little bit proud) that the majority of students told me their opinions didn’t matter, and it was up to the individual how they styled themselves. Maybe this wisdom comes from the fact that kids over here don’t have to wear school uniforms, so they are aware of developing a personal style at a much younger age, compared to British kids who only have that opportunity at the weekends. I’d be interested to hear the responses of teenagers back home to those same questions.

So, back to being jet-set and all that, what else has happened?

In a nutshell (as I am trying to cover 8 weeks here), I watched the Men’s Giant Slalom at the Ski World Cup, I’ve sat in an igloo, had a night out in Innsbruck, I saw real, live bears, moose and bison, I’ve been to a contemporary art museum (not going to lie, I don’t know why I thought I would enjoy this, it was weird), eaten lots of Italian McDonalds (which is SO much better than UK Maccies - you can order balsamic vinegar, peach ice tea, and parmesan! PARMESAN AT MACCIE D’S!!!), I went for a gorgeous walk up at 2000 metres, I’ve started tutoring English, and I completed both series of Stranger Things.

At the end of this week the Carnival season begins, meaning I get a week off school. Current plans are to head back to Florence for a few days, and then to show my parents around South Tyrol when they come and visit me.

After that? What’s 2018 got in store for me? Well as I said before, 21 approaches, and I’m hoping to finally get to visit my dream city - Vienna.

And after that? The snow will probably (hopefully) have all gone, and I’ll finish my placement in May. I chose my modules for my final year of university (omg help) this week, and I’m going to both Wembley stadium for the first time and the Apollo for the first time, to see Taylor Swift and The Gaslight Anthem respectively (although that would be a very interesting gig), and I’ll be home.

Speaking of which, hit me up if you want a trilingual intern this summer. I’m as tolerant as an air hostess, and I make a mean cup of coffee.

In the mean time, I’m going sledging tomorrow, I’m having to limit myself to one bar of Milka a week, and I’m on the lookout for a new Netflix binge.

Until next time (which won’t be in another 8 weeks time, I promise),

Beth ❤️

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Using Tinder instead of Trip Advisor 

“JULIET I have forgot why I did call thee back.

ROMEO Let me stand here till thou remember it.

JULIET I shall forget, to have thee still stand there, Rememb'ring how I love thy company.

ROMEO And I'll still stay, to have thee still forget, Forgetting any other home but this.” (2.2.184-189)

Translation? In today’s world, this is where Juliet would be lying awake, tapping away at her phone at 2am (even though she probably has a 9am lecture tomorrow morning), straining her eyes severely, all because she’s managed to find herself a rare species of boy who won’t leave her on read. In this scene, it’s the classic “you hang up”, “no, you hang up”.

This week I was on half term, and myself and a few of the other South Tyrol teaching assistants decided to explore the fair Verona where Romeo and Juliet lay their scene, as well as go on a couple of day trips to beautiful Venice and Peschiera del Garda.

Upon entering the city, which is renowned for its star-crossed lovers, the conversation turned to uni love lives - triumphs, horror stories, and of course, Tinder. Realising that we were finally well out of the range of any of our students who might have lied about their ages, Tinder was (re)downloaded and the swiping began.

I feel I should disclose in this that I have personally never been able to take Tinder seriously. Hats off to anyone who’s been able to use the app successfully AND maintain their dignity, but all I can think of is having to explain to my future children that me and Daddy met because we both swiped right. Call me high-maintenance, call me old-fashioned, I just want a proper story.

Anyway, there we were, sat round our table all completely absorbed in our personal online worlds (we are millennials, after all), when we decided we needed to plan the days ahead of us. When would we do our day trips, and what would we see in each of the cities? Cue light bulb, I suggested we could try asking a few of the guys on Tinder what they recommended. Who needs trip advisor when you’ve got a whole app of locals in the palm of your hand?

All I would send to the various male specimens was “Ciao - I’m in Verona for a few days, what do you recommend I do/visit?” - direct, simple, surely my plan was foolproof? Wrong.

Some of the most hilarious initial responses included simply the word “me”, one guy who told me to go to a specific wine bar, before telling me it was his specific wine bar, and another who ignored the question entirely with a request for nudes. I don’t know what I expected, this is Tinder after all.

Luckily, there is still a shred of human decency in this world, found in the form of one Simone, with a beard to rival Brian Blessed and eyebrows so on fleek they gave mine anxiety. He suggested that I visited the arena, the Lamberti tower, Juliet’s balcony, Castelvecchio, piazza delle erbe, eat pizza, drink wine, go to elk bakery for brunch “and of course go out with an Italian boy”.

So, the next morning, we set out to do (minus the last instruction) exactly that. We headed straight for the Elk Bakery, which is somewhere I’d 100% recommend to anyone visiting Verona. I’m guessing he took one look at my Tinder profile and thought “this is a girl who religiously uses the Valencia filter - I’ll send her to the most instragrammable place I know”.

The Elk Bakery is located on Via IV Novembre, and isn’t somewhere you’d want to go if you’re looking for anything remotely Italian. The best way to describe it is probably a Shoreditch Frankie & Benny’s, with avocado & bacon bagels, pancakes, and fresh juices served in mason jars all being just the tip of the iceberg. I had to stop myself from buying one of their branded mugs (but now that’s just giving me an excuse to return to Verona).

After breakfast, we trekked over to the city centre, where we checked off all the tourist spots Simone had suggested. Unfortunately, Juliet’s balcony is under renovation at the moment, so we had to settle for a quick grope of her boob for luck and carry on our way. All in all, it was a gorgeous first day, and the recommendations we’d received got me straight back onto Tinder to search for a Venice local, who I hoped could provide me with some similar suggestions for our day trip the following morning.

Our prayers were answered in the form of Leonardo, who sent me not one, not two, but three paragraphs full of recommendations on how I should plan my first ever trip to Venice.

On arrival, I underestimated how disorientating the city could be. At least Hampton Court Palace has a legible map! I think I’d have more chance of success navigating my way through a flooded Glastonbury in a floating tent than having to do Venice alone. This meant we weren’t able to follow Leonardo’s instructions as easily I we thought we could, however we picked out some of the key locations he mentioned and headed for those.

Our first stop was the Ponte di Rialto, which pictures can’t do justice to. My training from having an older brother who played rugby came in handy at this point, as we had to elbow our way across the bridge, through all the tourists. The whole day I couldn’t help thinking about how much I’d hate to be there in the height of the tourist season. This was late October, and yet we were still having to battle our way through the streets like it was the Hunger Games.

From the Ponte di Rialto, we followed the streets along to Piazza San Marco and the Basilica. Again, both incredibly beautiful suggestions. We were lucky enough to arrive there just as the clock tower was hitting midday, which meant we got to watch the two figures on top of the tower attack the bell, and we got to see the roman numerals change.

At that point, we were absolutely starving, and so we set off in search of something edible. After lunch, we set our sights on what we considered to be the most exciting of Leonardo’s suggestions - something he described as a “funny library”. A quick google showed us that it was close and it had cats, which was all the information we needed.

This “funny library” was the Liberia Acqua Alta (bookshop of high water), and I think it needs to be listed as a World Heritage Sight. Bathtubs filled with books, a gondola filled with books, books stacked up to create a staircase of books. Books literally piled from floor to ceiling, featuring the occasional cat attempting to clamber across all of them.

The name comes from the fact that water does flood into the shop on occasion, but rather than panicking, the owners have simply embraced the constant threat. In fact, following the shop round to the very back leads to what is labelled as the “fire exit”, which is simply an open door leading straight out onto the canal (paintings of stick men diving in are provided, should you have any doubts about what to do).

We spent the rest of the day wandering along the canal front in search of aperol spritz (another suggestion - not that I needed it), after which we caught a water taxi back to the station as the sun began to set - an image that was really amplified for me after having drunk literally the strongest spritz anyone has ever mixed for me.

Tinder suggestions were hard to come by for our next day trip, as I couldn’t find anyone from the specific area we were planning on visiting. The only suggestion I did receive was for a theme park called Gardaland, which looked great, but wasn’t something we were feeling up to. Nevertheless we headed out and explored Peschiera del Garda ourselves, another incredibly gorgeous place. Our day was filled with pizza, wine, gelato and a canal tour which took us around the walls of the ancient town.

On our final full day in Verona, we slept in before checking off the last of Simone’s suggestions from day one - Castelvecchio and the Lamberti tower. Seeing the city from 368 steps up was the perfect way to say goodbye to the area we’d fallen in love with over the past few days.

So, can I suggest Tinder as a replacement for Trip Advisor? To a certain point, yes. You’re asking local people for the best parts of their city, and locals tend to know their localities pretty well. The Elk Bakery and the Liberia Acqua Alta were both places that I never would have discovered if it hadn’t been for Simone and Leonardo.

However, this is still Tinder. A search for the perfect spots to visit on this app should not be recommended without warning that it is an app primarily used by millennials for hook-ups. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Besides, Romeo and Juliet didn’t meet by swiping right.

Until next time,

Beth ❤️

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There’s no place like home

One of my favourite films growing up was Tim Burton’s Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. I love the original too, but I was there for this one coming out, so it has a lot more poignance for me. Something that really stuck with me was a moment just before the ending (spoiler alert - although this film was made in 2005. And the original film came out in 1975. PLUS the book came out in 1964. If this is a spoiler then sort out your priorities) when, having narrowed down the golden ticket winners to just little Charlie Bucket, Mr. Wonka decides to leave the factory to him, on the condition that he leaves his family in their house (which is beyond repair) and joins him.

But, having gone on this unbelievable adventure, having seen more chocolate than he could ever imagine and things more spectacular than his wildest dreams, does Charlie accept? No. He doesn’t. He tells Mr. Wonka in the most direct way possible, that unless his family can come, he doesn’t want anything to do with the factory. 

If you’ve been reading my previous blogs, you’ll know how much I like to use metaphors. The fact is that before I flew out to live in South Tyrol, even before I au paired this summer, I was convinced that I would move abroad as soon as I graduated. The Brexit result really encouraged this idea of mine, and I decided towards the end of the last academic year that I was going to find myself (once graduated) a full-time, adult job in Vienna. And that would be where I would settle down, where I would live my life. Britain, in my mind, was like a teaspoon of sugar just slightly dipped in a cup of tea and tilted downwards - slowly, but inevitably, sliding into some deep, hellish cauldron where it would soon dissolve completely. 

Living abroad has caused my mind, much to my own surprise, to do a complete U-turn on this decision. Okay, yes, I’d still like to live in Vienna at some point, but one day I will have to settle down somewhere properly. I’ll have to pick my place to roost, so to speak, and I am more sure than ever in this moment that that place will be in Britain. 

So what caused this dramatic change of opinion? Well much like little Charlie Bucket, I have been shown the chocolate factory of my dreams. I’ve been to places so beautiful that no photographer could ever capture their true nature, I’ve had countless moments where I’ve caught myself whispering “wow”, and I have been left speechless by so many experiences in the three short months that I’ve lived in Italy this year. But something’s never quite right.

When you’ve only ever lived in one place, it’s very easy to criticise. You only know the things that you, yourself have experienced, so if something isn’t up to the standards we expect, we pass judgement. I’m extremely guilty of this myself. We criticise the government when things don’t go our way, we criticise the health service, the public transport, the education system, and even the way we dispose of our waste. 

Having had to live abroad and live under someone else’s set of rules, I can’t wait to live back in Blighty next year. Don’t worry, I am truly loving my year abroad, but there are just things we do in Britain that are so much better. Part of this might be my personal opinion, maybe I’m just homesick for the systems I know and understand, but I do think the way our country works can be so under-appreciated. For example, something as small as having the bin men collect your rubbish from right outside your front door. True, I don’t appreciate being woken up at 7am on a Wednesday morning, but it means I don’t have to drive miles to drop off my rubbish myself. 

Sticking with the subject of rubbish (because isn’t it just a lovely topic?), the way you have to separate your recycling here stresses me out so much. It has to be split into card, paper and then plastic, and then you have to separate your plastics from your plastics, because apparently some plastics can’t go with other plastics. Then, again, no one collects it for you (even though that’s such a good economy booster, creating jobs and all that... never mind) - you have to drop it off yourself. I’m just saying, for a region that wants to be eco friendly, one rubbish truck would emit a lot less Co2 than literally everyone having to drive to drop their crap off individually. 

Even the way we look after our teeth is better - which is pretty incredible considering we stereotypically are a nation of crooked pearly whites. One teacher was telling me that he’s going to Hungary this half term to go to the dentist, because it’s cheaper. HUNGARY! JUST FOR THE DENTIST. Okay, it annoys me that I have to pay £20 just to have someone have a little scratch around in my mouth with a metal stick, and then tell me I’m fine, but at least I don’t have to book myself a trip abroad.

More importantly, just like Charlie Bucket, I’ve come to understand the importance of my family and friends. Even out here, I find myself reaching out to my group chats for just the smallest pieces of advice. In fact, I’ve had a lot on my plate recently. I won’t go into too many details, but I really wasn’t feeling like my normal self and I honestly didn’t know how I was supposed to be coping with the situation I’d been thrown into. My friends, and the best advice I can ever receive, were just a few taps away. But I miss them being a few streets away. My Mum was just a Facetime away, but I miss having chats face to face. 

When I lived in Birmingham, I only really went home once every six weeks, but just the knowledge that my family were accessible within an hour and twenty minutes on the train was so comforting. I truly take my hat off to people who can move to the other side of the world from their loved ones and somehow manage to keep going, because I for one am very ready for my Christmas flight home. 

I’ve spoken to a few friends who are either currently year abroading or have recently returned, and the majority have gone through the same reality check that I have. Yes, we love being able to use our languages, and yes, we do love being abroad, but we love going home at the end of it all. 

So, Mr. Wonka, you can keep your chocolate factory. I will be visiting, absolutely at least once a year, but I will be returning home to where I know I can get a decent cup of tea, where my loved ones are only a few miles away, and where I don’t have anxiety from worrying if I’ve separated my rubbish properly.

Until next time,

Beth ❤️

[elizabethenroute-blog]

Coping with life in three languages

On the day of posting this, the 21st October 2017, it is officially 4 days until I will have been living in South Tyrol for a month. Except it doesn’t feel like a month. It feels like at least three. As the autumn’s rolled in I’ve started to properly settle in, and to quote The Great Gatsby - “life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall.”

Initially, moving here was quite challenging for me. I was very lucky that my amazing Mum could come with me for moral support (because, as much as I love you, your linguistic support was a little bit lacking) and that was a huge help. However, I found the whole move abroad so much harder than moving to uni two years ago. I’m the kind of person who needs to be thrown in head first at the deep end, I need to get the whole change over and done with as quickly as possible, like ripping off a plaster. The move to uni was exactly that. My parents dropped me off, I had everything I needed, I met my flatmates the day I arrived, and straight away we were thrown into the chaos which is freshers’ week. I didn’t have time to think about the next thing I needed to do, or even to worry/become homesick, because everything had a) already been sorted for me and b) I was so busy. 

Moving here was completely different. We arrived on the 25th, I had the challenge of setting up a bank account on the 26th, I visited my school for the first time on the 27th, I moved into my flat on the 28th and went shopping for the first time on the same day. I didn’t meet my flatmates until they moved in on the following Monday and that was the same day I started work. Everything was so gradual, and for me that was just so much more excruciating. 

However, as I said earlier, in four days I will have been here for a month, and while I still have a few hiccups now and then, I’m feeling pretty much settled. I have a gorgeous group of friends who are also working as English Assistants in the region, and most of us get Fridays off, meaning Friday, Saturday, and Sunday are designated adventure days every single week. 

I also really love my job. Even though it definitely keeps me on my toes (there are about 400 pupils in the school, all aged between 14 and 19 - only about 10 of them are girls. I don’t need to explain to you what I have to put up with every day). I know for certain that I don’t want to be a teacher in the future, but I’ve already gained so much from working with these young people, whether it’s debating with them about Formula 1, national identity, or Brexit. 

I’ve had the opportunity to really tap into the local traditions and culture. Here’re a few google searches for you - I’ve eaten more Knödel than I care to admit, I’ve seen Schuhplattler dancing in real life, I went to an Almabtrieb last weekend and have discovered a new found love for mountain cows. Apparently I enjoy hiking, and my two favourite spots I’ve visited so far were the Peitlerkofel and the Pragser Wildsee (pictured above).

Don’t get me wrong, not all of this has been adventures and defending myself from hormonal teenage boys (much to the amusement of my friends who keep sending me THAT Busted song). I think I spent a good 10 minutes blankly staring at cheese in the supermarket once. All I wanted was something vaguely resembling cheddar, but apparently that’s too much to ask in this part of the world. I could have parmesan, mozzarella, emmental, brie, but nothing that just looked like “normal” cheese. All of it was written in German or Italian, or a random mix of both, and on that day I was just so tired, so hungry, and all I wanted was some bloody cheese. In the end I picked up a bag of something called “pizza cheese” and I’ve been throwing that on my pasta for the last two weeks - no idea what kind of cheese it actually is, mind. 

My brain also has little moments where it can’t decide which language it wants to use. Getting on a bus last week, I asked the poor bus driver “geht es a Riscone adesso?” (is it going to Reischach/Riscone now?) - a complete mix of German and Italian. Luckily he spoke both and just nodded at me (whilst probably holding back some laughter), but it didn’t leave me feeling like I was conquering this whole year abroad thing.

I’ve also been on a voyage of discovery about how Britain is viewed by the rest of Europe. As well as thinking we’re absolute idiots with the whole Brexit decision, it’s been interesting to see how they view the other parts of our lives. One of my flatmates told me she used to watch Skins growing up, and thought that that was the most accurate portrayal of British adolescence - I promptly directed her towards the Inbetweeners. Then, while explaining the concept of predrinks to my flatmates, the revolted looks on their faces caused me to have a whole epiphany about why we always score so badly in Eurovision.

I think the strangest thing is I keep having people at home telling me how proud and impressed they feel. Strange, because I don’t feel like I’m doing anything particularly impressive. This year abroad is a compulsory part of my degree, after all, and it’s not like I’m having to use all my languages all the time. In fact, I always speak English with the English department at school, and then my job is to teach English. I attempt to speak German when I’m out and about (easier said than done when everyone speaks dialect here), and I live with three Italian students, so I only speak Italian at home. 

Regardless of how other people are viewing this whole adventure, I feel really content in who I am and how I feel for probably the first time since before I started high school. I have no need to prove anything here, to myself or to other people. I don’t feel any pressure to conform or to join in/skip out on what everyone else is doing. I think that’s one of the freedoms that comes with moving somewhere completely new by yourself. You don’t have any influences coming from your past, so you can just focus on who you are in the present. I’m a 20 year old woman who’s partial to a cup of tea, will buy anything if the Cookie Monster’s on it, has the music taste of someone born in the 60s, and would wear red lipstick everyday if she could.

To quote Principle Vernon in The Breakfast Club “you ought to spend a little more time trying to make something of yourself, and a little less time trying to impress people.” I think that’s the best thing I can do out here.

Until next time,

Beth ❤️

[elizabethenroute-blog]

Week One in South Tyrol/Alto Adige/Süd Tirol

I didn’t put the title of this post in three languages to be fancy. No, it’s because I genuinely don’t know how language works around here. 

On Monday, my wonderful mother and I flew out to settle me in to my new home for the next eight months: Bruneck. Or Brunico. And also Bornech. 

Bruneck is the heart and soul of the Puster Valley, located right up in the very North East of Italy. If you’re lost by that description, I would suggest you look at it as being basically Austria, but that would offend a lot of locals so don’t do that. A quick google will show you that I’m surrounded by Heidi-style architecture, the most epically turquoise lakes, and cows that genuinely wear bells round their necks (which is extremely cute and I’m starting a petition to make bells obligatory for all British cows).  

To catch you up on why this place is most certainly, 100% not Austria, here’s a quick history lesson. The territory was originally part of the Austro-Hungarian empire (hola Habsburgs). During the First World War, the Allies promised the region to Italy as an incentive to do its iconically sneaky switching of sides - think of the Allies as university rugby seniors and Italy as a fresher being promised it won’t get too badly hazed on the condition that it chunders over its best friends. This deal was the 1915 Treaty of London, and by 1919 the region had been annexed to the Kingdom of Italy. 

Then along came Mussolini, and with him came efforts to italianise South Tyrol. This meant German was largely banned in the public sphere - newspapers were censored, the German language was forbidden in public service, and it even became illegal to teach in German. This led to the creation of Katakombenschule (Catacomb schools), which taught secret lessons focusing on the writing and reading of German. 

Then along came Hitler, who wanted to be best mates with Mussolini. They agreed that the German-speaking population of South Tyrol should be transferred to the Vaterland, uniting all German speakers, however the outbreak of war prevented this from properly happening. 

Nevertheless, it caused rifts in families. If you stayed, you were a traitor. If you left, you were a Nazi.

After the Second World War, German and Italian both became South Tyrol’s official languages, and the Allies decided that the area should be given a degree of self-rule, which led to it becoming the autonomous province it is today.

I shouldn’t hesitate to add that this was not achieved without a great deal of struggle, and the dissatisfaction amongst the South Tyroleans during the post-war period led to terrorist acts being committed by the Befreiungsausschluss Südtirol (Committee for the Liberation of South Tyrol), such as the bombing of 37 electricity pylons in Bolzano/Bozen in 1961. 

So, how am I coping living here? Well if the history hadn’t been so bloody complicated then I’d probably have some idea about which language I’m supposed to be speaking in. 

In my personal experience, I’ve been shocked at how many people here do actually speak Italian. The impression I was given by my university was that I’d have to go out of my way to find someone to practice Italian with, but that really isn’t the case. 

The schools are split into German schools and Italian schools, but it’s compulsory for students at both to learn each other’s languages, meaning this truly is a bilingual region. 

On my first day here, I was thrown off by one elderly lady I was speaking to on the train. There we were, chatting away in German, when I must have hesitated, or stuttered, I don’t know, but somehow this old dear got the impression that I was struggling with the conversation. Without even the slightest bit of prior warning, she just switched to Italian. I don’t even think she blinked in that time. Even stranger, my brain managed to continue the conversation for me in the new language - a good two minutes before my consciousness caught up and realised what the hell had just happened. 

Then there’s the dialect issue. It’s times like this when I love Britain, because even though I do struggle to understand Scottish accents sometimes, at least I know we’re speaking the same words. I spent an afternoon at a friend’s house this week and chatted with her daughters. One of them, eight years old, asked me something that sounded like “Wie spät isht?” It took me a good five minutes before I realised she was asking me in dialect “Wie spät ist es?” - what time is it? The dialect really is a different language in itself, so much so that I’m having to go home and study all my new vocabulary. A girl (in German - Mädchen) is a Gitsche, and a boy (in German - Junge) is a Bub. That’s before I’ve even got my head around Ladin, an ancient Romance language which is also spoken here. 

I guess the best way to describe this region is by saying it’s just like going to Wales. All the street signs are in two languages, as are the menus and the train announcements.

The cultures are perfectly intertwined. If there’s an Italian flag hung out on the street, you can pretty much guarantee there’ll be an Austrian flag next to it, and the South Tyrolean flag sandwiched in between them. On my first morning here, my Mum and I went out in search of Kaffee & Kuchen (coffee and cake). At the café we found, she was able to tuck in to an apple strudel while I simultaneously attacked a tiramisu. 

However, my favourite example so far has to be the lunch I had when my Mum and I ascended the gorgeous mountain which is Kronplatz. 2,275 meters up, in the middle of the Dolomites, I was able to order a Wiener Schnitzel, and I washed it down with a luminous orange Aperol Spritz. I have no idea if this was socially acceptable or not, or even if the two really complimented each other, but I did it. Austrian culture and Italian culture, married together on one sunny Tyrolean lunchtime. For me, that’s the epitome of everything South Tyrol represents today. 

I’m truly year abroading in a mix of schnitzel and spritz.

Until next time,

Elizabeth ❤️