I can’t wait to get into the shower.
I think about it while I’m walking home, in the 26 degree Sydney winter, after a hard day of living Down Under, made of no less than 4.5 hours of English, interrupted by a 1.5 hour break, a quick jump to the beach for a walk, a peek at some store, a visit to my future gym and even a hit in a supermarket.
Shuffling noisily and with a satisfied expression along the corridor that separates me from the shower (as many as 37 steps), looking elegant in my bathrobe electric blue, hard rubber flip-flops and a bully pout, while I consider that even this day is gone. Oh no … there is always that party, or that barbecue. Alright, tonight too I’ll have to put on my perfume.
I get into the shower, bring the water to the ideal temperature, enjoy the beginning of the nice warm shower, then look up and the first questions start coming out:
– Why are there unmistakable, super curly, black pubic hairs stuck on the wall?
– Why are they about two and a half meters in height?
– How did they get there? But first of all…
– What’s the purpose?
I mean, if you really want them to end up between the toes of those who come after you, you place them knee-high, so they end up on you with the first jet straight away. True story.
Today, however, nothing can disturb me and since the pubic hair is intended to remain there for a long time, I will have to wonder about the story behind them during many more showers.
The fact is that today I have found a place.
In 15 days I’ll move into my first permanent residence, but also temporary, in Australia. I’ll be there for a few months, but then who knows … Australia is big.
I will be the newcomer in a triple room in a house inhabited by two Brazilians. I expect caipirinhas as if there were no tomorrow.
Although I had never thought of ending up in a triple, after turning down several notches to the awful quality, this was the best choice among the alternatives I’ve seen so far.
It is within ten minutes walking distance to everything I need, school, gym, beach. Awesome.
During the inspection, I chat with my future roommates almost in a native English (native english = a mixture of shots shoulder, twitching of the face, new expressions, spitting on other people’s books, long pauses and a lot of uhm and an embarrassing amount of Italian interludes).
At one point one of them asks me if I can drive a scooter and, with the expression that Van Damme would do if someone asked him if he can do the splits, I answer that, sure mate, of course I do.
The silence that follows, filled with a half-grin on his part, gives me the chance to think about a thousand questions. Including those super curly pubic hairs.
Fortunately, the Brazilian guy, that henceforth and for convenience we will call Leo, decides to explain what he’s thinking about. It turns out that the other Brazilian boy who by convention we will call Raphael and him, do deliveries and at the pizzeria where they work and that they may need other two wheels in few weeks. Of course, two arms and a watchful eye too. That would be me.
Let’s say that at 15,000 miles away from home, where a shot of rum costs $ 9, I will never refuse a job that may fall in my hands without even looking for it. Especially if it is about driving a scooter through the surrounding streets of Bondi Beach in the days and hours that you decide, based on your availability. If I do that, I will receive $ 20 per hour. Well guys, for that money, in a foreign country and with poor english (let’s be honest ok?), I could also deliver smuggled unrefrigerated organs.
After friendly smiles, manly pats on the back and the unmistakable movement of the head that a human male makes when he agrees with another human male (widespread among chimpanzees), I shake hands and walk away with a roof secured and a possible job. I say awesome.
After this turning point, given the auspicious day, I decided to take a leap in the gym near here, to see what the environment looks like. Lucky as I am, that they might need someone who will work at the reception.
I walk down the street, enjoying the ocean view, thinking about future developments, when all of a sudden I find myself thinking about those fucking pubic hairs.
First symptom of post-traumatic stress disorder: continually reliving the event through frequent flashbacks. I take a mental note.
As soon as I set foot in the gym, I am assailed by the unmistakable typical aroma of all boxing gyms and their known ingredients:
– just taken off shoes after half an hour running and never washed since purchasing them.
– a whole day on the rump socks.
– unshowered people because “so what? I’m going to the gym”
– hectoliters of sweat poured on ultra-absorbent carpets
– Various other liquids sweat during the various efforts by a mix of real, tattooed Australians.
In short, everything you need to make the environment suitable for a very small elite. Of which I still do not belong.
Not a problem. At the very least I will learn how to swear in Australian, or how I can ask someone to find my nose, lost somewhere on my head after a high kick, or faster remedies against lactic acid in the body.
All things that you may be asked during any examination for the IELTS.
I say cool.
After three seconds (technical time needed by anyone in the gym to be noticed as the only one who does not do fit in there), I am welcomed by the instructor/owner, to whom I ask to have some information.
Just before he starts talking I find myself thinking: this is awesome!, I’ll start to integrate with “local fauna” and look fantastic to a new group of Australian friends, with whom to share beers and kicks in the face in the ring. Excellent.
After screaming who knows what to someone struggling with a punching bag, in a very marked Australian accent, he asks me a few questions and after telling him where I come from he replies: Oh well, I’m from Venice!
Moral of the story: Italians are like pubic hair, you will find them where you expect them the least and sooner or later they’ll end up between your feet.
This post is also available in: Italian