Category Archives: Italy

Overall thoughts on Italy and things we do

The story that cannot be shared

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I really don’t know how to explain this but I’m going to try.

Last night we went to a concert given by Ornella Vanone.  The problem is that, if you’re not Italian or lived here for a long time, you may not even know who she is.  Until a few weeks ago, I certainly didn’t.

She is, I understand, in her mid-seventies.  She has a good voice and sings love songs that, according to FfI are almost all about saying goodbye to a love and saying that she’ll wait for them to return.  All heart-rending stuff.

It was a good concert.  My first time at Blue Note which, as it is a jazz club, I had thought would be rather sleazy.  As it turned out it was rather nice.  Almost quite posh.

Ornella is Italian (from Milan, I think) and sings with a slightly husky voice.  A nice voice.  Not really anything that special but nice.  Of course, I don’t understand the words and, when she’s speaking, either because she’s old, or drunk (someone said she drinks a lot) or just because she’s playing to a Milan audience, her Italian is difficult to understand for me and she speaks very fast.  OK so I get some of it but not really enough.

F keeps asking if I understand.  I don’t want him to translate everything, not least because it will get so annoying for him.

But, with some songs, he goes really quiet, whilst on the other side of me, FfI is wiping away tears.  And this is the bit I want to try and explain.

Even if I could understand her words, her songs to their fullest, I’m not sure I would be so moved by them.  There’s a history that I cannot share.  Cannot even hope to share.  There’s a story behind all these songs, a story that’s different for everyone.  But, of course, that’s normal.

What I’m trying to explain (badly) is that, whereas, if I was with people from the UK or, even the USA, there would be a common, shared history to the singer.  I mean, if I was in the UK, and with someone from the UK and we were to watch someone like, say, Shirley Bassey, then, even if she’s not my favourite singer, we would all know something about her, about her history in the country, about some of her hits, about her love-life or private life or things like that.  It makes her a ‘real’ person and a person who can be ‘shared’ by you and those around you.

Whereas, here, I could not share it, could not be part of it.  I wanted to be part of it but, unless I were to read all about her, study her and her music, put each song into the setting of the time, I cannot be a part of this.  It is a history beyond my capability to perceive, to live, to have.

And to me this was striking and difficult to determine how I should feel about it.  On the one hand, it’s not important, of course.  On the other, it is a part of F that I cannot share.  I don’t mean the past, for, of course, the past is gone and neither of us can share our pasts with each other; only recount stories but never relive them.  No, this is also the future.  For the future or (in the case of the concert) the present, has a part of the past that is beyond either of us to share with each other.

We (F & I) are supposed to be going to see Joan Armatrading next year.  Being my favourite singer, it is important to me.  Her songs hold special meaning for me.  I know most of the words to the songs; can sing them with correct inflection, breathing, etc.  But, if we go, F, although with me, cannot be with me during certain songs.  Cannot be in my head or fully understand nor appreciate the meaning and the subtlety of each word.

It was a good concert.  Probably, if I had grown up knowing her, her songs, the history, I would have said ‘great’.  But I cannot say that.  I don’t know if it was great.  Was she always like this or was this substandard?  How the hell would I know?

What I do know is that it was good and that, being with F was all that really mattered.  As he held my hand or kissed me or lay (just for a moment) his head on my shoulder, it felt good and right and perfect.  And all I wanted to do was hug him whilst this (to my perception) slightly mad (and mad-looking) old lady, moved around the stage, drunkenly or unsteadily or maybe she’s always like this, singing songs about love or about the end of love, with a voice that reminded me of how, probably, Shirley Bassey is, now, in concert.

And, in my heart, so full of love for F, there was an ache for the ‘missing’ part; the part of me that is outside his experience and a part of him outside mine; a part that cannot be shared for, in a final way, we are, in fact, from a different culture, with a different history and in spite of anything that we may build together, a future of shared experiences, loves, hates, friends and enemies, there will always be this ‘missing’ history, the story that cannot be shared.

Just being together

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Sometimes, these things just don’t work out.

The rain was constant, from last night, about half past 10 until now.  Constant and persistent.  The dogs don’t really like it, hugging the walls of the buildings in order to stay out of it as much as possible.  This was about 10.30 last night.  It is much colder too although above freezing.

I took the dogs back and, as we had agreed earlier, made my way to the shop to collect the keys to his flat.  The plan being, that when he finished his work, he would come home, telephone me and I would let him in at the gate.  I looked forward to it.  Both being in his home (which is a little warmer than mine) and the idea of him coming later, me, probably asleep by then, but warm and someone that he could snuggle up to.

I was later than I had intended and not having had the couple of hours sleep I had intended either.  N had Skyped me to tell me off for not telling her about V and then L had asked about some court case, which I couldn’t remember anything about, so I rang V and we were on the phone for a bit.  And so I was late.  But, at least, I was going and we would be together, even if asleep, for some time; some time being better than no time.

To get to the shop, though, from my place is not straight forward.  There’s no easy way which doesn’t involve quite a bit of walking or waiting for connecting trams or metros.  The easiest involves a good walk from my place to the metro at Porta Venezia and then one stop down, walking from Palestro to the shop.  And, it being a miserable night, it was not so pleasant, that tempered by the fact that I would see him again and that I would be there when he got home.

I collect the keys.  He stops work for a cigarette with me.  I am happy to see him and happier that I will be in his flat when he gets home.

I walk back to Palestro station and catch the metro up to his place.  I let myself in.  He had left the heating on and the place is warm and lovely.  I do all the things as if he was there.  I make myself coffee, sit and do some Facebook and Farmville stuff and then go to bed.  But, by now it’s gone midnight.  Not quite as early as I had planned.

And I can’t sleep.  Not because I’m uncomfortable but merely in anticipation of his arrival.  As I’ve said before, I really hate the fact that I have to sleep at all, missing precious moments with him.  At one point I look at the clock on my phone which says it is nearly one.  Damn.

______________________________________________________________________________

The alarm goes off.  I realise that he isn’t home.  I feel gutted for him as he looked tired when I saw him but now he has had no sleep.  I get up and start putting my clothes on.  He calls.  He is sorry for me that, in the end, I had to spend the night alone. We are sorry for each other.

I need to get his keys back to him.  I think how much better it would have been for me to have stayed at my home.  But, if he had have come back during the night, it would have been so worth it.

I clean the place up and try to make it as if I have never been there.  Well, I try, anyway.

I go home.  Walking the familiar streets, still everything wet and more wet being laid on the first lot of wet.  I get home.  I take out the dogs.  I sit and have coffee for a few minutes and then shower.  I had hoped to have left before 7.  As it is, it’s a quarter past – the time I should be leaving for work.  I briefly think about taking the car – but I don’t know the one-way system there so well and, then, I would have to find somewhere to park.

I take the metro.  This is going to take more than half an hour which means I shall be at least half an hour late for work.  Plus, I am tired.  It is still raining.

The workmen have arrived to remove the scaffolding and to put up the tree.  F tells me that he still has some things to do once the workmen have gone.  After that he will go home and bed.  I wish I could be there when he gets home, even if he is so tired he would just be going to sleep.  At least he would be going to sleep in my arms!

And, even if he has been up all night, he looks so good and I look at him and love him more.  I give him the keys and we kiss on the cheeks, the closest we can do to the real thing.  Ah, well, there’s always tonight, after the concert.

I tell him that it all looks beautiful.  I mean him, of course, too but can’t say that; I don’t know who speaks English there, it not really being a secret language here.

I leave, saying I would only ring/text him if he rings/texts me, as then I will know he’s awake.  He says that, if he hasn’t called me or texted by 6, I should ring him to wake him anyway.

I leave for the metro and the car, parked back near home.  I am late for work.  Or, rather, later than I would like to be.  And tired.  I have the concert to look forward to tonight but, even better than that, is being with F and then spending tonight together and waking up tomorrow and having breakfast, maybe and just being together!

Test Results

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Just as a quick update.  I did the test.  Of course, it was an experimental test, apparently but I guess it gives the right result.  In any event, everything was good, as I expected it to be, since, although everyone says you should not trust your partner, for most of the 20 years V & I were together, I could.  And I knew I could.  And, to me, trust is the most important thing.

So, everything is as it should be.  And thanks to Lola (who has now disappeared….again), it was simple and easy and should be made a regular thing.  I hope it is.  In some ways, Italy is very, very good……and this is one of them.

Italy….a little frustrating….part 2

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I go back to the shop.  I am later than I would like and have difficulty parking.

The girl who sold me the deal is there (and she speaks good English).  I join the queue of about 5 people.  Not many except that there are only two assistants and each person takes at least 10 minutes.  We smile at each other in recognition.  It’s a weak smile from both of us.  She, probably because it’s been a long day (it’s already gone 6.30) and me because I am here again.

I notice a guy in the queue in front of me.  He was here on Friday too.  He had bought one of those mobile things for the pc.  Only it didn’t work properly since he tried to change from pay-as-you-go to a contract.  It seemed as if ‘the system’ couldn’t cope.  He was as unsuccessful as I was on Friday and was back to try again.  I nearly suggested we go for a drink!

Eventually I get to the girl.  She smiled and said she knew I would be here.  She went through the same things the girl on Friday had …….. and, in fact, from my perspective, it seemed that the girl on Friday just didn’t wait long enough.  On the same screen the girl had given up on, the system seemed to hang………..and hang…………….and hang………….but this girl knew the system better and we waited.  In fact, she served other customers whilst we were waiting.  But eventually it all came good and I am the proud owner of a new Blackberry!  Now, all I have to do is to set it up!!!!

But, in the end, I was in the shop for about an hour and a half!!!!  I kept thinking that, only here, would everything take so bloody long and require more than one visit.

However, it’s done now.  Her final words were that if I had any problem to come back but she hoped not to see me!  Bless!

Sometimes, I find Italy a little frustrating.

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Of course, I should have known better, really.  There are the three rules:-

1.  Siamo in Italia
2.  Customer Service.  Sorry, what was that again?
3.  Siamo in Italia ancora.

My phone was ‘broken’.  I really believe that they set a ‘useful’ life, at which point, the phone stops working, making it imperative that you buy a new one.  The reason for this?  I had a phone. Nearly 4 years old.  Suddenly, it stops making any sound or giving any screen display to show that a new message has been received or a call missed.

It’s just my phone, I thought.  Someone with the same model lent me theirs as they have no use for it any more.  It does the same.  And yet, if the sim is put into a newer model, it works fine.  Hmmm.

So, the choice was to go and get a new phone or change provider.  Since transferring to a new provider gives you a much better rate and a cheaper phone (special deals for new customers), it seemed the wisest thing to change provider.

First there was Wind (part of Infostrada).  I didn’t want it to go on my credit card (you don’t have the consumer protection thing here like you do in the UK – if a mistake is made you have to prove that it’s not your mistake an, in the meantime, the money is taken from your bank anyway), so asked to set up the equivalent of a Direct Debit.  We spent a few hours in the shop, taking copies of my passport, noting my Codice Fiscale (similar to a National Insurance number and absolutely necessary here if you want to do almost anything), etc.  Then came the fun part of typing it into the computer.  After a number of tries they said I must have either the actual card for the Codice Fiscale or the Health Card, neither of which I have.  So that was that.

Then I tried TIM.  TIM were great.  The situation would be sorted in about 2 weeks and when the number stopped working with 3 I was to go back to the shop, pay a small amount and get my new Blackberry.

After two weeks had passed I went to the shop.  Apparently there was no problem but it would be another week.

Another 2 weeks passed.  This morning I found that my 3 (spit spit) sim didn’t work anymore.  Great, in that the transfer was made.  Bad in that the new sim from TIM didn’t work in my (crap anyway) 3 phone as it is locked to 3.  Never mind.  This would all be fixed this evening when I went to the TIM shop and got my brand, spanking-new Blackberry.

Luckily, I borrowed an old phone to try out my sim – it’s working fine – but it’s not my phone.

As I sit here now at the computer I look at the phone a colleague lent me, very grateful that he did.  I drove from work, rushed straight to the TIM shop.  They were very helpful.  They found the Blackberry and proceeded to fill in forms; enter stuff on the computer and, as is normal here, generally take half an hour to do something that should, in reality, take about 10 minutes.

However, the problem, it seems, is that although TIM have moved the number, it takes 24 hours for the contract to appear on the computer system.  And the other problem is that the ‘special offer’ that applies to my contract has ended.  The brand-spanking-new Blackberry is sitting in the box but I’m not allowed to have it.

‘Can you come back tomorrow?’ she asks.

There was no solution – and, trust me, I tried everything I possibly could.

Tomorrow, I must go again.  That, plus get my suit altered, take the test, do Nan’s Trifle to take with us tomorrow night to R&Al’s, etc. etc.

Sometimes, I find Italy a little frustrating.

Misunderstanding or Shit-Stirring, that is the question.

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It has been simmering for ages now.  Finally, this morning, I had an email from a friend (we’ll say, F1) which was slightly strange.  Basically, it asked if it was OK to tell this friend of mine (we’ll say F2) to go f%&k themselves.  I’m not really sure why I was asked but I said that F1 should do as they wished.

Within an hour or so F2 was in chat with me and said that they had spoken to F1 who asked about whether F2 had read my blog.  F2 asked why and what did it say.  I said it said nothing that I could remember (which is true since I forget a lot of what I have written).  F2 asked if I had mentioned F and I explained that I had almost every day (which Best Mate has also pointed out) for the last month and a half or so.  F2 then asked if I had ever mentioned them.  To which I replied yes and that I had talked about restaurants, eating at F2’s place, etc. etc.

Then, via Facebook, I get an email from F3.  F3 wanted to explain that they were not a miserable secretive person, in spite of what F2 may have said.  And that they had not invited F2 (nor anyone else) to their new flat because they were treating it as a haven from everyone and no one was being invited.  I replied that F3 should not worry about what F2 said and that I liked F3 (and F2) as they were.

And, so, I put up a new page on the left …… About this blog……

I have always said that I write this blog for me.  It does get very personal but, unless you actually know the people in real life (and only a handful do know each other) you could never say who individuals are much less have enough details to know them well or be able to pick out who they are from the snippets I write.

But, this sudden panicking by F1, F2 and F3 to tell me stuff or ask me stuff is slightly worrying.  I mean why?  And why now?

Of course, there is a single thing linking them.  F2!  I’m wondering if it’s some kind of shit-stirring.  I hope not as these things nearly always back-fire and would, certainly, in this case, if it continues.  Alternatively, it could be all a misunderstanding on mine or someone else’s part.

Making an effort too, even if it’s really no effort.

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OK, so, if there’s one thing that we are completely different about, it’s food.  So far, it’s not been that big of a problem.  Although he will eat everything, more or less, if he’s confronted with not much of a choice.  He even had red wine on Saturday night.  I think it was his way to say ‘thank you’ for picking him up from the airport – not that it was necessary of course.  In fact, he’s always considering me with regards to the restaurants chosen.  He’s always looking for a restaurant that serves meat, even if I keep pointing out that it’s not that important.  It’s his way, I think.  Of course, this only becomes clear to me in the morning (like now) and not at the time.

Yeah, my head works better in the morning.

Also, he got milk for me at his home, so that when we had coffee, I could have some milk.  And, the fact that he comes to my house even if it means waking up so much earlier……..and he’s not good in the mornings………he’s like porcelain, you may remember?  I have a spare key so that he could leave later but he wouldn’t take it.  Perhaps tonight I can persuade him to take it?

And I do things too that I wouldn’t normally do.

Last night we slept in our own, respective flats.  For reasons of this morning (I have clients for two days and, so, probably won’t be posting much).  And I left his place later than I had intended last night.  He wanted me to stay.  I wanted to stay.  He wanted to be at my place.  I wanted him at my place.  But this is the problem when you don’t live together.  There’s time (and, yet, no time).  I was strong, even if I really did want to stay so much.  There was no way I wanted to be late to work today and I had to wear a suit and stuff.

Sunday was brunch with FfI and friends at Indiana Post, in the Navigli.  It was nice and got us out of the house.  He is good in these situations but has explained to me that it is a ‘show’ where he is an actor.  And I get it.  He seems even better than V at this stuff.

And I asked him more about his job on Saturday night.  I had been getting the impression that he was more than he let on.  And I was right.  And he takes it seriously and that is good.  And, on many things we think alike, including work, even his is a field I don’t really understand.  But, even if it is a different field, it is all the same.  There are customers and there are the producers and the same shit happens.

And, he told me again he was worried with so much stuff to do, so many things going on in his head.  And I said, again, I would help with anything I can, even if it is a little the same for me (well, certainly for work).

And tonight we go out with some friends who are from the place he lived as a kid.  Then he comes to mine.  Again, not a huge thing but enough to say that he is making an effort too even if, if he’s like me, it’s really no effort..

Tuscan and Chinese eating

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What I didn’t mention was the restaurants over the first couple of nights this week.  And I should.  And so:

Monday night we tried to go the Mexican but it was closed.  So I told them there was the new Milanese restaurant in the parallel street that did great food (even if the service could have been better).  Unfortunately, Monday is obviously not a good day for restaurants as that was closed too.

However, next door was a smallish Tuscan restaurant.  FfI’s sort-of-boyfriend, O suggested we go there and I was quite up for it.

Trattoria della Zia (Aunt’s Trattoria) was fairly nondescript from the outside.  It looked like it had been there for a while.  We went in anyway.  Really we had a main course only (although we did share a portion of Crostini as an antipasto).  It was Fiorentina which, if it is good meat, is truly fabulous although, to be honest, the best one I had was in Florence about 12 years ago.

However, this one was, probably, the best one that I have had in Milan.  The meat was perfectly cooked and with very little sinew which, considering it is blue, is kind of important.  We had some potatoes (a kind of roast potato) and some grilled vegetables and some white beans.

Truly delicious.  Afterwards we had some Mirto and O suggested I try Chino Martini, which I did and had a couple of glasses of those.  Hence my post about the note to myself.

The night before last was with V and we ended up at the Chinese – Imperiale, on via Plinio….again.

Nice, as usual.  It had been some time since V had been there now that he lives across town.  And I only stuck to one Sambuca afterwards – essential for a clear head in the morning!

But, for me, so far, the Trattoria della Zia is the best Tuscan restaurant I’ve been to in Milan, certainly for the Fiorentina steak anyway.

Last night, we made a start

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There was, of course, the trip to Ikea and other ‘out of town’ stores for looking at furniture.  Mainly for his new flat but also a wardrobe for mine.

He had the car from work.  He wanted to be there for about 9.30 a.m.  We stayed at his place.  I woke at about 7.30 first but dozed until it got to about 8 or 8.30.  I would have preferred to sleep in and, in fact, he said at one point, that, perhaps, we should go tomorrow.  I replied that if we didn’t do it today we might miss tomorrow and then, next Saturday, he would still be in Germany and really we should get up.  Even if I didn’t want that.

We got up, had coffee and then went to do the dogs.  Once the dogs had been walked, he drove to the first store.

Now, I should remind you that he is not so tall, slightly built and so very sweet, never really getting angry.  Well, that’s not quite true but almost.  He does have very strong opinions about certain things.  Take the Chinese family living next door to him.  He has threatened to kill them several times now.  Last night, with the children screaming and crying and much shouting going on, he finally snapped and went to get a shoe to bang on the wall.  It had the desired effect.

However, generally he is sweet and without real anger.  Until Saturday morning, however.

I have driven with Italians before.  Italians drive in a particular way.  Cutting each other up; Signalling left when they subsequently go right; Stopping suddenly to ‘park’ (we would say double park); Pulling out from a side road in front of you, etc.  It means you really have to pay attention to the traffic and expect the unexpected.  I do use my horn more often than I would in the UK but that’s because it is really one of the only ways you will survive here.

However, generally, I don’t swear and shout at other drivers.  Why would I? What’s the point?  It’s not like they can hear you and it’s not like it would change their driving habits either.  So I remain quite calm.

Other Italians, when I’m in the car, do tend to be more demonstrative when they are driving, both verbally and physically.  However, Saturday was a little different.  F became a different person from the one I knew.  It didn’t scare me or anything like that and he is quite a good driver but, in the half hour or so it took us to get to the first store, I probably heard all the Italian swearwords (and, in fact, a few more that I didn’t know before) and more than once.

As I pointed out to him, it’s a bloody good thing that our first ‘date’ wasn’t him driving me somewhere otherwise I would have thought him a very aggressive and uncontrollable animal.

As it was, because I know that he is only like this when behind the wheel, I found it somewhat amusing.  What amuses me further is that he is a little like this even when I’m driving!  However, not nearly as bad.

Saturday night we were meeting my friend G and going to the Brasserie Bruxelles on Viale Abruzzi.  A & F2 were coming too.

They have a rather excellent selection of beers.  Once again, F proved to be so good, chatting to A & F2 whilst G & I were able to catch up.  G saying that F didn’t really seem like an Italian – a little more Anglicised – and not only because he drank beer like any good Englishman.  G had phoned me to say he had arrived at the station and I told him what bus to get.  The F phoned to say that he was at the station (the car was being taken by another colleague) and could pick G up.  Of course, neither of them had each other’s number so there were a couple of phone calls with me in the middle.  However, F found G, even if they had never met before and then they got to the bar by car

Then we went for a pizza at Al Basilico, just a block down from the bar.

A & F2 were then going home but G wanted us (F & I) to meet R, the new girl in his life and so we went to this bar/restaurant/club place called Shanghai.

G is going back to the UK.  He hates the mentality of the Italians and the fact that it is so difficult to get things done here – every step halted by a wall that always seems impenetrable.  He hates the fact that the Italians are too busy (well, maybe this is particular to the Milanese) looking the part without the substance (which is also how F feels, certainly about Milan).  He’s been here for 10 years.  I explained that, being here for so long, there’s no way that he can go back and live in the UK.  For all that Italy and the Italians may drive you crazy, there are things that will happen in the UK where he will suddenly think how much he misses Italy (and the Italians).

But back to Shanghai.  I hate and loath these places with passion.  A huge hanger-like place.  Far too full of people; all busy being the best there.  We were going for a drink (but really to meet R).  She was very sweet and very, very pretty.  But neither F nor I were really happy about being in that place.  I mean, it’s a place for people that neither of us really like and exactly one of the reasons why G was going back to the UK ….. but he was there only for R, of course!

If I never get to go back to Shanghai again, it will be too soon.

We go home.  His home.  He wants to spend the night at his place because he has to get ready for his trip and because he wants to have Sunday breakfast at the café.  So, maybe, it’s his ‘thing’ too, after all?

We get up late(ish) and go to have breakfast which, as you know, I love doing.

I go and do the dogs, some washing, etc.  He gets ready for the trip.

I get back later and he does dinner.  I have brought wine and moved the car to nearby his place.

We don’t have dinner immediately.  When I arrive, he is getting ready for a bath, having spent some time doing his ‘beauty’ treatment stuff.  He is in his white underpants.  He is incredibly sexy.  I wonder, at one point, why I think he’s incredibly sexy and why does he turn me on so.  I don’t know.  There are things about him, his body, that, ordinarily, I would not find a turn-on and yet, here he is and every single part of him is so sexy.  Even his feet, which I think are beautiful!  I find myself looking at him and wanting him – all the time.  I sit and chat to him as he has a bath, concentrating on the chat to hide the fact that I just want to look at him.

After dinner he does his Farmville thing.  He sits on the chair with his legs crossed under him, without socks.  I sit next to him and stroke his feet.  I have never had any sort of foot fetish but, with him, I think I could!

I go home later to walk the dogs and come back just after 9.  We go to bed early as we are getting up at 5.30 – I’m taking them to the airport.

Neither of us can sleep.  Not because we aren’t tired.  We talk a little.  I tell him that I get paranoid when I’m not with him (about the lack of things in common) and I worry about that because this will be the longest time we’ve been apart.  I tell him that I know it is stupid and he agrees and says there is so much we can learn from each other.  And I know that is true, still, I think he’s starting to understand me and he is more affectionate than normal.  He tells me of the things going on in his head – the reasons he can’t sleep – work, the new flat, the lack of time to do everything.  I tell him not to worry and that everything will be OK and I will help him if he asks and that, at the very worst, he can stay at mine if everything is not ready.  He knows that and says so and says thanks and means it.  And we talk a little more about his actual work and why this trip is important both for him and the company.  And I have a better understanding of why he is where he is within the company.  He had said over the weekend that he will be introducing me to the big boss as his new boyfriend – and I think that he is proud to do so.  And that makes me happy.

He is having the test soon and is worried about that.  I ask him if he wants me to have the test too.  He doesn’t really say but I know that he does.  I tell him that I will do it.  I know it will make him happy.  He asks when I last had the test and I tell him that it was about 22 years ago.  He is shocked but I explain that there was no need.  I was only with V.  He asks if I wasn’t worried that V was with someone else and I said that no, I wasn’t.  And that was true.  at least it was true for the most of it.  Still, I know it will make him happy and he says it would make a big difference (and you can work that out for yourselves).

The Chinese people next door don’t help.

This morning, he says we’ll just have 5 minutes of cuddling before getting up.  Then another five minutes.  Then we get up.

He says he is so appreciative of me taking him to the airport.  I explain that it means extra time with him.  He doesn’t seem to get it – every second with him is like some sort of bonus.  He has said that I should not come and pick him up but agrees to it as I leave them at the airport.

And so, I shall pick him up on Saturday and be glad to do so.

And, in the space of the weekend, he has become even more demonstrably affectionate, as if he is understanding that I am true.  And, even if there is so much more to discuss, at least, last night, we have made a start.

I mentioned the blog

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It seems that S (F’s ex) wants to meet me.  I joked and said that he wanted to check me out, making sure I was ‘suitable’.  F said that he had only introduced one other guy to S and that was the someone that lasted 6 months.  So I guess F is trying to tell me something.

I mentioned that I had written, before I met him, that, for some reason, the meeting with F seemed more important than the rest [of the meetings] but that I had no idea why [it seemed more nor why I wrote that].  I mentioned the ‘blog’.  That is – this blog.

There was a look on his face that I couldn’t quite discern.  I was ready for the questioning, ready for some surprise or some interest or something.  There was nothing.  It is entirely possible, since this is Italy, that he has no real idea of what I was talking about.

I am sure it will come up again later.

Last night was an English night.  I explained to him, prior to going out that I would be speaking English all night; that I must speak English all night.  I said I would explain later.  I did.

We went to the Imperiale in Via Plinio.  N suggested it and as A wanted to go out too I suggested that he come, which he did.  Great night.  F was, as usual, in great form.  Whilst F & A were talking sometimes, N & I discussed various things.  I told her that I adore him.  Which I do.  Sometimes, when we’re out, I look at him and I am so pleased to be with him that I just want to hug him there and then.  Instead, as usual, I rest my arm on the back of his chair and stroke his back with my thumb; the touching of him being enough to satisfy my for that time, in that public place.  And although our backs were to the rest of the restaurant, I just didn’t care.  Even at one point where I realised this.

Actually, this is almost exactly how I felt when V & I were together and out.

Next week, he will be in Germany all week.  He leaves early on Monday morning.  I have offered to drive them to the airport, of course.  He comes back on Saturday either late afternoon or evening.

I know I will miss him already but, at least, I can try to catch up on my sleep!