Martin van Groenigen
Where in the Netherlands you have a bicycle path next to almost every road, or at least a section for pedestrians or cyclists, in Italy there was about one bicycle path in the entire country. And as a real Dutchman, I attach great importance to not only my bicycle, but also my own safety. The Prince Claus Square near The Hague? Would they do it by bike? The ring of Groningen or Utrecht? Let's get the bike. Just like in the car, Italians are just as aggressive when they cycle and they roll through the country, including dozens of different gestures.
Blonde and infamous
My Italian life went smoothly dakkie and in no time I was used to drinking espressos on the terrace every morning, being greeted by half the village when I passed almost like a landmark, and already quite used to people suddenly touching my hair because it was blond.
I myself thought that this fascination for blond, white people with light eyes was no longer of this time, but that was completely wrong. I lived for six months in a very small village just before Verona with less than 1.000 people who I don't think had ever seen anyone without dark hair and that was something I liked. I've never seen a Dutch person feel someone's hair if it's a different color than blonde, but maybe that's just me.
A child can do the laundry
You often hear fairytale stories about life as an au pair. About enormous palaces, the most luxurious lives and so on. The enormous palace had slipped my mind a bit and life wasn't that luxurious either. But, very cliché, I did have the nicest family I could have wished for.
With a brother and sister who were raised in a typical Italian way and who got everything their heart desired, I could handle life and I flew from playground to playground and from swimming pool to football field.
I took 'pasta class' with grandma and was asked every week what kind was what, how it was made and also learned how to make it myself. Ribbed pasta, pasta with holes, spaghetti thick and thin, tagliatelle wide and narrow and so on.
Anna, who turned nine during my stay in Italy, could do all this with her eyes closed. I myself, not a star in the kitchen, didn't get any further than fried eggs or toasted sandwiches, which often resulted in a loudly blaring grandma: 'No Marty, è troppo secco!!' So too dry. Then the pasta breaks into small pieces that you can't use in the end.
On the road with grandma
Not only did the pasta have to be made, but also eaten, and ork, ork, ork pasta you eat NOT ALLOWED with a spoon. Neither did spaghetti and where I am not only clumsy in preparing it, the food did not always go smoothly for me either. Messing is definitely a number one talent on my resume and the stains of tomato sauce or red pesto that are permanently on my t-shirts can no longer be counted on one hand.
At some point my 'pasta skills' had developed to a certain level. I went with grandma to Mantova (Mantova), which is a must, by the way, if you ever want to visit 'undiscovered' places in Italy.
We had dinner at the restaurant where she used to work and learned all the tricks of the trade. The road from Verona to Mantova was a road where cars were allowed a minimum of 130, but 160 or more was no problem at all.
And what do you think? We cycled there and rolled back. Also something you learn quickly in Italy.
Photos: Martine van Groenigen
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