who says being poorly can't be fun

It's not as if my poorliness is particularly life-threatening, but unfortunately in the life of a singer, if you have a cough or a sore throat, you're rendered completely useless. The only thing you can do is go home and not sing and take good care of it until it goes away. So yesterday and today sees me once again holed up in my flat, this time humidified as per the pharmacist's request - she had me at the words "dust in the mouth and throat" and I was back home with the flatmates in a flash to put a bowl of water on the radiator, after having been given special throat-numbing magic pills.

It's the boredom that's been getting me more than anything though. That and when my cough gets so bad it's a struggle to breathe. So I woke up late yesterday, faffed around on the computer and came across a recipe for cinnamon swirls. I immediately fell in love with the idea, having watched my two Italian flatmates cooking and baking for their boyfriends and brothers since the day I'd arrived and always been very jealous but too lazy (or should I say busy...) to do the same myself.

I pulled my socks on and my big fluffy boots, wrapped my scarf a hundred times around my neck, popped on my Dad's old Barbour coat, fetched my bike and off I cycled to the supermarket to fetch some baking ingredients. I was surprised to see that even on a Monday (the Brits' most feared and un-wanted day according to The Boomtown Rats) the town here still seems empty and void of life.

As I cycled down the long road bemused at the silence, I wondered if my coughing had rendered me slightly deaf, but abandoned that idea when a passing car honked really loudly in my ear. I instead decided that the November fog, slowly making itself known, had stolen the sound.

After wobbling about on the journey back (having bought too much of course, and having found real Scottish biscuits here - Shortbread!!) I returned, switched Buffy on and waited for Meg to arrive.

We then passed a lazy afternoon complaining about fictional vampiric or vampire-boshing characters, drinking hot water, whisky and honey (good for the throat, people tell me) and turning each other into vampires through the wonders of photo-editing. I was glad to have found a friend like Meg, who never fails to remind me of Englishness (or Welshness come to that) and who turns being bored into an art form. We finally remembered that we'd invaded the Kitchen table with baking ingredients so began to set to work mixing and 'measuring'.

We adapted the recipe a bit, as I was keen on adding sultanas to the mix. We were actually quite lax with all measurements and ingredients to be perfectly honest... Also, the types of flour they have a different here. So I spent many a long minute in the supermarket trying to look for some sort of clue as to which flour to use. I think I got it wrong, so was very surprised by the end result!

Although they may not be quite Nigella-worthy, or picture-perfect, they nonetheless filled the appartment with a glorious scent of Christmas (which was almost going to be the smell of Curry as in my hazy ill state, I accidentally started shaking the wrong spice container over the flour mixture...) and gave me and Meg a sense of pride as we gazed upon our creation. We even evoked positive reactions from both my flatmates, them seemingly approving of my English style of baking. I didn't have the heart to tell them that the English/British way is, of course, the best way.

ghost town

For the past few days, I've been holed up in my flat, eating home-made soup, watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer non-stop and coughing and spluttering into my hot water, honey and lemon concoction. Living the dream...

Since arriving officially in October, I've been intent on making the most of my precious time here in Italy, craving to get started on real lessons and experience La Dolce Vita for myself. My wanderlust couldn't be abated and my fascination for the beauty of each new place I went to always left a smile on my face. As the weeks passed and my dreams of having a busy schedule at the Conservatorio and being a part of a group of friends who were as passionate about enjoying every bit of their time here as I was began to came true, the free days filled with nothingness that I used to complain about became fewer and fewer. My work ethic at the Conservatorio was forever increasing with each new and incredibly talented singer I met.

And then, after spending a Thursday afternoon sat in awe and delight in a huge classroom, watching my singing teacher lead the final rehearsal of the one-act Opera Il Signor Bruschino by Rossini, performed by eight truly spectacular young singers from the Conservatorio, I walked home happy, but feeling much worse for wear. My body had finally caught up with me and was not at all enjoying not getting any free time any more... So it gave out on me - left me exhausted and tired and shakey and fluey. And bed-bound.

I've spent this long, cabin-fevery weekend half wishing I could be with my family and not in Italy, and half just wanting to leave the house. I was truly glad that my friend Meg came to visit (and helped me eat the soup I made). So when I woke up this morning managing to keep the cough at bay, I walked with her and her friends to the bus stop and waved them off on their way to watch the Rugby.

I don't know if it was because I'd been watching and listening to things non-stop all weekend long but I suddenly noticed how quiet it was. Even on the main road. Then I began to walk towards the river and try and see as far as I could into the distance, enjoying the emptiness of the paths, the roads and even the skies. The trees seemed to all be surrounded by mist showing off their recently-bare branches in the stillness of the air.

My cabin fever had subsided and I walked around my empty town enjoying feeling like the only one there.

It was like Winter had finally arrived here. It had seemingly sneaked up on the town overnight and no one had noticed the change.

oh England

This weekend, the boyfriend came to visit. A brief, flying visit it seemed to be, and hardly long enough. But it was so good to see his face again for one last time before we finish our Autumn terms in our own places then head back to England for Christmas.

It was nice to get a feel for a new city that both of us had never been to before, so we made full use of the fact that the boy had flown into an airport in Milan and stayed a night there, the next day panning out as touristically as we could manage round the city centre. One of my favourite things about being somewhere new with nothing too specific really planned is that you get to wander down the roads and through the winding back streets, with your eyes peeled for beautiful things that - in your home town - would usually pass you by.

We then took the train back to Parma and I began to show him my City - the streets I like to walk, the places I love to eat and drink copious amounts of Italian-style coffee, the places I am now a regular at, and the things I usually stop and stare at and really make me appreciate being here.

And now it's as if my man has made his mark on Parma. Little things will remind me of him now whilst I'm here - even things as small as us holding hands and walking through the Parco Ducale - and it puts a smile on my face just thinking about it.

But as I walked away from him in the airport today and made the long journey home, not only did I already miss his arm round my shoulder or even just our conversations, I started to miss everything about England too - my thoughts centering mostly around how best to speed up time between now and when I next see my man again.

All of a sudden it was as if a trigger went off in my head and all these thoughts and things that I missed and will miss and that mostly wouldn't be possible here came flooding into my mind.

I wrote them down:

- The boyfriend, and all the boyfriendy things he comes with

- Clementines and mince pies

- English countryside and walks with my dog

- Cosy cafés and chats with friends; the kinds of chats which are so busy and quick-paced and full of catching-up and about three thousand things at the same time

- Proper British Pubs

- My Dad's cooking

- Fresh bread and toast

- Car chats with my mum

- Gin and tonic made properly

- My sister Dawn's excitement about Christmas

- Conversations about science-fiction or good books or good films with my brother Toby

- Sleepovers with my other sister Faith

- Real bacon

- Singing in church every Sunday

- Nearly every aspect of studying and being at Newcastle (including the friends there)

- Floors with real carpets

- Real milk

- Marks and Spencer

- Sunday Lunch; and, to be honest, any other food which doesn't involve ham, pasta or cheese (tomatoes still acceptable)

Don't get me wrong, this isn't a complaint about things here as much as just a wistful reminiscence of back home in England. The fact of the matter is that it is genuinely difficult to adjust yourself to living in a new country. Rules and regulations will never be the same - even the system of paying at a café here still confuses me. The people are not the same. They're no worse or better, just different. And I will always be a foreigner. A foreigner who orders a cappuccino after midday even though it's almost offensive to real Italians here, who eats the wrong things at the wrong times of day, who even sings differently, who looks different and who acts differently.

To all of you also on a year abroad, I'm sure all of this is a completely common feeling.

And to all of you currently in England - I envy you. Take pride in your Englishness/Britishness and appreciate (on my behalf) everything you'd usually take for granted. Like a toaster.

I miss toasters.

the autumn leaves

In terms of lessons here, I am actually having some now. I am absolutely loving the challenge of being in a place so full-to-bursting with fantastic singers in all shapes and sizes. Walking through the corridors of the Conservatorio on this foggy yet peaceful and pleasantly cool Saturday, I could hear snippets of everyone's practise (the singers being the loudest and most easily-audible by far owing to most of them having what seems like iron-like lungs) and felt so happy to have got in to this place.

My teachers are throwing handfuls and handfuls of the most Italian pieces of music for Soprano they can find at me, as well as some truly mind-opening advice. My favourite of the pieces is currently this one sung by Cecilia Bartoli especially.

The standard of the performers and the teaching here, in comparison to Newcastle has made me have to re-think my whole daily routine, as what I had been doing in terms of hours of practise simply isn't enough. And every time a fellow singer sits in on my lesson, or I theirs, they always seem to have a quality in their voice which I too would love to work towards. So I leave every lesson feeling happy, but oh-so-downhearted at the same time.

And then I hop on my bike and take a cycle round the Parco Ducale. 

This wonderful place is so full of life at the moment, especially half-swathed in fog, with millions and millions of red and gold leaves scattered about. I plug myself in to my iPod and pedal with the music. Today was a pretty long cycle - long enough to finish the album I was listening to and to get to see the wind help the leaves off the trees and land them gracefully on the ground.

This is one of my favourite things to do at the moment, as it leaves me time to think about things, and to get my perspective straight after another terrifying yet enjoyable lesson.

when I'm not sleeping

I'm still suffering under the terrible habit of being unable to get myself out of bed when there is not a real reason to leave it. This is typical Autumn-into-Winter syndrome; when the air becomes crisper, the days become shorter and sure enough the streets start emptying themselves as if everyone wants to hibernate until Spring arrives. I too am included.

It means that I know full well I'm not making the most of every single day. Sometimes I wake up and see a glorious day outside and am very sorry I missed it.

But with the ever-drawing-closer arrival of real lessons at a real hour of the day (including a choir rehearsal at 9:30 in the morning... which I still am struggling to wrap my head around), I'll be more inclined to spend more afternoons like this:

I genuinely did learn a song by candlelight.

A happy wander round the streets of Parma and an elevated mood after a
 fabulous sing
led me to look up at the sky and marvel at its artistic streak.

But these were exceptions to the rule (of being lazy). And it's nigh on impossible to live every day in all its glory. Even someone like me, with such an eager, positive viewpoint about this year cannot spend every day being impressed and blown away by everything all the time. 

I remain, therefore, pleasantly enchanted by this vibrant and through-and-through Italian City but do would rather get to know it slowly through moments like the above. Each then has its place in my heart as a stand-out moment, and I will come to look back on all of my stay here in Italy very fondly, instantly forgetting the days I felt like I was stuck in a rut, refusing to leave the cosy confines of my wonderfully thick duvet (though maybe I'll remember these moments fondly too).

this time as a tourist

A couple of weeks ago, my Dad came to visit me - about a week after I'd arrived in Parma. I was feeling relatively un-settled in, and despite already having made a small collection of friends in the city with whom I could talk to and meet up with and wander round with, I'd done very little sight-seeing in Parma itself, saving it all for when my Dad came to stay.

The weather had been dreary, grey and very wet and the "torrent" (because it doesn't dignify the name "river") that ran through Parma looked positively as high as the knee! But Dad's arrival into Bologna airport seemed to bring some much-needed sunshine and I thanked the weather for showing off the beauty of Italy out of the rain to my Father on my behalf.

Dad's three favourite things are reading, food and culture - the latter seeming to span over history, art, architecture and a general enthusiasm for all things new. He's inspired me to be courageous when it comes to doing things here in Italy (though at the moment, my enthusiasm is dwindling as the weather gets colder and I still haven't got a fully-functioning timetable yet), so when he arrived, we aimed to fit in as much as we possibly could in his short stay.

- Wandering round the gorgeous Parco Ducale, stopping for a fresh orange juice and spotting an old man in a shell-suit and working out the best way to get a photo without him noticing.

- Being bowled away by the beautiful Cathedral. Enjoying the silence and the stunningly-painted ceilings.

- Taking a caffé and cake in a cute little 'bar'.

- Feeling awkward as we realise we've unintentionally sat down in a cinema showing a film which is essentially pro-Nazi propaganda...

- Visiting museums galore. And seeing Teatro Farnese in all its beauty.

- A whole day-trip to Florence (this time as a tourist), and soaking up the culture as well as spending three hours in the Uffizzi and eating ice cream, waffles and meat sandwiches.

- Watching Opera Arias being performed by soloists and the orchestra of my conservatorio in the Teatro Regio and feeling amazed that I get the privilege of working with some of those students this year.

And then, before we knew it, it was time for my Dad to go home. We'd exhausted ourselves from walking miles and miles and taking in as much as we possibly could, and I thoroughly enjoyed his visit. He also encouraged me to talk to a lot of people in Italian and that week my language level actually improved, despite spending the majority of the day speaking only in English. But it totally helps having someone to show off a new skill to!