Counting down the days

We're almost down to counting days, lads.
I am, at least. I know some people will stay longer...

This is a final account of how it went, honest and open-hearted.

When I started the Erasmus bureaucracy, I was not convinced at all. I was running away from a problem...by diving head first in a complex system of documents and so on. Not the best idea, granted. But I received such an overwhelming support that I could not say no. I got called every bad name on the book by a cousin who wanted me to go on Erasmus...to visit me here (although she never managed - stupid working hours, stupid capitalism /rant1).

When I first got out of the airplane - in a lovely sunny day of January - and recovered from the cold that hit me like a fist in the face, I remember this thought distinctly: "Oh shit here you are".
That was not my first away-from-home experience. I've been living on my own (not financially, though) for the past 4, almost 5, years. I've got experience in squatting in other people's bedrooms, living rooms, kitchens. I know how to deal with a washing machine and being able to cook at least 4 different dishes makes me a chef extraordinaire.
But that was Italy -and it was 3 hours of train away from home sweet home. This is different.

So I got out of the airport, called the friend who was to pick me up, arrange a rendezvous (I don't feel comfortable with French, though French words have that je ne sais quoi...), provide me with some food, showe me around AND  who got me my accommodation.

I swear to the gods, the old and the new and the middle-aged, 5 hours after I touched Irish soil I had a room. The beauty of the Italian network.
Could I have chosen better? Sure. But it was cheap and it looked nice. How could I know I would see nasty things going on in there?

I never got along with my flatmates too much. They're good guys, sure, just not my cup of tea. And driving away one of the Italian flatmates, believe me, it's not the way to start a friendship. Fortunately this happened in a couple weeks, so I had the time and the luck to get to know some people I love to call "friends".
Now, the demographics around me are not very supportive of a nationalism-free environment: we started out as 3-4 Belgians vs 2 Austrians + 1 German. If you want to recreate WWII you've got the ingredients there (I can play the Italian resistance). The final straw is that I'm left-wing and they are not. I'm a socialist, they are not. At some point we did tackle the big issues; it was an honest and calm debate – almost – between one advocating the disruption of the state and the other claiming corporations are good...

Now, I know I suck at popularity (not fishing for pity). I'm communist, I'm a former super-metalhead, I'm into politics and philosophy, YUCK! But I always forget that when I get into a new environment, I try too hard at friendship and eventually fall out with some people. Shit happens, especially if you're shitting against the wind.
Add to that that the reason for my escape was catching up and you've got an idea of the best breeding conditions for a healthy paranoia culture.

The college itself left me witless and amazed. SO BIG, SO MANY PEOPLE!

The most startling experience was dealing with the professors. English, being the barbaric (no judgment of value) language it is, lacks a courtesy form similar to Italian "Lei", the German "Sie", the French "vous" or the Spanish "usted". No. When you talk to the Queen you say "you". AAAAARGH. How the hell should I make it to talk to my professor without some linguistic groveling?! It also serves a purpose. If you're on "you" terms with the professor you don't exercise the most important ability required to speak with people: the sneaky remark.
Basically, in hierarchic structures such as university you never disagree with the professor: rather you point out some flaws in the most flattering and neutral way possible. It's the bitching version of fencing as opposed to bare-hand combat.

You can then well imagine how scared I was to be asked to talk informally to the Italian teachers. Terrible.
But the Italian department was gracious enough to welcome me with open arms - and it felt good. Seriously.
I managed - in college - to write essays on Muslims and on Genoa 2001; to present a group work on Yemen; to start going regularly to the swimming pool.

But the most important thing is: I was part of a socialist society and it felt good. I can't wait for the revolution. (SWSS, thank you all!)

So by March I had a nice paranoia growing with all the stress and the tensions of months wound up real tight in me. I was starting to think I didn't fit in; I felt alone. But I wasn't. I met some wonderful people - actually even before that - and I got my self-confidence back on its feet. Not too high, but back on its feet enough to be functional once again, to be moderately happy.

By now I've got three teams between the people I know: the German speakers vs the French speakers vs the Spanish. Basically I could have spent my Erasmus speaking any language except English - thank the gods I didn't.

I ended up doing crazy stuff: I went to an Anarchist bookfair and an underground punk concert; I wento to demonstrations; I dressed up and went "clubbing"; I danced some terrible songs; I hiked around in the rain. I've seen clubs and I've seen squats. is pent nights in pubs and other nights just trying to figure out where the hell we would be drinking. It was wonderful.

But sad as it may be, it's time to go back. The sun and the sea and the people are calling me back. I'll be gloomy for months, that's for sure, but right now I don't mind that. I've always been nostalgic - up to the point that I miss things I didn't even live myself!

So this is basically my way to thank every single one of you who made my experience so great. You're more than welcome if you ever want to visit.

I'll greet you with open arms and beer (and a red flag, of course!)