Category Archives: Experiences

La Piccola Versilia

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It started off quite well. We were greeted and given an option of several tables. We chose one. The background music was quite loud and a slightly strange choice – it was more like dance music!

The restaurant was small. It was more like a bar that had some tables. The decoration was ‘modern’ but, to be honest, there wasn’t really much in the way of decoration. There was a mural behind me which was fairly nondescript and high on the wall opposite was the front of an old fiat 500 (I think), the lights supposedly being lit – but only one of them was.

The antipasto arrived. This was quite lovely and gave me high hopes. There was a bacon thing, fried. Very tasty, probably smoked, with mostardo – one cherry and the sauce. With it was some nice cheese. F didn’t want the meat so I had his and only had a taste of the cheese. We had water and they asked about wine. We asked for white. They were sorry but they didn’t have white apart from the house white.

This has got to be the first restaurant in Italy that I have ever been to that didn’t have a proper wine list. The house white was OK but nothing special.

Then came our primi. This was risotto. Risotto Milanese, of course, with a small osso bucco. It was OK. I’m not really a big fan of rice but I knew this was what we were going to get. The presentation was fine but the risotto itself was nothing stunning. After the starter this was a slight disappointment. Still, there was coteletto to come!

It came. It was thick and on the bone. I prefer the thin and no bone myself. So does F. We had ordered roast potatoes with it. They were fine. The crust of the cottoletto was slightly strange. More like the coating to southern fried chicken but without the spices. Maybe it had been deep fried?

We finished. They took away the plates and the bread (which was quite nice). F finished his glass of wine (we had 2 glasses each) and his water. We waited for them to come over and suggest sweet or coffee. They didn’t. The restaurant was very small and they had two people as front of house. There were a total of 3 tables occupied. We were surprised that they didn’t come over. But we were ready to go and so we got up and paid. The Groupon voucher was supposedly worth €58, the bill for the cover charge, water, wine and potatoes came to €22 – so a total of €80 for the meal.

F said as we walked to get an ice-cream, that he wouldn’t go back there again, even if someone invited us. And I agreed.

Enocratia, the last one we went to with a ‘set meal’ for the Groupon voucher was a million times better. We felt that the food could have been a little bit more ‘special’ but that the service could and should have been wonderful – and that would have made a difference to our whole experience.

I would give it one star for the antipasto thing and nothing for anything else. We discussed Porca Vacca where the Groupon voucher experience, although not worth much, means that we shall be going back (on Friday, actually) or Enocratia where, if only it were closer, would become, I’m sure, one of our favourites.

As we discussed, with this Groupon voucher it is a chance for us to discover new restaurants and for them to show how good everything can be. La Piccola Versilia failed quite miserably, I’m afraid.

Families

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Just so you know, we have no Internet access at work – so no visiting of blogs and these posts have to be posted in the evening – and I have so little time. Hopefully, all will be back to normal soon.

In the meantime ……….

I had done a long piece about the falling out F had with his Mum. That was the weekend before last. There was a walk out, things were said and, afterwards I was told that now, he doesn’t feel obligated to go there.

Except I lived with V for over 20 years.

Let’s be honest, if I fall out with someone, I really fall out with them. It doesn’t go away. I guess that’s why, in the last 30 years or so, I don’t speak to my parents and have only seen them twice in that time.

It’s not that I bear grudges as such, it’s just that I don’t feel it can all be ignored. If there’s a problem then it remains a problem. I realize it’s my problem really but it’s the way I am. I tried to change when V left but V wouldn’t let me. Perhaps more of me rubbed off onto V than I had thought?

So, last weekend, I was, at once, surprised and unsurprised when, after we had arrived on Saturday, F phoned his Mum to say that we were down but we wouldn’t be going round for something to eat that evening.

On Sunday, he said he was sorry but we needed to go and see his Mum and Dad before going to the beach. He bought some cakes to have with coffee. I said it was fine (which it was). I may have a problem with forgiveness myself but I have no problem with other people being able to forgive – at least, between themselves.

And so we go. His Dad is on his own. He makes us coffee and he and F play cards, as normal. Hi Mum comes. She makes faces at me as if to ask ‘Is he OK now?’ or ‘He’s a strange one’ or something like that. I smile and raise my eyebrows and shrug my shoulders.

Finally, he and his Mum sit down (when his father has gone to the other room) to talk about a lunch at some restaurant to be arranged for his Dad’s birthday which is in a few weeks. I don’t suppose his brother will be there. But, who knows?

I don’t really understand families. Well, I understand my own – it’s everyone else’s that’s a mystery to me.

Lettuce and Cheese

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It’s a summer thing, really. It’s like raspberries and, now, sandals.

I always used to be reminded when Wimbledon was on. Wimbledon and lettuce and cheese sandwiches go together. Oh, yes, and strawberries and cream. My mother used to do the sandwiches. Now, thinking about it as I am writing this, she probably did them so that she didn’t have to interrupt her Wimbledon-watching too much.

There are things I ‘got’ from her. None of the rest of the family did but, even though I can’t say we were ever close, certain things remain as my favourites and were her favourites too. Things like Wimbledon, lettuce and cheese sandwiches, bread and butter pudding, rice pudding, etc., etc. Hmmm, now I look at it, it’s mostly food. I wonder why I have these things – my favourites were her favourites.

Of course, I developed some of these. I actually went to Wimbledon, twice and I don’t think she ever did.

And, lettuce and cheese sandwiches had black pepper added. Nowadays, as it’s harder to get salad cream (impossible here), I have to use mayonnaise. Salad cream has a more acidic flavor and compliments the other ingredients perfectly.

Here, of course, no cheddar either.

So, Saturday, on the beach, I ordered a lettuce, cheese (fontina), and mayonnaise sandwich. Because they don’t have black pepper (for some reason Italians don’t like it and think it’s bad for you – for me, it’s not only essential but it’s also good for you as it is supposed to improve your sex life (I heard that from someone and I’m a great believer in things I like to believe in)), I brought my own black pepper to add.

As I got it (and F’s sandwich) from the bar, the guy said that it was a strange combination. As usual, I replied that I’m English. That’s usually enough for Italians as they think we’re strange. He said that Italians would never choose this sandwich. They would never even think about it as a combination.

I took it back to our place and with the added black pepper it was almost as good as the real thing. Or, maybe that’s because I haven’t had them since, er, last summer?

It seemed a perfect thing to have on the beach, under the hot sun.

Service

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I have mentioned ‘service’ in Italy before now, probably in many posts.

Sometimes, it is exceptionally good. At other times it is, at best, abysmal. The abysmal usually occurs when you’re dealing with bureaucracy. There are many things which, whilst in the UK are straight forward, here require an amount of red tape that is, let us say, unfortunate.

Go to a small shop that, for instance, sells pens. There the service will be wonderful. When you have finally selected a pen, it will be wrapped with care as if it were to be the most important gift for someone – even if you are buying it for yourself.

Obviously, this doesn’t apply to all shops. Zara, for example, doesn’t carefully pack your purchased items but, much as shops in the UK, will just slip them in a bag. It does depend on where you go.

However, when dealing with something that requires the red-tape documentation, don’t expect a level of service even up to the Zara standard.

Instead, expect to wait; to be ignored; to be advised that you will have to come back with some other document; to be told that it simply ‘can’t be done’.

I go. Each desk is occupied both with an ‘assistant’ and a customer. There are a number of chairs for people who are waiting to sit on. It’s not a good sign. I’ve found waiting areas to be a sure sign of extreme slowness and incompetence. I find that I am not disappointed this time.

Two customers leave. The desks are empty of customers. The staff, though, are doing something else. Going for water; chatting to other people; walking around. They all look at me from time to time. I am English so am, to some extent, used to waiting. Quietly. Surely, I think, someone will attend to me shortly.

Another customer leaves. There are a lot of staff walking around. The desk where the last customer was definitely says ‘Closed’.

There are now only two desks which have customers at them. There is an office behind me that seems to attract the busy, walking-around staff. I could just pop my head round the door as it is right behind me. I don’t, of course.

Surely, I think, someone will notice the fact that I am waiting and that, by now, I don’t look like I am enjoying myself.

I wonder if the two customers that remain and are being served will ever finish.

A short man who could best be described as a retired spiv walks past. He is wearing one of those loud brown, striped suits. He reminds me of Danny DeVito. He looks at me and bids me good day. I mumble something in return. It’s not really a ‘good’ day for me.

The mumble was going to be something like ‘salve’ which is a two-syllable word but comes out as a one syllable word that almost doesn’t come out at all, it is so quiet. In part this is because no one, up to this point, has spoken to me.

He walks off somewhere.

About five minutes later he comes past me again. He asks me something in Italian. By now my mind is numb and even if he had said ‘Good Day’ in Italian, I wouldn’t have understood it. I feel like I have died whilst I’ve been waiting.

I give him the contents of the envelope and crank my mind into some sort of gear. I think I am somewhere between zero and first gear. He understands my comment that I just want to pay. He calls a woman from the room behind me – her with the ‘Closed’ desk. He tells her to serve me.

She is, obviously, less than happy with this. But, then again, I am less than happy with being here amongst all these totally ignorant Italians. I mean in this office not in Italy, of course.

She serves me. She is useless. But, in spite of her uselessness, five minutes later I am out of there. It will be the last time I use them and so, next year, I will do something about it. In time. I.e. a month before I need to do this again.

Or else I will be too lazy and go there again this time next year and be unhappy all over again.

Let’s see.

From hot and sunny Carrara to the Chicago rain.

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“I hate being in love”

“I always fall in love. I can’t stop it and I hate it”

“I fall in love and then I fall out of love. I’ve had enough of it”, the American girl behind me whined. I wanted to say something. I thought of turning round and saying “That’s life”, but I didn’t.

The morning was on the beach. The temperature was, probably, in the 30s (°C, of course). We had lunch, courtesy of F’s sister at which, because his sister and niece are both taking English lessons, there was an impromptu lesson.

Then we left. I could have stayed there all day but we had Chicago later.

It wasn’t supposed to rain. The forecast said no rain. Everyone’s forecast said no rain. The clouds in the distance were laden with rain. And the lightening, as always, was great to see – as a backdrop, of course. I don’t want it coming any closer. But it did. The spots of rain were large. Wearing sandals, a shirt and some linen trousers didn’t keep me dry.

On the plus side, it stopped the mosquitoes which, until then, had been on a feasting orgy and the smell of Autan was all around. I hate the smell of Autan and try my best never to use it. My thinking is that, if it’s potent enough to ward off mosquitoes, it can’t possibly be good for your skin. A couple of nibbles by the zanzare can’t be as bad. And, anyway, even the people who liberally spray themselves, seem to get bitten just the same.

There was another plus side. With the onset of the rain, many people started to get up and leave or, at least, try to find some shelter. Leaving a number (quite a sizeable number) who headed to the front. The front, for sometime, protected us from the rain but in the end it got us too.

I never did festivals. When you’re young, you can do this ‘staying in the rain’ for hours whilst you watch your favourite band. Firstly, this is NOT my favourite band and secondly, I only know a few of their songs and only one that I can sing along to. However, what was I to do? Everyone in my group was at the front and so, I followed.

To be honest, even without knowing all the songs (I knew about 5), the band were brilliant. Not only were they good but they obviously enjoyed themselves which makes a whole lot of difference. The trombone player was incredible – not only for his playing but also for his energy and enjoyment.

Once again, it was Milano Jazzin Festival and Chicago were great. It was worth the money and the rain to see them.

Anyone who had a heart ….. wouldn’t want to miss this

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One of the girls, N, who was with us had said, apparently, that she didn’t know who he was.

She meant, of course, she didn’t know his songs. But everyone knows a few of his songs, even if you don’t think you do.

And, so as this 83-year-old man shuffled on stage last night at the Milano Jazzin’ Festival, although I knew that I knew many of his songs I was blown away by both him, his playing, his songs (I knew all except a couple of them) and the atmosphere which was much like a party.

It was fun.

It’s difficult to pick just one song since there are so many of them. As it is, I shall pick two.

The first, although first sung by Dionne Warwick, was a hit in the UK by Cilla Black and so Cilla and this song always go together for me:

The second is a song that I don’t know that well but it’s sung by Elvis Costello – God Give Me Strength (although, obviously, not last night):

Burt sung some of the songs and he can be forgiven for not having the perfectly strong voice of a young man.

His contribution to the world of music is immeasurable and I am so happy that I’ve been to see him since you don’t know if he’ll ever be back in Milan. Although, if he is, I really want to be there :-)

Pizza with pig fat

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Ruth wrote about it back in January of this year but I’d never seen it before.

However, as I now ‘weekend’ nearby (how jealous are you, Ruth?), it seems only logical.

Friday night we were late getting down.  Too late to go and eat with F’s parents and, so, F, having not eaten much lunch, suggest we drop the dogs off at the house and go for a pizza.

Seemed a good idea to me.  I don’t know any restaurants in the town and so learning of which ones to go to is important (for me).

We went to Bati Bati right in the centre of town.  It looked nice.  Rustically rough but clean looking.  We went into the back part of the restaurant.  Everything was white except the floor.  Unusually for the town, not everywhere was marble!

I then saw – pizza with lardo di Colonnata, aubergine (egg plant to you Americans) and asparagus.

Now, I do really like lardo and lardo di Colonnata is produced in a town (maybe village) nearby and is reputedly the best.  They serve it thinly sliced – but I mean really, really thin – almost see-through.  The combination of the lardo, the aubergine and the asparagus was divine and, surprisingly, very light!  I loved it.

F has now promised to take me up to Colonnata where we can get some of the real thing.  I resisted suggesting that we should do that first thing in the morning.

The only problem will be to slice it thinly enough.

But there is a bakery that bakes bread in a wood oven (so the sign says) near to the house and the idea of a thin slice of lardo di Colonnata on a piece of warm bread is making my mouth water already!

I guess it’s official now.

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I guess I have reached the ‘I am an old codger’ stage of my life.

It’s not really my age, as such, it’s my attitude.

Saturday night was the ‘Notte Bianca’.  This is an Italian thing.  Once a year, roads are closed to traffic and the shops and bars stay open until late.  By late, I mean 2 or 3 or later.

There are often ‘discos in the street’, stalls and street traders selling tourist-type crap.  There are food and drink stalls.  And people wander about.

I suppose the reason it can be done here is the weather.  It’s warm and it lends itself to staying up till the early hours of the morning.

F apologised a number of times and checked I wasn’t bored.  St, an old friend of his, has been having problems with her 30+-year-old marriage.  Or rather her husband has been having problems, if you see what I mean.  She has lived in the town all her life and feels she cannot confide in anyone who lives there – so F was an obvious choice.  It seems a lot of people are having problems right now.

Anyway, obviously they were talking in Italian.  I suppose I could have tried to follow the conversation but it seemed rude to do so, me not being an old friend.  So, I didn’t.

We went to a bar and found a seat (which was lucky).  And they talked whilst I looked around.  And I catch myself wondering why the young people (especially the girls) think that wearing a pair of shorts or skirt that barely covers your bum when you have tree trunks for legs, think that it can possibly be attractive?

I suppose it is the same as when I was a teenager and I suppose the older generation thought much the same about us as I think about the youngsters of today.

But, that’s not entirely fair.  There are women of F’s age wearing the same sort of thing although it’s noticeable that the women of that age generally wear something that suits their figure.  Not always, of course, but mostly.

We left about midnight as F didn’t like a friend of R (his best friend who had joined us with his entourage later) who announced to everyone, and in front of her 10-year-old daughter, how she really needed a fuck tonight.  I only learnt later that was why we had left as I hadn’t understood.

Possibly it’s as well that I don’t understand sometimes but F and I do agree on stuff like that.  As we used to say in the UK – it’s not big and it’s not clever.

However, I did enjoy the evening.  Watching the people.  And St seems very nice.  Bless her, she’s still in love with her husband after almost 40 years of knowing him.  Shame he’s such a barsteward really.

Life is difficult

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I’m guessing (although I am certain, really) that each of us have no idea how our current crisis affects those around us.

When I was 30 and went through my mid-life crisis (although, secretly, I’m hoping that ‘mid-life’ is not literal), I think it must have been hell for those around me.

Hell and very, very boring.

Worse still if you aren’t that close to someone. Worse still if they are just an office colleague that you aren’t close to but that you work with. Much, much worse if, as it seems, both partners have just reached 50 and are both having that mid-life crisis at the same time!

For that’s the way it seems.

“Can you just check on your websites if you can find the telephone number for this person?”, she asks.

I don’t know who it is but I’m certain it’s a friend of her husband. She goes on Facebook – but not as herself. She doesn’t want to be on Facebook. But she looks all the same.

“See if you can find pictures of these people?”. She wants to see what they look like. Of course, she’s clutching at straws.

“You know”, I said, yesterday, “you should be careful what you look for because you don’t know what you may find”. I have a wisdom built up from more than one occasion. Now I understand why the old people have so much of the damned stuff. I am, after all, old and, therefore, experienced and, therefore, have wisdom. Damn!

And, yet it won’t stop her. She is determined. She explained that she found the full details (phone number, address, etc.) by using directory enquiries. Finding one bit of information at a time. So as not to be considered suspicious.

She says she knows what I mean (about being careful because of what you might find).

Some mornings/days, she is almost in tears. When it’s like that she can’t talk to me. I feel sorry for her. I also don’t really want to know. We’re not really close, after all.

Her husband IS on Facebook. She’s told me some things about him. And things about some of his friends. It’s a marriage with problems. The problem is that he’s an Italian man (enough said) and the problem is also that she’s 50 ……. and trying hard not to be.

Age is a pain in the arse, really. For women it means you cannot look your age and you have a fixed time to have children. For men there’s the ‘not being able to get anyone else’. Or, rather, I should just miss the ‘n’ off ‘men’. Now I know different.

But I know that, in spite of my outstanding wisdom on this point (not that I have ever taken my own advice), she will continue until she finds out everything. Or, rather, until she finds some indiscretion. And then, depending on the parties will to fight for something or not, the end or a re-start.

And, even if she’s not close to me, it’s a shame.

And the amount of effort this all takes! I know it does, of course. It takes a lot of effort to find information that is, whilst not exactly secret, difficult to find. And then, to find it in such a way as to make the finding of it secret.

Until you spill the beans. The point at which you show your cards. And then? Well, then depends, of course. Depends on the relationship and, more importantly on the two people involved. It depends upon both of them wanting to ‘make it right’. As soon as one of them doesn’t, then you’re just sliding to the end.

And, however bad things are, there are times when you have doubts. When it seems that what you (think you) have is better than the horror of what you don’t yet know. The horror of being single.

But I am wise now. It is a horror (for some people and, certainly, for me) but one that doesn’t need to last. If you don’t want it to. There is a future and it’s yours to shape.

In the meantime, this tragedy (for that is what it is) of the secret searching and the secret finding and the trying to be more powerful than the other (because knowledge is power, isn’t it?) and the playing of what you think are aces, etc., etc. is tiring. Both for them and for us – the us that have to listen and watch.

Life is bloody difficult, isn’t it?

Maybe it’s time for a change?

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You shouldn’t expect them to be perfect.

Doctors, I mean. They are called (in the UK) General Practitioners. And ‘general’ for a reason. They know a lot – but not everything. They might know a lot about common diseases and problems but they are not (and don’t profess to be) specialists.

It’s the same with all professions, I guess.

Reaching this stage of my life, I now understand that they are not God. Nor are any of these professionals. Chemists, Solicitors, the rest.

My vets has two people in the practice. One of them I like and trust. The other I don’t really like nor do I really trust. However, I was really quite shocked to be told, last night, by the one I like, that the instructions given by the other one were not right and that ‘he was wrong’!

Rufus has blocked anus glands. I went to the vets and the nice one gave me a prescription for anti-biotics but said to come back in one week to make sure it was taking effect.

I did. The other one was there. The other one looked and said it was coming along nicely and to finish the treatment and then come back in two weeks.

Last night I took him back. This time there was the nice one. He asked why I didn’t come back at the end of the treatment. I told him that I didn’t because his colleague, the other one, had told me to come back in two weeks.

“He was wrong”, he said. He explained that, although 90% OK, I now need some cream to put on (that doesn’t really fill me with joy but I’ll do it, of course). And then go back in 10 days.

I think I need to change vets, don’t you?