So, football’s kind of big here.  Not quite as big as the other kind of football, the one that takes up at least seven pages in Melbourne newspapers during it’s season.  But the game that I grew up calling soccer and now call football definitely has it’s followers.  Such as my darling husband, who ranked 64th in the world in last year’s fantasy league. 

He chose our team almost two years ago, before we actually arrived in London.  I agreed because the name matched my favourite bookish activity: Reading.  Two years ago, Reading had just been promoted to the Premiere League, expectations were high.  This season, they’ve been demoted again.  A perfect time then, to try out our Reading membership cards, to wear our Reading shirt and scarf, and go see a match.

The match was in Ipswich, at Portland Road stadium and Reading was playing Ipswich town.  We were assigned to the very small ‘away supporters’ section of the ground.  Well, when I say ‘assigned’, I mean we had tickets.  Matt’d booked them over the phone, and we’d picked them up when we arrived.  It was just too bad that there were two men already sitting in our seats, who had exactly the same tickets as us.  Same date, same block, same seats, totally identical.  Luckily the section wasn’t sold out, so we didn’t have to move into one of the home team areas.

Going to the footy is memorable for the chanting.  I can’t say I understood much of it, and perhaps I didn’t want to.  The turnstile gates are tiny, and the seat rows are crammed in.  People yell abuse at the referee.  When there’s a goal, all that team’s supporters stand up to cheer.  We didn’t get to stand up.  Reading lost, two-nil.

When Ipswich Town scored that second goal, Reading supporters started to file out, while the Ipswich fans turned to the section and waved goodbye (in a less than friendly manner).  Matt and I stayed to the end, but we didn’t change the result by doing so.

Ipswich itself was another English town, with the same shops on the highstreet.  Beyond that, the lanes got narrower and the buildings older.  We even saw a house with a sign commemorating the fact that it was near the house where Thomas Wolsey was born.  The Bailey’s infused creme brulee from Tonic Bar and Lounge on Falcon Street was amazing.

Tash

I don’t know where to start writing about Italy.  I’ll probably end up doing a few entries over the next couple of weeks; I probably won’t do them in any sort of order.  It was my second trip to the country.  I was spending pounds and not New Zealand dollars, which was why on one morning in Rome, I ended up at the Ara Pacis Augustae.

This time round, €10 didn’t seem too much to pay for an audio-guide and entry to the glass museum near the banks of the Tiber River (€10? That’s only three and a half single scoop gelati for example).  It didn’t seem too much to get away from the crowds and the heat of the morning, into the quiet and cool of inner sanctuary.  To be able to take photos of the reliefs on the outside of the altar, to walk into it, to touch the stones which were first carved in memory of Augustus’ achievements in the years BC.

On the short sides of the altar, there are reliefs showing a procession of priests and members of Augustus’ family.  I stood for a while, even after the audio-guide had stopped explaining who they were – and thought about how their likenesses had stayed in stone for so many years.

I studied the Ara Pacis at high school.  I studied Latin.  I studied classics.  The Ara Pacis was there in my text books, maybe even my exams.  But it wasn’t real until almost 10 years later, when I stood there and touched the stones.

This morning, my parents are on a flight back to New Zealand, and I wish I could be everywhere in the world all at once.

Tash (naTacitus)