Category Archives: Italy

Overall thoughts on Italy and things we do

Religion costs, apparently!

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19th August, 2010

When we were in the UK (really? Was it almost a month ago?), I took F to Hereford Cathedral. It is, after all, one of the main tourist attractions of Hereford, along with the ‘Black and White House’ in the centre (which was closed when we were there).

Of course, when I was a child, as I explained to him, and a pupil at the school that, in only three years, had such a profound effect on my life, the Cathedral was a haven. It was a haven, not in a religious sense, however much, at the time, I needed something to ‘save me’, but a haven from the cold in winter. Although the Cathedral could never be heated properly, they had these great big radiators/boilers at intervals and round those we could, at least, keep from becoming solid blocks of ice. I say ‘we’ but, actually, I don’t remember who ‘we’ were, that whole three years being almost a blank, save for a couple of people and some very important ‘learning’ that took place.

There was one other thing I remember from the Cathedral – the Mappa Mundi. All those years ago, relegated to some side aisle of the Cathedral, I don’t even remember if it had a light (but I think it did), operated by a switch which automatically turned off after a short, set time.

Now, of course, things are different. Then, a visit to the famous Chained Library was by appointment (and I’m pretty certain that I never went) – now it’s by payment. The same payment allows you to see the permanently illuminated and better explained Mappa Mundi. It was, if my memory serves me well, £9. But for me this is OK. I mean to say that it does not detract, in any way, from the ‘religiousness’ of the Cathedral proper. It was all discreetly done, at one side of the Cathedral.

Yesterday, we went to Orvieto. A very pretty (though typical), hill-top, Umbrian city, more catered to tourists than, say, Todi where we had visited just before.

The Duomo at Orvieto is quite beautiful. In a way (in that it’s made of layers of black and white marble(?)) it reminded me of the Duomo in Florence but with a front façade that is truly wonderful with decorated frescoes or mosaics (I’m not sure which).

We took it in turns to go in (F is just beginning to learn that the dogs should not come ‘everywhere’). I went first. It required an entrance fee of €2. I paid and went in. The people who didn’t want to pay were stuck, right by the entrance door, in what I can only describe as a ‘pen’. They had, to my mind, successfully turned the Duomo from a place of worship into a museum. There were no pews in the main aisle, just a few plastic chairs where those who had paid, could sit.

A service, held in one of the side chapels and accessed (for free) from a side door but fenced off so that if you went to the service you could not, then access the rest of the Duomo, seemed to be out of context. I walked down the one side of the main aisle. there was another side chapel and I could see it had rather splendid painted vaulted ceilings and walls. A girl was there – she asked to see my ticket. “No”, she said, wagging her finger at me as Italians do when something is not permitted. There was no “I’m sorry” and, until asked, no explanation.

As a result of the rather indifferent and, for me, rather rude girl, I decided I wouldn’t go and pay the extra Euro. And I also felt no reverence in this building. No desire to be especially quiet (although, being on my own, I was). The whole idea of paying, just to get inside a place of worship, owned, as it is, by one of the richest organisations in the world, left a distaste in my mouth which is a shame as it was a beautiful Cathedral.

I know that €2 is nothing and an extra Euro (which I advised F to pay – and which he did) is even less but the way it has been done devalued the experience, whereas, in Hereford, it did not

Apparently, religion costs!

Walking

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17th August, 2010

It would have been perfect – about 4 weeks ago, when the blue flowers (which I should be able to name and once, a long time ago, probably could) wouldn’t be in their last throes or in spring when the broom (which I’ve never seen quite so much of – or, at least, not that I remember) was in full flower, filling the air with that sickly, sweet scent. It’s not autumn but there is a lot of brown, – patches in the grass, the undergrowth, some leaves on the trees…….

That’s the thing about here, this country. the leaves on the trees in the UK go brown or orange or red or yellow because it’s their ‘time'; here, it’s because they have burnt or have run out of water or something. The oaks already showing it; about half their leaves are that dry, crispy brown, as if they had already fallen from the tree some time ago. It’s all the same, yet different. Blackberries are there, some red, some half and half, some black but nothing like the cultivated ones in the supermarket either here or the ones in the hedgerows in the UK, here not overburdened with individual berries, full to bursting with that dark, red juice but hosting only one, two, three or four berries, small and wasted and not really worth the effort of picking.

The sun is already hot and it’s not even 9! I am already hugging any shade that the trees, harbouring those already dead leaves, can provide.

Dino is ahead. He sniffs the ground and finds the perfect one, Unfortunately he cannot just ‘pick it up’ or, not always. Sometimes, if it proves impossible to pick up, he waits fr me but he always tries first – spreading his forelegs like a giraffe going for a drink, laying his head on one side on the ground to grasp it and so, pick it up and, if successful, proudly carrying it on, jaws agape, tongue lolling out, panting – as I said the sun is already hot.

As I’m writing this, after, today, the French arrived. I mean to say, they’ve been here since Saturday but they seemed aloof, as one would expect of the French. I don’t think we ever saw the whole family together before. Yet we knew they were four. The parents maybe late 30s/early 40s. One child of 10 and one of 6, maybe, my guess at ages always crap. They came to look at the pool, rarely spoke to anyone, although F said they had said ‘hello’ to him one time.

But today they have arrived. Loud. Taking over the pool. Jumping in; causing waves and talking loudly; the older child screaming with joy at being hurled in the air by her father, to fall into the water and sink like a stone.

But I digress.

Sometimes as we walk on, Dino, sniffing the ground before him as he runs ( well, I say ‘runs’ although it is more of an ungainly canter – he doesn’t seem to have the refinement of carriage that Rufus has) finds (sniffs out) another one and will promptly drop the one he has to do his giraffe-drinking impression again to pick up the new one or wait, staring at me as if daring me to pick it up when I get to him but then wanting me to pick it up and throw it further along so that he can chase it.

Rufus, as I have found out this holiday, is, now, almost completely deaf. Now, for the most part, he watches Dino to see how he should react or where he should go or what he should do.

I could hear a car coming up the gravel and stone track, gullies at the side of the track to catch the water when it rains. We had rain the first afternoon/night. I realised then, it’s not like the UK rain, here. We had waited in the car, parked almost outside the supermarket entrance because the rain, not like a shower from the heavens but rather like a bucket from God, trapped us inside the car and the shoppers who’d finished, inside the supermarket, all of us realising that only a single second in this tornado-style rain would drench us in exactly the same way as if we stayed in it for an hour!

We drove back, up the same gravel track that I am now walking down, the gullies having real meaning now but, still, unable to hold the amount of water being deposited and the water exploding over the top and washing the gravel down, exposing the stone and earth below, with the earth, too, getting mixed in.

But now the gullies were dry, or almost dry, seemingly of no value except to trap the unwary or less careful driver or, as Dino, an exuberant dog who went that little too close to the edge.

I could hear the car, I thought. Rufus used to be so good. At the sound of a car, he trotted back. Now, I called but realised that, if he hadn’t heard the car then he wouldn’t hear me! Dino, not so used to all this, just stood, looking at me, questioning without any understanding, this normal pose when called for, as if asking ‘Are you serious?’ or ‘And, if I don’t come?’ – the imitation of taking your shoe off to throw at him the only way he will be made to slink over, grudgingly, in his own time.

The car came. Only when it was on top of Rufus did he know it was there and only then did he do the customary trot back to me, which was good and only marred by the fact that the car and he were now coming to me in parallel. I am amazed that Rufus hangs on so, me expecting him to have given up the ghost a year back. It will, after all, be our last ‘tie’.

We go down as far as the ‘factory’. I didn’t notice it all the times we have driven up and down and cannot tell if it is a factory or a storage place or an assembler of something or what it is.

It’s a couple of large, green, hanger-like sheds, some concrete blocks, some vehicles and, what looks like, a base for a new hanger, in concrete. Maybe it’s something to do with olives or something, I muse, afterwards.

We turn back, me realising that it is quite a long hill to climb now with the sun hotter than before.

I make for each bit of shade, the hot, in-the-sun bits to be endured until the next shadow. Rufus, more often on the way back, by my side as he is obviously struggling a bit now.

We stop at a point where the stream (that I have heard gurgling and gabbling all the way) meets the road. The dogs find it – I didn’t even notice it.

We make our way back up, Dino occasionally dropping his stone for me to throw or because he had found a new one.

I love the peace of this. I love the aimlessness of this. Walking the dogs through undiscovered (to me and them) countryside has to be one of the best things in life!

Packing, English milk and other things

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Of course, I should be packing now instead of writing this. But I am always ‘last minute’.

The dogs are in being groomed. I may have to collect them at any time.

F is at work. He is slightly peeved that I didn’t answer my phone straight away but it was on charge.

I’ve been and got the money from the scratch cards for him. I went to the supermarket to buy Autan because the vet suggested that this would stop the dogs getting bitten by sand flies (that pass on some dreadful disease, apparently) but I shall get a collar when I pick them up later too.

Whilst in the supermarket I saw that they had English milk. Well, not exactly from the UK but, rather, made in the English style. I drink a lot of milk. The problem here is that it is a bit watery for my liking. Proper, full-fat English milk would be great – except that they are in bottles. Not plastic bottles but glass bottles. So maybe I won’t. Carrying that back from the supermarket would be a real pain. Plus, it was expensive.

But now I must get back to packing. I don’t want to be doing it still when F arrives and wants to leave!

And, so, it’s unlikely I will post anything for a week and a half or so. I have decided not to take my computer. I have books and we have cards. The danger with the computer is that I will play the Facebook game – and that is time consuming and not something I should be doing when on holiday!

We have four days at the beach in Tuscany, followed by a week in Umbria, in the hills. It should be lovely. F wants to take Dino down to the sea because he thinks Dino will swim and enjoy it. I’m not so sure but it will be fun finding out!

And so, my dear reader, I leave you for this, our first real holiday together. I am so looking forward to it.

Whatever you are doing, have great couple of weeks and I will see you when I get back :-)

I go to the bank…………and again…………and again.

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Being our holiday, and F having given me a money box (a Shaun the Sheep one, in case you were wondering), we decided to save all our loose change at the end of each day. We’ve been dong it for about two months.

Surprisingly, it was quite heavy.

And, on Saturday, we decided to count it all. It was surprisingly good and came to much more than we had thought it would. I had also been putting €5 notes in there too, so the haul was nice.

In coins, we had just short of €300. Now, although this is nice, paying for a €50 meal with 50 cent coins may not be welcome by the restaurant owner. So it seemed quite reasonable to get it all changed for notes.

In the UK, this would have been a bit of a pain. First I would have gone to the bank to get some special bags, then I would have had to bag it up, and then take it to the bank. Any bank, of course – although they might insist on their bags. Here it isn’t like that.

It’s worse.

I suggested to F that I would go today (this was written yesterday – or most of it). He said to try the tobacconist first. I mentioned it to them (one of my regular tobacconists) – and they would have been interested but they were shutting up for two weeks. F seemed to think that this might be a problem – but didn’t explain why.

Yesterday, as I didn’t have bags, I put the coins into rolls of paper – similar to the ones that are given to shops. Obviously this was my own, made-up, paper rolls – not nearly so neat as those used by the banks but, at least, I could write the amount and the type of coins on the outside, once they had been rolled up. It took forever! The coins kept slipping sideways until I got the knack of doing it.

But now they were all rolled up in blue paper (it was the paper I had to hand) and each one marked with the coins contained and the total amount inside. What more could the bank want?

And so, this morning, I went to the bank. As there is one just across the road from me I thought I would try there. It is Banca Intesa or Intesa San Paolo or something. anyway, one of the bigger banks in Italy, with branches everywhere. In fact, there is another branch on the opposite side of the piazza that I (almost) live on! So, opposite the one I first went to.

First I had to get into the bank. All banks here have a series of doors to get it. This is to prevent robberies by a mass of people I suppose. You have to enter something similar to an airlock! The door behind you has to close fully before the one in front of you will open. Funnier still is the ‘no guns’ signs that I have seen in banks – but, then, this isn’t the UK, I guess.

So I get inside the bank after repeatedly pressing the ‘man’ sign to find that, in fact, you had to press the small green button (that I mistook for a green light). But I’m in! There is hardly anyone around – this being 11.30. A nice young lady comes forward eventually. I explain in my terrible Italian, that I want to change some coins.

Apparently this is not possible. Why? Because, at 11.30 a.m. on a Monday morning, there are no bank tellers. Apparently, she explains, they will be here this afternoon – from a quarter to three to a quarter past four!

You have to remember, banks here do not work like they do in the UK. In the UK (more or less), the account holder is the customer. Here, you have to be grateful for a bank at all – and you should treat them as the customer. Certainly the opening hours are, more or less, from about 8.30 or 9 in the morning until about 1.30 p.m. and then for another hour or so in the afternoon!

I asked if I should try the Banca Intesa branch opposite. She said that sure, I could try – but she looked doubtful.

Of course, I am, somewhat determined (some may say pig-headed) and so off I go, across the piazza, to the other, grander and newly refurbished, Banca Intesa. At least, here, I thought, they will have cashiers.

And, true enough, they did! Two of them. Both occupied with clients at the moment. I see, like the post office and other places, there is a queuing system, done by printed ticket. I look around for a machine, expecting something like ones you see in the post office! I don’t see anything. There’s only me anyhow, so maybe it won’t be necessary, I think. But, to be on the safe side, I keep looking. I see a thing that looks more like an information box or cash dispenser. I go over, on the off chance, as, anyway, this is the only thing that looks remotely like a machine to print a ticket.

Sure enough. This is the ticket dispenser! I am, at once, both relieved (to have found it) and slightly peeved (at how stupid I am not to have seen it before). I get a ticket.

It seems I wait ages. However, it is air-conditioned AND they are playing some light pop music (although I forget which song – although I could sing along with the chorus, so it was a song sung in English). It’s not an unpleasant wait.

Eventually I get to go to a counter.

Unusually, this is not a stand-up counter but one where you sit down. However, this IS a cashier – my Italian is good enough to know that.

I don’t sit down. I ask the guy if I can change the money here. He asks if I have an account. I don’t and, in my best English, which, to be honest, is a life-saver more often then it isn’t, ask him what I should do, ignoring the fact that I’m not an account holder.

He explains that I need to put the money in these special containers. OK, I say. No problem. He gets out two. This will hold about €10 worth, if that. I explain I will need a lot more than that. He goes to chat to a colleague who is hidden behind an opaque glass screen.

He returns.

Apparently they can’t change it for me because I’m not a customer of theirs. I protest – but you’re a bank, I say. Apparently that makes not one iota of difference. I protest some more. He is Italian. We have the blank face and usual shrug of the shoulders. It’s not that they can’t, it’s that they won’t. In other circumstances, I would have been more persistent but, maybe, I am succumbing to the Italian disease of giving up when faced with a ‘can’t/won’t do it’ shrug. Or maybe it’s because I really couldn’t be bothered and had better things to do.

I told F. He said he would do it the next day. But, being me, I hadn’t quite given up.

Just after a quarter to four, I went to the bank across the road. The same bank I had been to in the morning where they had no cashiers.

There was one guy being served – and one cashier open. I waited. For some reason I felt more hopeful about this, in spite of the fact that it was the same bank, just a different branch. This branch was not sparkly new. It didn’t have music playing. It was air conditioned – but then, of course it would be.

It was my turn. I explained what I wanted. He started to open my carefully prepared packages – he saw my face. He explained that they had a machine. We could just put all the coins together. He and I spent the next ten minutes undoing my 3 hour work and mixing it all back up. He put it all in a plastic bag.

He asked if I knew how much it was. I got out my piece of paper. ‘No, don’t show me’, he said. And walked off with the money. I laughed. This would be a test of both my counting and the machine.

I could hear the coins being tipped into something. After a few minutes he returned. He wrote down the number and showed it to me. I showed him mine. They matched. We both laughed.

He gave me the money. F said I should have asked him why the other bank could not do it and yet they could. I explained that I didn’t know enough Italian. But, to be honest I didn’t care. OK, so I wasn’t so persistent with the other branch – but I did get it done in the end – and that’s the important bit, really.

The other branch just had lazy, good-for-nothing people!

They have two dogs.

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The differences between us and the Italians are many. I think we Brits like the idea of Italy so much because of these differences. They are little things; in themselves, of no importance but adding them together, there is a whole world waiting to be discovered or ready to trip up the unsuspecting ex-pat from the UK (and, probably, other places too).

Take one as an example. We have lunch – in the garden, in the gazebo, under the trees which are ten times the height of the small ‘holiday home’ but which help to lower the temperature to a very comfortable level. We spend nearly all the time in the garden. The dogs enjoy it and we enjoy it. We sit and chat (or, rather, they sit and chat – I sit and listen…mostly) or play cards or eat.

Lunch was what one would expect. Simple but beautiful food – slices of tomato with a slice of mozzarella on each, drizzled with good olive oil and sprinkled with parsley; slices of prosciutto and coppa; good bread and foccacia; lettuce leaves coated with the same olive oil – and my favourite – celery and parmigiana with some seasoning (I must find out what). All served with wine or beer and water, of course – siamo in Italia.

It wasn’t the meal that was different. Hell, in the UK we have similar, if not quite so good and fresh. No it was afterwards. And this bit I have never known happen in the UK – we got in the car to drive to a café for coffee! And, of course, not like you do it in the UK – it wasn’t a big thing in itself – we stood at the bar and drank it within a few minutes. The big thing was that it was run by the daughter of someone that F had gone to college with. But I’m not sure that’s the reason we went!

But we would never have gone out for coffee in the UK. It is strange but nice but always reminds me that I remain a stranger in a strange land.

Of course, no one knows that F is gay. Well, apart from his brother and sister-in-law. Oh and his sister (and, I presume, brother-in-law and nieces). But his parents ‘don’t know’, apparently.

So during the birthday lunch, his sister-in-law was talking to his sister. They were comparing animals.

“We’ve got two dogs and one cat and you have four cats”, she says, before adding “and they’ve got two dogs”.

F turns to me, excitedly, and says “You see, she said “they’ve got 2 dogs”” – meaning that everything was alright and everyone knows anyway, even his parents – which, of course, they do and on which I had very little doubt! And, also for him, the fact that he is included in the ‘ownership’ of the dogs is important. Which is fine by me!

Finally, we shall be going!

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Half-written posts about the UK – I will get round to posting something – maybe next week.

Anyway, it was great!

And, we talked about going to the home-town here. And now, this weekend, we are. Finally!

I am so excited about it. Also, I think, it is to sort out the problem with the shared flat and, maybe, means that we shall come to the flat for a few days before heading off to Umbria in a couple of weeks – another thing I’m looking forward to.

Normally, at this time of year, as I see the people packing up and leaving for their summer break, I don’t really think about it much except, perhaps, I’m looking forward to the beautifully quiet Milan. This time I’m thinking that we shall be doing the same and I am really looking forward to it. Even the driving is not a worry this year.

With Dino always having travel problems, we are going to cover the back of the car with a sheet and then he can drool and be sick all he likes.

To mitigate the problem there’ll be no food after tonight and we’ll see how it goes. It’s about a 2 to 3 hour drive and we’ll stop, at least once, on the way. Dino is fine when he does it often enough, it’s just the first time. In theory, the way back should be easier.

But this weekend, we shall be staying with Johnny Depp; meeting with the sister and the parents and, hopefully, meeting the best friend with whom I’ve spoken on Facebook. There will also be time at the beach and I will see how that goes – maybe it will be fine, being with F and all.

Still, it doesn’t really matter. I am just so excited to be going.

Too fast? Too slow, more like

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“It’s all too fast”, he states.

“Not for me, it isn’t”, I reply.

“At our age you have to take things more slowly”.

“Really? Why?”

And I mean it. Really? Why? Why does one have to take it slowly? Surely, one should take it slowly when you’re very young – when there really IS enough time. Now, we should be rushing and going as fast as possible.

He suggests it is because of experience but concedes that that’s not in my experience – so outside my knowledge. Later, I think that I should have said that, more or less, when I was his age, I started a relationship with the guy I just spent over 20 years with – and, if I had my life over again, I would do exactly the same.

“But it’s been over nine months”, I attempt to justify to him. He has this habit of not looking at me. Of moving his head in such a way as to appear blind – like blind people do – looking into the air and moving their head from left to right – see Stevie Wonder, for example.

He doesn’t look at me when he says, “C’mon Andrew, 9 months is very short”.

I won’t argue with him. He doesn’t understand. To be, possibly, meeting the family after 9 months together is not fast. It’s slightly more than snail’s pace.

But then, as I pointed out to him, no one in the UK at the age of 30+ (or, even 20+) would consider spending the two/three weeks of their holiday at their parent’s house. Christmas, probably. Easter, maybe. But your summer holiday? Going home and spending all that time with your parents? Are you crazy?

So we may look the same but, mentally, we’re very, very different.

Even in little things. We got to the bar and there were empty tables at the far end, outside. I sat with my back to a huge fan they had going. A sat opposite me. The fan turned and, at one point in its cycle, the air blew, quite strongly, on to my back and the the back of my neck.

“I can’t sit here”, he says. “The fan will mean that I will get a [stiff] neck”, he says, rubbing his hand over the back of his neck, the part not being affected by the wind from the fan. Still, he got the waiter to adjust it, all the same. I’ve only ever really seen that here. No one in the UK gets that bothered by a bit of air movement. How can we? It’s so windy so often!

And, talking of the UK, I’m wondering what to take F to see and what to avoid. Should I go to my parent’s house (just to look where it is, not for any other reason); or just stick to Worcester – walk round a bit – Hereford we can do after the wedding. I will go to my Grandfather’s grave – just for a few moments – he was/is still my hero.

But, I want him to see where I’ve ‘come from’, so to speak. I don’t know why. But it might be boring. I have to be careful. We shall, hopefully, meet up with the bride and groom the day before and some other friends just afterwards and then, I hope, providing she can do it, go and stay with Best Mate for a few days.

I would like to go and see V’s Dad – but probably won’t get the chance. I would like to see Corrine but, again, it might be a bit much for F.

Or, perhaps, we should just suck it and see?

Holidays and weekends away

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He says, in Italian, something like “Andy sends his regards” or “Andy says ‘hello’ or “Andy sends his best wishes” or “Andy sends his love”. They use one single phrase, more or less, whereas we have hundreds and each one has a slightly different meaning and depends, to some extent on the relationship you have with the person receiving these words.

I don’t know to whom he is speaking. Obviously someone that knows me.

After the call he tells someone who we are with that “I will be going to Tuscany, maybe next weekend”. In this way, he reminds me of V. Saying something with no real meaning.

Immediately before that comment he had told me that it was A, his sister-in-law and that she had sent her best wishes to me. She is sweet. I wonder what he has said to them about me?

Later he says that we can go down and stay with R&A – perhaps this weekend? I had got it right when I overheard them talking in the car on the way to the concert. I mean, I knew I had but I do like the confirmation. He says that we would go down on Saturday morning and come back Sunday night. I have my new car now.

He says that it is a bit difficult because next week he will still be busy but it will be easier than the last couple of weeks. I suggest that, maybe, we go down the weekend after we come back from the UK. He thinks that might be good because then it will be his Dad’s birthday (end of July).

He also tells me later that, during the first week of our holidays, after the dogs have been washed and brushed (for they have a booking on the Tuesday) we can go down to stay with R&A for a few days on our way to Umbria.

It’s all I can do to stop grinning. Not only had I fully understood but now I really get to go down to the home town. I am very happy about that. I get to meet some friends that I know but have never met; some friends that I know and have met. I get to see his home town, where he grew up. I get to see his brother and wife (although, of course, that’s full of other issues as I have already posted). We get to have a longer time together.

I think he has, somewhat ‘engineered’ the invite from his brother. It makes me smile. Bless him.

Some crap rambling

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They are squeezed in. I am reminded of the ‘packed in like sardines’ phrase – but that only makes sense if you’ve opened a tin full of sardines. But it is like that. I am sat down. The station is not really hot but not cool either. I can’t remember now. Was it only San Babila where they had the fans and the water spray every few seconds?

I hope that, in spite of the time of day, it is not rush hour for the ones going my way.

Previously, I had taken the tube. I noticed when a new crowd got on at one station that the smell ‘changed’ from a sort of plasticine to something else. I wonder if it the station or the people that made the smell change? I seemed to be more acutely aware of my surroundings- I don’t know why.

There was the young guy in the white shirt. Asian – like Indian or something. With the sideburns so short and thin running down besides his ear as if a line of dirt. The small goatee he had, seemingly false – attached at the lip only, very small and very black and standing proud of his chin – at least from side profile. The girl, short, not pretty but not ugly either, with the young guy. She carrying all the bags and with a propensity for hunching her back as if to presage the change, in 40 or 50 years, when she really would have the widow’s hunch; he not seeing to care that the bags were all with her, and not really responding when she put her arm around his hip, withdrawing it seconds later, perhaps because of his lack of response?

There was the woman, who, ducking under the arm of a guy holding on to the rail above his head, screwed up her face as she did this, and which face told me everything I needed to know about the guy’s personal hygiene or, rather, to be fair, the heat of Milan.. As she ducked and made the grimace, he moved because, actually, he was leaving the train too.

Outside, whilst I was waiting and watching the large digital display of temperature on the building at one side of the square; as the temperature clicked from 33° to, what looked like, 39° (which, in fact, seemed much more realistic) but which was 34°, there were the group of rather loud and, probably, slightly drunk men, sitting at the café (which is not really a true café but rather a kiosk with some high tables with matching high stools – all in red – since they were sponsored by a well known cola maker) talking loudly about something which I take to be football because different countries seem to be being compared, including England and Uruguay, etc. There was a woman who, at first I thought had just been passing and had stopped to look at them but on reflection must have been a part of the group; long, slightly curly (wavy, maybe? – no more than just wavy), brown hair, tied back with one of those half pony-tails that sit on the top of your head – there only to keep the fringe or the sides of the hair away from your eyes; of large build and, if I had been in the UK, lived, undoubtedly on one of the less salubrious council housing estates – but then, what do you expect from outside a main station in Milan.

As I’m stood there waiting, two municipal policemen come out from a ‘hidden’ door just beside me, the door just beside another kiosk that seemed perfectly closed to ensure the public can’t actually get any police help, one with a cycle and one without, the room was dark (one wonders if anything was ‘going on’ in there). I note that the policeman walking with the bike has, fixed to his hip, a large plastic-looking baton – with a handle that could come from a sword, all white making it look like some children’s plaything and if it would glow and make a noise, perhaps it could be a Star Wars weapon? The policeman with the bike walks off towards the traffic in front of me, the other guy walking towards the station – behind me but round me, me noticing his gun and wondering if they all have enough special training as to its use, saying his goodbyes or have-a-good-days or whatever.

Even in the shade, which is not real shade, it is hot. I really don’t believe the 34° but prefer my version of it – 39°. My shirt sticks to my back; I feel uncomfortable. I left the tie in the car. I notice and don’t notice things. A man with a child (I don’t even look round to see them) walk past, behind me. Did she speak English?, I wonder but vaguely not actually wondering because I’m not actually caring. I’m sure she said something like ‘There’s a tram?’. Did she add ‘Daddy’ or ‘papa’? I could continue to listen for signs but I don’t. It doesn’t matter if they are English or not; if they are tourists or not; if they even exist!

I see the café where we shall go, probably. I think I might suggest going inside where there will be air-conditioning. Or, perhaps the outside bit will have fans and water spray like they do in the Brera or Navigli areas. After all, this is a place where many tourists come – both Italians and esterni. I really want the beer that I have promised to myself. My body says ‘YEAH’ and ‘WHY WAIT’ and ‘GET ONE FROM THE CAFE THAT YOU’RE STANDING RIGHT NEXT TO’. I have a cigarette, instead because, if I’m honest, I’m frightened to go to the bar – I would have to push past the people that I don’t like who are still, probably, talking about football!

Is this what it’s like to get old? To be frightened to do things because of what may happen? Mind you, to be fair, I was always frightened thus. I’m not built like a ‘brick shit house’ as the phrase goes. I remember, when I was a kid, my Nan, for some reason, used to have those Marvel comics and they used to have the ads in for ‘7 stone weaklings’ which was me! And so, I thought, one day, I would get these things and transform myself into the guy who did not have sand kicked in his face – but I never did nor, now, would care to.

And, so, I don’t get a drink. But I do have a cigarette.

And then I wonder, as I usually do, if I will recognise her. I mean, I’ve only met her once and my memory is terrible. I watch someone walking away towards the park – but it’s not her, I know that much. I pretend not to look at anyone, just in case I don’t recognise her and I curse my memory for being so bad. But I sneak a peak, every now and then. Every now and then being every second, just in case.

I text her to say I am in the shade so she will know where to look because I’m not in quite the right place. I see someone waving and know, immediately it’s her. I needn’t have worried. But I shall do the same next time.

We air kiss as one does but not in the affected way that they do in the UK. Here it’s normal and natural. We go to the bar and she suggests inside, for which I am grateful. We go inside and she asks, in Italian for a table. As we sit down the waiter comes and talks to us in English. She responds in Italian. I think to myself that she is annoyed by the fact that they are talking in English to us – but I am British with a very British accent and she is Italian who speaks English almost like a native American/Canadian. Again, I am amazed at how her accent is not Italian. How every word she speaks does not end in a vowel as is more common here. I don’t know why but I’m also amazed that her accent is American/Canadian. It’s a little like black people speaking French, to me.

We order our drinks and I talk. She talks too but I am certain I over-talk. As I talk I keep telling myself to shut up. But then I forget and talk some more. I think I’ve forgotten everything we’ve talked of in the past. I am crap really. But the talk is easy and not strained and, after all, we know so much about each other and yet so little – like we’ve been friends for ages but not really known each other. And yet we know things that others do not, so it makes it confusing.

I talk some more and some more. We are not going to be that far away from each other for our holidays. Maybe we can meet? I want her to meet F for some reason. Maybe I want validation that what I have written here is true?

She has to catch a train and we walk back to the station. Then she tells me of her news and I am really pleased for her. So much so that I suddenly realise she might be missing the train. I hope she doesn’t.

I go back to the metro station and, as I pass the other entrance to the main station I look up at the departure board. Against her train (I suppose) are the flashing lights. I try to work out the platform to see if the train has gone or not. It seems not. I hope.

I go back down to the metro. And this is when I see the train packed like sardines in a tin. One end of one carriage is without light and I think to myself that the unbearable just got worse! Even worse than that is that it is one of the older trains with no air conditioning.

I reach my station in an air conditioned train. I see a text from A wanting me to go have ice-cream. The message came through when we were at the bar but I forgot about it till now. I say yes.

>As I come out from the station into the oven that is the outside and the street I wonder if my car will be there. I reprimand myself for being so stupid as to a) park in a blue zone without paying and b) parking too close to the car next to me – but I had no choice – the space between the two cars was so tight because of the way one had parked at an angle.

Everyone wants to save the square – save it for the trees – from the huge underground car park they (the council) want to build, here called a silo (probably see-loh rather than sigh-low). The trees are old. The square is quite nice although they could do a better job with the dog-walking areas in the centre but I’ve mentioned that before. At least I will probably have a fine. But what do I care – after all it’s not my car and, hopefully, it will be given back in a few days and then it’s not my problem. But I shouldn’t have parked there, really. Or, rather, not like that.

But it’s OK. The car is hot but not as hot as when I got in it at work. Then it said 45.5° and it felt like it. I drive back home and wonder how I introduce her to F? Maybe I just don’t really do the full introduction? Ah well, let’s see what happens. We only have a week which won’t be long.

I look forward to seeing F later, little knowing what had already happened……probably. I mean, what had probably happened by the time I was driving.

I’m not sure this is right!

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When I met V he used this lightening cream. It’s not that he was ‘black’ black but rather red-based black, meaning he was a lot lighter than a lot of other black people.

I learnt many things about what it is to be black. The creaming every day to stop one’s body from having dry skin, which on most white people is just a bit irritating and, well, white, whereas on black people is, well, white and, therefore, just a tad more noticeable; the attention paid to the hair – using oils and stuff to make it softer, without which it resembles wire wool both to look at and touch.

But, in addition to all the other ‘stuff’ that V used, he used the lightening cream, not wanting to be white, just not wanting to be too black.

Really, of course, it is a type of bleach. I was quite worried about it. I mean, it wasn’t as if I had any problem with his shade of black for that was not what I was looking at. Black people’s skin is beautiful and almost always smooth – but there is a price to pay – this whitening cream seemed a little too much of a price to pay. Bleach, even in small doses, I reasoned, could not possibly be good for the skin, for you, if applied every day.

And so, I applied my reasoning to him, wanting him to be happy but not to have problems later in his life, which is what I thought should happen. And if he applied it after shaving, it burnt him. Now that can’t be good, I thought.

And, so, he stopped using it after I had suggested it could not possibly be good for him and explaining why I thought this.

There is a product, currently on sale here, that is aimed at men. It seems to be advertised everywhere. It reminds me of the old wild west of America when coke and tomato sauce were invented and initially promised great things in terms of health before being seen as the confectionery they actually are and with no significant health-giving properties. I mean, coke cleans up dirty old coins – how good can it really be for your stomach! Although, as we all know, a coke and a bag of crisps (for the salt) are brilliant when, say, travelling in Egypt to avoid or cure the ‘holiday tummy’ problem one often finds.

But back to this product. It is a cream. This cream will, apparently, reduce your bulbous stomach – a way of slimming, simply by applying the cream every day.

F is not stupid but sometimes seems a little too hopeful. He does have a slight stomach, that, actually, I find very sexy. I don’t know why, it’s really not like me at all!

However, he promises me it only came on after last year’s summer holiday in his home town, when he ate and drank far too much. Mainly ate though as he stayed with his parents and, so he says, his Mum cooks – a LOT.

But now he wants to get rid of it. I say he should leave it – but to no avail.  He does the dieting bit from time to time but it is a little difficult for him. He likes his beer too much – and his food! So dieting is out really.

And now he’s found the cream. “But is it working?”, I ask. He replies that he doubts it but it doesn’t stop him putting it on each night, rubbing it over the stomach and, like the lottery, hoping that he is the one person that wins, against the odds.

Last night I got in to his flat. He is ‘fanning himself’ with his hands. It is hot – but as I mentioned in the last post, cooler now. But he is very hot and there’s a reason. the cream of this miracle product is burning!

“It can’t be good if it is burning”, I say, trying to be gentle about the fact that, if it were me, I would stop immediately.

“No, it’s OK”, he replies in the standard way that he does – at least to me.

“But”, I say, trying to be a little more forceful, “I am sure it’s not supposed to burn when you use it!”

“Don’t say that”, he replies, “else I shall be worried about it”.

I laugh but hope that he is right and gives it some thought. It cannot be right. The motto ‘No pain, no gain’ is right but surely not for something that you rub on your stomach?

He’s not the only man in Italy using it. I know of several other people that are trying this out. Hmmm. Still, it can’t be right, can it?