There’s something very satisfying about having an ordered wardrobe. I came to this later in life. As a child, my wardrobe was messy — until I spent hours tidying up, rearranging it, only to make it messy again a week or so later.
My wardrobe in Bologna, in Northern Italy, was ordered, because there was very little in it.
When I was 27 I lived in Italy for six months. I’d already travelled to Italy twice on holidays, and on the most recent trip I’d visited Bologna to visit an Australian friend. When he returned to Australia, I moved into his old apartment, took his old room and became good friends with his Italian housemates. We often joked that I’d ‘stolen’ his life.
My room in Bologna had a grey terrazzo tiled floor. Beautifully cool underfoot in the long heat of summer. The floor hid the fluff and dust well, until you walked on it barefoot and found the evidence on the soles of your feet. No vacuum cleaner. Luckily I had plenty of time to sweep. No air-conditioning. Just a pedestal fan I’d bought from the local supermarket and assembled myself. Thick walls and deep window sills. Windows with metal rolling shutters to keep out the sizzling sun. The shutters had a fabric strap you had to pull on with all your weight to make the shutters go down. Rattling all the way. In that apartment, everything was a little worn, but homely, and comfortable.
In Australia, I was used to living in modern, carpeted bedrooms. Heating, air-conditioning, roller blinds that moved up and down with minimal fuss. I paid good money in rent for such things. In Italy, those were luxuries — too expensive at that time in my life. There were more modern apartments available but I didn’t even consider those. I was happy to give up my Melbourne ‘non-negotiables’ in exchange for living with people I knew and liked. People who were clean, considerate, and fun.
As always, I’d travelled with just a 55-litre backpack — black, starting to fray at the zips and seams — and a smaller pack on my front. I’d decided that I’d take only a few clothes, for summer, and buy the rest once I was there. Clothes were much cheaper in Italy than at home, especially if you bought from H&M, a store that Australia didn’t yet have.
The wardrobe in my room was freestanding with white oak look doors. Probably from Ikea and the only new piece of furniture in the apartment.
At the bottom of the wardrobe were a pair of shoes for every occasion. Brown sandals, runners, flip flops, black ballet flats and a pair of canvas hi-tops. I had six summer dresses, a couple of tank tops, and a stretchy black skirt that sat above my knees. Folded, were three pairs of shorts, a pair of pyjamas, three t-shirts and a bikini. My underwear stayed neatly folded in the packing cells I’d bought from the outdoor shop before I left Australia. I really didn’t need much. I’d arrived in Bologna in July, mid-summer, when the temperature is usually in the 30s for most of the day. Doesn’t get much cooler at night.
It was so nice to look into my wardrobe and not be overwhelmed. Sure, sometimes I’d want to wear something different but usually I could mix and match. These days, this simplification of a wardrobe is called a ‘capsule wardrobe’ and people buy books and watch TV series about capsule wardrobes in an effort to design one for themselves.
On the top shelf were all my toiletries. Deodorant, sunscreen, insect spray, perfume, hair products. Make up. Some jewellery. And everything on that shelf, just like everything else in my wardrobe, was labelled with a pale yellow Post-it note. Every time I opened the wardrobe door and looked inside, put on my sunscreen or took out a pair of underpants, I would see and remember what it was called in Italian. Mutande — underpants. Vestiti — dresses, crema solare — sunscreen.
The labels were just one of my study methods. I’d recently finished a four-week Italian course at the local language school. I was supposed to be teaching English for the remainder of my stay in Italy. I had studied a TESOL course before travelling to Italy and thought it would be a valid excuse to escape to my favourite country for six months. But after finishing my Italian course I wanted to consolidate what I’d learnt. And I was ready for a few sleep-ins. So in August, one of the hottest months of the year, and a time when anyone with common sense escapes to the coast, I stayed at home in dry and dusty Bologna.
During the day I closed my metal roller blinds as soon as the afternoon sun crept in, sat at my desk in front of my pedestal fan, and studied Italian. I watched Italian cartoons — Garfield and another for little kids about the sun and the moon. I revised the grammar I’d written in my notepad, and got hooked on Italian soap operas. Then, in the evenings, when it was cool enough to go outside, I’d catch the bus to meet my friends in the old town. I’d take my time getting ready. Admire my tan in the mirror, all the while singing along to the upbeat and summery music of Florence and the Machine’s Shake It Out.
In the evenings when I’d been out and it was time to go home — usually early in the morning — I’d walk 30 minutes up the hill, out of the old town, back to my apartment. The buses had often stopped running by then. Sometimes I’d walk home anyway, just to save money. I’d very rarely be drunk, but a few drinks often ended up being more than a few, and I’d walk home in a lovely, peaceful haze.
Walking all that way alone at night wasn’t the safest thing to do — as I found out one night. But that story’s a little darker. A story for another time.
Isn’t it interesting, the places and situations a wardrobe can take you, the things we uncover and recall — otherwise buried or forgotten — by opening its doors and delving into its contents…
