The rOME cHRONICLES: …and so it goes the tale of ‘the Mouth of Truth’.

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A Roman with very broken English quietly explained the tale of the Mouth of Truth to me with a stern look of seriousness.I was mesmerised, not only because it was difficult to understand him so I clung to each word but also because the story was creepy…

…If you are to place your hand in La Bocca Della Verita’ and you are an untruthful sort of character who tells fibs or even petty white lies then the mouth will chew off your hand, I mean rip it off, bite off fingers one by one as blood trickles down the corners of the giant mouth. The Roman actually played out the biting of fingers with his own hand shoved unpolitely down his throat. It was an unusual scene.

But don’t laugh I actually fell for this… So, having heard the horrific tale from someone who lives in Rome, I was genuinely petrified when it came time for me to visit ‘la bocca’. A teenager, about three people ahead of me, plunged his hand into the cavernous hole. His smile quickly receded as he struggled to retrieve his hand. I gasped, as the onlookers laughed raucously. The teenager pulled out his hand, still wholly intact, waved it to the crowd and moved away.

I felt a little ill, ‘I don’t think I’ll have a turn, non posso…’ I backed into the line of eager tourists, whom with a sense of camaraderie stopped my regression.

‘Tu puoi’, my boyfriend urged me forward. The line forced me onwards.

Crazy thoughts invaded my head ‘Well, we’ve all lied before…but what if I was the unlucky one and my hand really did disappear…what if it was true and a bunch of people I didn’t know watched my hand get crushed,eaten and blood oozing…weeping…?’

I approached dubiously and with my eyes scrunched up tightly, I placed my right hand into the ominous mouth. I’m left handed and I needed that one if anything did happen.

The line of queue waiters stared intently at me and my hidden hand and my boyfriend waited patiently to the side…I managed a small breath…

I survived the ordeal and I still have two hands to show for it, I guess it really was only a tale…it had me going though…and thousands of other tourists too…

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One life: a tale of an Aussie girl in Rome

A journey always starts somewhere…

“Now more than ever do I realize that I will never be content with a sedentary life, that I will always be haunted by thoughts of a sun-drenched elsewhere.”
― Isabelle Eberhardt, The Nomad: The Diaries of Isabelle Eberhardt

The travel bug is contagious & thanks to my Dad who has been travelling for as long as I can remember, I too caught the bug.

I can distinctly recall sitting at the window as a little girl, waving Dad goodbye as the taxi driver whisked him away to the airport. I would remain behind the festoon curtain until the car had sped out of view and for moments after, I’d sit crying.

This is me ‘The teenage mutant Greek ninja turtle’ ready for action in Athens, Greece at the beginning of my journey.

That's me!   Greek Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle.

This is me two years after the start of my journey…
Yes, I’m on my way to the altar…

That's me, on my wedding day

The happy couple…
I was to learn that the pull & drag of home would never leave me…no matter how strong your love is…

Just married in the red room Rome

My novel memoir is the story of how a young Australian girl came to marry a Roman and live in Italy for 10 years. It is a story inspired by an old box of letters I found tucked away in a cupboard.

I hope that once published ( hopefully :)) it will encourage other women and men to chase a dream and live vicariously, for we are given but one life…

Mum & Dad were left waiting at the window for 10 years until I came home…

Thanks for taking the time to read.

In My Travels: Cattle Class

Does it get any worse than this?

Does it get any worse than this?

Let me take a split second to off load my armful of barbies, pour a cuppa and sit in my writing chair. Let me savour this non chaotic moment for just a moment, thanks….

Ok, so I got to thinking, If one could eliminate the time spent travelling on flights to places far and beyond and just arrive… Wouldn’t they be an inventive genius? You know, ‘Like I Dream of Jeannie’? In the batter of an eyelid she was where she wanted to be.

Plane travel; it is not the place to spread out and relax if you are unfortunate enough to travel with the cattle. Moo. To extend ones limbs is oh but a dream, un sogno.One holds onto the ambitious ideology that the hours will eventually end (which they do) and that the confined space will be taken away. Feet will be put to steady ground and arms and legs will be free to fill spaces that they were intended to.
Another horrid flying fact is, what if you don’t like your neighbour? I once had a man sitting or rather lying next to me who picked and flicked his toe nails on a long haul flight from Sydney to Bangkok. I was repulsed, I was gagging and I was ready to vomit as I sheltered my toddler from the gruesome creature. But where could I go? What could I do? I reported him to the stewardess whose calm programmed response was to stare at me blankly and retort ‘there is nothing I can do Maam…’ I hate being called ‘Maam’ I find it a word that is degrading for some reason. That nightmarish flight lasted an eternity. We were prisoners. There was only a certain number of times that I could walk the aisles in a state of nauseated and sleep deprived zombieness. Thankfully, the gent in question was not on the next leg of the flight to Rome.

We travel to see and do. It is true ‘the more you see, the more you want to see’. Sometimes remaining stagnant and staple gunned to your own existence is a more viable altenative. Generally, you can save yourself about $2000 in flights and avoid an infuriating neighbour on a flight lasting an eternity.

Are we all really just gluttons for punishment or is sufferance more supportable than seeing and learning nothing?
Or maybe I should just travel business class, they say it’s definitely worth it. Maybe it’s like having an epidural as opposed to giving birth naturally.
But that’s another story…

Inspiration in a cup of…….

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Big discussions are deliberated over a cup of strong brew. Doctors and nurses discuss patient care outcomes and orchestrate positive plans of attack whilst sitting unitedly around a table, take away coffee cups at the ready.

Mmmm, it’s time to sit on a chair at your desk, or on the floor or on the sofa or maybe you do it lying on the bed. Quite possibly you’re doing it with an added tit bit.

I’m talking about having a cup of something while you write, contemplate or ponder. A diverse train of thoughts is conjured up while you sip away. I personally love a cup of hot strong coffee with just a dash of full cream milk. I write and jot whilst savouring the warmth and flavour of my favourite drink. For the duration of that coffee I relax and think or sometimes relax and write. I know others who are fine tea lovers who consume copious cups each day and find solace in each one.

“There is a great deal of poetry and fine sentiment in a chest of tea.”
Ralph Waldo Emerson

 

Sipping, thinking, pausing, contemplating and dipping.

 

“Espresso is to Italy, what champagne is to France.”
Charles Maurice de Talleyrand

Yes, sometimes I like to dip a couple of shortbread biccies. If I’m writing in the afternoon I might like to indulge in a cuppa with a donut. It’s very naughty but the caffeine fix collaborating with the forces of the sugar reinvigorate the slowing thought processes and provoke the ability to think again.

If on a Friday evening and at the end of a fulfilling and jam packed week I still feel the urge to write, I might pour a glass of red vino or a chilled glass of white. Procrastinating, sitting at my desk and sipping I  begin to dawdle, jot down quotes, formulate sentences and string phrases. It’s amazing how the writing seems to pour out as the glass of wine diminishes.  Is it coherent? I’d have to check on that tomorrow. I flick off the switches, hover the cursor over ‘Shut Down’ and click on the mouse. The screen goes blank and I turn off the lamp.

Good night my electronic friend, until tomorrow.

 

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