Category Archives: Italy

Overall thoughts on Italy and things we do

Street Markets in Milan

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Actually, this is all down to a colleague.

She wondered if I knew about a “very famous” (her words) street market in Milan. She gave me the address but the piazza name she gave me didn’t exist.

She can be annoying at times.

So I went on the hunt for somewhere which listed the street markets in Milan.

Everyday there is a market somewhere.

Perhaps the most ‘famous’ is Papiniano. This is on a Saturday near the canals (Navigli) and stretches up a couple of long roads. It sells clothes, mainly. Not all street markets are the same. The one near me (on a Tuesday) sells mainly fruit and veg although there are at least a couple of stalls selling the usual street market stuff (clothes, household goods, etc.).

In fact, people looking for somewhere that’s the equivalent of Primark, here, would do quite well to go to the Papiniano market, since we don’t have either a Primark or, as far as I am aware, an equivalent.

But to get a full list of what street markets are where and when could look here. It’s a comprehensive list and shows a map for nearly all of the markets.

For certain, wherever you live there will be a market somewhere, nearby on one of the days in the week.

Update May 2015: It seems the link is currently broken. Here are some alternatives, although the link above was the best a it was easier to “see” the closest market to where you were living or staying.

1. Where the original map came from. Markets are listed by zone (but you need to know which zone you are in) but no other details (other than street name given).
2. Showing some of the “best” markets, ordered by day and linking to a map.
3. All markets and shown on a map. Click on each flag to bring up details of when it’s on. (In Italian, I’m afraid).

Ristorante Delicatessen

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Sunday was rather nice. We SHOULD have been with Lola and G and Orlando but the weather forecast was for a dreadful day and so a day walking with the dogs was postponed. We wait for better weather.

And the weather WAS dreadful. It rained nearly all day and was much colder – and, in spite of the ‘extra hour in bed’ I didn’t sleep so well.

However, a couple who were friends of F & S and have a baby came from where they live (Lake Como) to Milan for lunch.

F booked a place about an hour before they arrived.

Every morning I go, by car, to work, along Viale Tunisia. And, although I am aware this place exists (because An, a friend, works nearby and swears by it for a good lunch), I have never actually seen it. And I have looked (but, then, I am a man).

It is quite easy from our place – three or four tram stops and possible to walk if the weather is OK.

The place is called Delicatessen.

Now, for me, Viale Tunisia is not a particularly nice “avenue”. In fact it’s just a large and well-trafficked road, dirty and uninviting. But, sure enough, I have passed it every day.

But, I’m going to recommend it – highly recommend it.

The front looks OK but, once you get inside, it’s a completely different world. It’s been there about 18 months (or more). It is smart and clean, wood and brown. It is large and airy but also warm and cosy. In short, a rather nice place.

The staff are excellent. We had a 19-month-old baby in our party. But nothing was too much trouble. First they got a high chair, then a rocking horse, then, when he went running off, they were there to look after him. That’s not to say that they didn’t look after us too! They were attentive, serving the wine when it needed to be served, explaining the dishes, etc., etc.

The food is from Alto Adige – in the Alpine region of South Tyrol. This is a region of Italy where nearly 70% of the population speak German as their first language, even if it is part of Italy. One of the specialities of the area is speck, my favourite cured ham. And, sure enough, the menu (with German then Italian descriptions, as one would expect) is littered with dishes containing speck.

So I had speck with gherkins to start. It was lovely. F had a selection of meats and cheeses (and that meant I had some of that too, since he doesn’t eat meat with too much fat :-D ).

My main course was lamb. Like a crown roast, with ratatouille and a side dish of potatoes with cheese (hot). The lamb was perfect – not overcooked and VERY tasty. We shared sweets but, to be honest, my choice of grape strudel was the best.

OK, so the prices were quite high – €8-12 for a starter, €10-15 for the pasta course and €23+ for the mains – it was pricey but the food was plentiful and tasty and I didn’t need anything to eat for the rest of the day!

So, place – 4 stars, staff – 5 stars and food – 5 stars!

Wonderful place. Do go if you live or come to Milan.

Hibernation?

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Well, here we are, near the end of October and having had some of the most unseasonable weather – in that, it has been quite warm and little rain.

Certainly, this year, the heating came on before I got seriously cold at home.

But, according to the forecast, this is set to change on Sunday.

Already, today, we have rain.

Tomorrow, we have more rain (but not as much as today).

Sunday we have even more rain and the temperature is set to drop to a maximum of 7°C (with a minimum, on Monday and Tuesday mornings, of 1°C). Time to get out jumpers and warm socks and coats and stuff.

With any luck, there will be just 4 months of this, with things improving in February.

I should be like a bear and hibernate. Or like a bird and fly south.

No, I think hibernation is best. Waking up when it’s nice. Sounds good to me.

Expat? Immigrant?

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There was a tweet, recently, relating to an old Guardian piece about the fact that an Indian guys didn’t feel he could be considered an expat.

Of course, it depends on your audience.

If, as an immigrant to Italy, I wrote a piece in an Italian newspaper, I could hardly call myself an expat since a) I am NOT Italian and b) I have not moved out of Italy.

For me it’s a matter of simplicity. Here, I am an immigrant – unless and except when I am talking to other English/American/Canadians here. When I talk to them I am an expat. They are expats too.

However, when I’m with Italians, as, in fact, I have done in the past, I point out that I, too, am an immigrant.

This is usually when they are complaining about the numbers of immigrants here.

It’s interesting that when I point out that I am also an immigrant, they usually respond with something like “Ah, but you’re different.”

What they mean, of course, is that, even if I can’t speak the language (whereas many immigrants can); even if I look different from the majority of Italians (with my blue eyes); even if I act differently (like being more courteous), I am OK because I am white and English and their friend.

As opposed to black or brown, non-European and selling roses or trinkets or working in a kitchen in a restaurant.

But I am mindful that I remain and will always be, an immigrant here.

I am from one of the current EU countries and so I have some “right” to be here – but, I guess, I could also be shipped back to the UK should the authorities deem it necessary.

Here, I have no roots; no “original” place to go to. And so it was true of the Indian writing the Guardian article. So, speaking to a British audience, he was always going to be an immigrant and not an expat.

I don’t think it’s that difficult an idea to grasp?

Some things just don’t fit, do they?

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I remember coming to Milan many years ago, probably the second time, staying at the Antica Locanda Solferino,* and walking from there to somewhere and chancing upon a McDonald’s.

Here we were, staying in one of the areas that retains the oldest buildings in Milan, in a city that is in a country where “fast food” – e.g. a slice of pizza – is always available, permitting a company that puts a tasteless piece of cardboard (called a burger by them) between two bits of soggy, over-processed bread buns, with some bits of highly-sugared/salted extras to mask any tastelessness and calls it food, the chance to sell their rubbish (or “poison” as I call it).

Oh, yes, I don’t really like McDonald’s.

I was, frankly, both shocked and saddened. But, I thought to myself, surely Italians don’t actually go for it? I mean, compared to a slice of pizza or foccacia, there is no contest.

But this was in a slightly out-of-the-way area. It closed within a few years. Yay!

Imagine, if you will, one of the prettiest places in Milan – the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II, just across from the Duomo, the place that leads from the Duomo (Cathedral) to the famous opera house, La Scala.

The picture doesn’t do it justice at all. You have to be there to see the beauty of it. Of course, being the main way to get from the Duomo to La Scala it is almost always full of tourists. At Christmas they usually have an installation, e.g. a HUGE Christmas tree, done by Swarovski, so full of glass ornaments that catch the light in such wondrous ways. The glass ceiling is wonderful; the murals, high above the ground, marvellous; the floor itself, beautiful – and it’s full of shops (high-end, of course – Prada, etc.) and elegant, old-time cafés. One can imagine it has hardly changed since 1877, when it was finished.

Of course, the cafés are over-priced. But to sit there, under the glass ceiling, protected from the cold or heat (depending on the season) is one of those ‘must do’ things for a tourist.

So, given my hatred of McDonald’s, I was truly shocked to see a McDonald’s there, right in the centre of the arcade. Worse still, people used it!

OK, so it wasn’t the usual garish McDonald’s with the over-sized M but, still …….

However, it is no more. The other day they were giving away free burgers as they are closing up and moving on. And hurrah for that, I say!

As you can see above, it almost blended in – but to me, in this land that prides itself on its food and flair, McDonald’s is an antithesis. C’mon, you cannot disagree?

Now it will be replaced by Prada. Anyway, there are enough cafés there.

It’s a shame they don’t replace all the other McDonald’s in Italy with something else.

My thanks to the Guardian for the story and the picture of McDonald’s.

* p.s. The Antica Locanda Solferino is quite a wonderful place to stay. A short walk from the centre of town, the rooms (that I’ve stayed in) are very large and comfortable. They do B&B but the breakfast is served in your room as there is (well, was), no dining room. One of the strangest things (a little disconcerting) is (was) that there are (were) no locks on the doors to the bedrooms! But in all the years we stayed there, we never had any problem. It was a wonderful, quirky hotel and I have recommended it to others. Not cheap but if you don’t want the standard hotel with the standard room, this is for you.

p.p.s I even put the tag “Food” against this post – even if it pained me to do so.

At long, long, last!

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F-I-N-A-L-L-Y!

I suppose everyone does this, don’t they?

I look back at the very few photographs I have and think that, actually, I was quite good looking. By which, I mean that, at the time, I didn’t realise it or I thought that, whereas not downright ugly, I was not “all that”.

And, of course, at that moment, what I thought looked really cool, actually may not have looked that good. But looking back at these phtographs, I realise that, actually, I was quite good looking and I wish I had known that then, at that time and, better, had done something with it.

But, physically, my ideas of how I looked are NOT the same as the reality.

For example, for many, many years, in my head, I had a button nose. Even when I looked in the mirror, that’s what I saw. I hated this button nose. I wanted a long one, perhaps more of a Roman one. In fact, I would spend time pulling my nose down and out as I really hated this button nose.

It wasn’t until I mentioned it one time in company that I was put straight about this thing. I didn’t have, and never had had, such a thing as a button nose.

Now, although I realise this to be true, my mind plays tricks on me and, occasionally, I still think of it as a button nose. Which, even as I think about it, I know not to be true – like now, when I’m writing this. Still, in my head (at this moment), I think of it as short, stubby abd turned up.

The other thing that’s important to me, as far as physical looks go, is my hair. This has been so every since I can remember. At 12 I was telling my parents that “everyone has long hair at school, and I want long hair too”. Really! I only “saw” long hair on other kids but now, I realise, this cannot have been true.

My hair has always been ‘important’ to me. When I was about 17 or so was the ‘best time’ (apart from the other best times, of course). In reverse order, I’ve had very short and natural grey, very short and not-natural, almost-black, slightly longer and black, shortish and natural, longish and natural, spikey and long and blonde, normal and natural, long almost to my waist and natural, longish, just past shoulder-length and natural (the ‘best one’), spikey and sometimes blue and before that I don’t remember.

But, since F convinced me to stop dying my hair (and I ended up with the first one in the above list), I haven’t been entirely happy. So, since the summer before last, I grew it.

In my head, it reminds me of the ‘best’ one from when I was 17.

In the mirror, I see a head full of hair, longish flowing locks, nearly as it should be – but not quite.

And then I see photos of myself now. It looks quite dreadful. In the photo. In the mirror (and my head) it looks nothing like that. I picture myself as I was at 17, just back from holiday, brown, with these flowing locks and looking really good.

And, even if I know that the camera doesn’t lie, I still think that it does. Or, at least, it distorts. Maybe it wasn’t a good day? Maybe it was a little windy?

And my hair is thinner now. I know this for if I put a mirror to show me the back of my head, you can see I’m going a bit bald. Except I was thinking that about 20 years ago. It just never really quite happened! But I am certain it’s much thinner than it was and the almost-bald-patch is now almoster bald.

So, where were we?

Ah, yes. So, in my head and when I look at myself in a mirror, I am almost the same as when I was 17. Except I’m not, of course.

And I started growing it because I wanted a style. Some sort of style but I wasn’t sure what. I thought: if I grow it I can choose what to have. Except, after almost a couple of years I’m no closer to making a decision.

And, even if I’ve asked F for his advice, I get nothing from him. And I’ve been wanting him to suggest something or say something but I could solicit nothing.

Until last night.

For our anniversary, as normal, I came with a last-minute idea for a present. The present was one of those digital picture frames. I’ve always thought they were a bit of a waste of time but, you know, when you have little idea of what to buy, it came in a flash that this might be something he would like, being keen on photography and all.

And, it turns out, it was a great choice. He loves it. And so he spent a long time putting over 300 photos on it which he brought over last night to show me. Of course, they are 300+ photos of the dogs!

But in some of them, there is him or me (with the dogs).

One came up of me the summer before last, when we were on holiday in Umbria, just before I started growing my hair.

“You should cut your hair,” he says, when he sees it. “Short hair makes you look younger.” I tell him that I am very happy that he is making some comment. And I AM very happy. It’s just not quite the comment that I want.

Sure, I want to look younger.

I’m not that bothered about looking younger.

Maybe he WANTS me to look younger? Maybe he thinks that I look much older now? I want to do what he wants. I don’t care about being younger or older and, yet, …… I do care on some level.

Later I suggest that I need a style and should he see something, to tell me. His response was “It’s too thin.” He means, of course, go and get it cut, really short, all over – like it was.

In my head, of course, it’s not at all THAT thin. I reply that it’s been like this for years and years.

But he’s right, of course. He suggests that maybe I can keep it like this for the winter and get it cut in the spring. He doesn’t really think that, of course. He’s just saying that. Maybe my face said too much?

Of course, this isn’t really what I want to hear but, in his way, he’s being nice whilst being quite direct. This idea I had that I have hair like I was 17 or, even, that I had almost convinced myself that I look like some old, eccentric, English professor should be banished from my brain. Should be but it’s very difficult to do.

And, although I absolutely HATE the idea of not having a choice any more, he is, of course, quite right. And I am so glad that he’s finally said SOMETHING!

Now all I have to do is to summon up the courage to go and get it done! This is not easy for me and will take me some time and then I have to choose somewhere to have it done. This, too, is quite difficult. I have to pick the right place. I remember when I went from waist-length to quite short, when I first went to work. It was almost the most excruciatingly painful thing I had ever done (not physically but mentally). I can only imagine how Samson must have felt. This will be the same.

I am convinced that no one else has this problem (the pain of having one’s hair cut). For no one else does it seem such a big deal. I don’t even know why it is for me. It’s just weird! It’s the stuff in my head …. again!

Or, maybe I CAN find a style ………..?????

A change.

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It all feels a bit unreal.

As if I’m in some sort of fuggy dream. As if I’m not really there.

The change seems overnight although, in reality, it’s over a weekend.

And now, for me, it’s a race to the other end; a race to the light – almost literally.

I had promised to take the dogs out this morning as it was probably going to be raining and would probably keep right on raining until later in the morning. Which it has.

Although, when we were out, it didn’t seem too bad; not the heavy rain predicted, more of a lighter rain – the one just after or just before the heavy rain. It was dark, of course, but, then. it had been dark at this time for a few weeks.

As we approach the second traffic lights, they change from flashing amber to the normal red/green. I thought I must be late but, instead, it’s the lights’ change that’s early – by about 5 minutes.

The dogs (even Piero) keep as close to the buildings as possible.

I don’t let them into the dog area. They are wet already and there’s no need to get them really dirty as the puddles testify that the area will be just mud. Anyway, there are no other dogs in there (and probably won’t be, at least this morning), so Piero isn’t missing any play time. But, then, there aren’t usually any dogs in here at this time.

It’s raining, slightly, but not really ‘cold’ as such. About 13 degrees.

We walk back home. We, all three of us, want to get back.

As we wait for the lift, Dino is trying to dry himself on the walls. He looks forward to the towelling he has when he gets wet.

We get in the flat and I get the towels, Dino not taking his eyes off me, knowing what’s coming. Obviously, I do him first, dropping the towel on his head and starting to rub him down vigorously. He throws himself into this ritual and I think he would like it if I didn’t stop – but the other one has to be done.

The other one, on the other hand, does not really like it and tries to escape. But he’s still small enough to be able to keep in check without too much effort and he gets ‘done’ anyway.

I get ready and have coffee and leave to go to work.

It’s still raining – in much the same way – not too hard.

The car is close and, since it’s service, starts first time, which is great.

But it’s the drive to work that’s different. It’s still dark. It’s miserable. And different to Friday morning when it was light.

Of course, it’s made darker by the rain clouds.

But, as I drive, I don’t feel altogether “there” and it’s unnerving.

The traffic is, for the most part, quite light. Soon it won’t be like this.

It starts to get light on my way but I see the 50-shades-of-grey clouds, patchy and bleak, in the sky.

The race is on to February or March when it will (hopefully) get warmer and brighter.

On the plus side, F noticed that the heating was on last night (at home, obviously. At work the place is close to fridge conditions – especially as these fucking crazy Italians feel the need to change the air – or let the bloody cold in, as I like to say) and I am VERY happy about that.

It’s here!

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And, it’s not necessarily a good thing, just inevitable.

I’m talking Autumn (or ‘Fall’ to Americans because, I guess, Autumn is too difficult to spell).

Last night, on our way back from the restaurant, I looked up the street and you could see a light mist – an obvious sign of Autumn, if ever there was one, even if, last night, it was not cold enough for a jacket (at least for me).

This morning, the same mist hung around. But this morning was a bit chillier.

And, as the mist hasn’t really lifeted much but, rather, made everything grey and miserable, the temperature has stayed lower and there is a chill in the air. Not really a ‘nip’ – yet. So, not winter (as everyone here has been predicting) but definitely Autumn.

The trees still have their green leaves though, although maybe there’s a tinge of change.

But, since the heating should (officially) go on in the middle of October, this year we’re quite late getting to Autumn. Normally, by now, I’m wishing for the heating to be turned on (because I’m bloody freezing) – this year, so far, it’s not been necessary – even for me.

One only hopes that Spring won’t be late coming (well, at least I only hope).

Plain stupid driving.

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I’ve seen some strange things here.

For example, there was the live parrot in the taxi some time ago.

Then there was the rioting. And the winds that blew down the scaffolding in front of a 7 or 8 storey block of flats.

Then there was, one time, I saw a car driving on the tram track.

But this morning was, to be honest, amazing.

The trams run on rails. Sometimes, the rails run through roads and there, the top of the tram rails is the same height as the road. Obviously.

In some places, however, the road is at the side of the rails and the rails resemble normal train rails – i.e. the rails are not set at the height of the surrounding grass or small stones. Especially where the tracks have recently been re-done.

Like on Viale Regina Giovanna. The road is so wide (Viale meaning Avenue) that the road is split with dedicated tram tracks in the centre, lined with trees. The tracks have recently been relaid and, whereas before, the grass areas between the tracks were only slightly below the top of the rails, now the small stones are well below the top of the rails.

So, it would be really stupid to try to drive say, a car, down the tracks. Unless, maybe you had a 4×4?

Not least, it would be stupid because to enter the tram-exclusive area is not easy. I mean, you really have to make a concious effort to do so and you would have to be a) completely unaware of the trams and b) actually turn onto the tracks as opposed to following the road.

And, yet, this morning, holding up the trams, was an nice new Audi, stuck, with the rail being so high as to make the wheels ineffective.

There were about 3 or 4 guys trying to push the car backwards to, I guess, a place where the wheels would have some grip.

The shame was that I was in traffic so I couldn’t stop the car and take a photograph.

I wonder how long it was before he managed to get out. And, how embarrassing it must have been.

Mind you, some people are just plain stupid.

1 Englishman, 1 American and 2 Italians in a pub.

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There’s an Englishman, American, two Italians and two dogs, sitting in a bar ………

Sounds like the start of a good joke, doesn’t it?

OK then, let’s continue …..

The humans are talking about this and that, having a few drinks. It’s a pleasant evening, quite warm and, whilst not exactly outside, they are in a semi-covered area, stuck in a corner. It was the only place available. They are sittiing around a small, round table.

They haven’t seen each other for a while and it’s good to chat.

Suddenly, and without warning, there is this awful, retch-inducing smell.

The Englishman, being English, says nothing but pretends that nothing is happening.

The Italians, being ‘out’ say nothing and pretend that nothing is happening.

The American, having lived in Europe long enough, politely says nothing and pretends that nothing is happening.

The dogs, being non-human, say nothing.

The position in the bar means that there is no escape. And, to move would be to ‘know’ and no one wants that, do they?

Two, three or maybe four times this happens.

Each time it seems worse than the last.

Eventually, everyone leaves to go home.

____________________________________________________________________________________________

“It was Piero,” says F, as we are walking home. And I agree.

We had brought the dogs with us as our friends wanted to see the puppy, even if he is 5 months old and quite large now.

I mean, you get this problem with oldeer dogs. Occasionally, Dino ‘drops one’. But for such a young puppy – but it’s true and I agree. That night, when they were in separate rooms, it comes again and confirms it’s Piero.

Bloody dog! I haven’t even changed his food!

In any event, it wasn’t a joke at all. But what were we to do?