Missed call or something else?

In the meantime …….

I get a call.

“Hi Andy. Did you call me? Only I’ve seen there was a missed call.”

This wasn’t all one short thing but I’ve distilled it to this because that was what, supposedly, it was about. I hadn’t called. I apologised for having “inadvertently” made a call, explaining that it must have been in my pocket.

But, none of that is true.

So I wonder why the call is being made?

I ask after him and Mum. It seems she is OK but I’ll learn more when Ay is over.

I think about it but don’t ask about V. Is that bad? I don’t want to appear nosey. Nor do I want it to seem like I’m gloating. As always, I worry about how others see what I do or say.

He doesn’t mention V. Which is also strange. I mean, why not? He’s there, isn’t he?

But he seems cheerful enough. Then I think that, perhaps, he expected me to call. But, surely not? My days of being concerned about V are over. I don’t take responsibility for him any more.

But it was a strange call to make.

I’ve double checked as I was writing this post and no, I didn’t make any call to his number since before February! So it does seem really strange.

Maybe V got him to phone just to see what I would say? Well I said nothing.

I’m glad that he and Mum are OK though. And it’s nice to hear his voice, even if he’s not my real dad.

Some things never change

This is a story about Barry and William.

Barry and William had been together for quite a few years and then split up after moving abroad. Barry found a new guy and moved in with him.

But Barry never forgot William and, after some time, they got back together again. They decided to give it a go again and had rented a flat and had almost got it completely furnished to move into. The flat was looking great and it seemed as if, this time, it was going to be perfect. They had decided to go to an event in London. Barry bought plane tickets and booked the hotel and so on. They were going to leave on Monday.

*The thing is, I know something Barry doesn’t know! I am watching this, as if from the ceiling.*

So, it’s the weekend and Barry discovers, the night before the flight that William has decided to go back to the UK to live.

*This is the thing I already knew*

“But, you always knew I wanted to go back,” William said.
“Yes, I knew that you wanted to but why do all this – get this flat, furnish it, pretend that everything was OK when, obviously, nothing is as it seems?” complained Barry.
“Because I didn’t want to hurt you,” exclaimed William.

“So, when do you intend to go?” asked Barry.
“My flight is tomorrow morning.”
“What the fuck? But our flight to London is tomorrow afternoon. Why didn’t you tell me?” Barry is angry. William starts crying.
“You let me book everything and in the meantime you’ve made other plans and I’ve just wasted all this fucking money and all this ….. this pretence of being together is just that ….. pretence!”

And, of course, worse than that, William is just walking away, leaving him with all the shit to clear up which will be difficult, a pain in the arse and expensive. Barry wonders what he’s done to deserve this. This is not the first time William has left him to pick up the pieces but this time it’s going to be so difficult.

Barry’s life has just gone down the pan. Cut to the other flat with the other guy. They are in the flat they had together.

“… and now we might lose this flat,” Barry is continuing his conversation, “and we’ll have nowhere to live.”
“But I’ve already given notice on this flat,” says the guy.
And looking around, Barry can see that the flat is empty and everything is already too late.

And he is filled with a sense of panic as he, once again, has to start from nothing. The panic rises. His heart is thumping.

I wake up.
That was about the third nightmare last night. Of course, the people weren’t the people as I have named and, in any case, the situation would/could/shall never happen (again).

But, just for a moment, it seemed real enough.

A night at the opera – Aida.

The last two posts were about Friday.

It was a rather “full” day in terms of emotions.

But, I had J staying and, on Sunday, as her birthday/Christmas present we had tickets for the opera. She had told me, on her last visit, that, as a teenager, she had got a scholarship for singing at the Royal School of Music in London but that her parents thought it would be waste of time and, instead, had forced her to go to secretarial college. She had wanted to sing opera.

I had bought three tickets. It was going to be her, me and, of course, F. But the gods did not smile on us and, very unfortunately, F couldn’t be there. I decided to offer the spare ticket to FfC, who has been going through a rather rough time of it, as of late.

This was at La Scala, Milan. I’d been once before, having bought V to the ballet. We’d had seats in one of the boxes. He had the seat in the front and I right behind. But, should you be getting tickets, don’t ever get a box unless you’re right at the front. From the second row, you only get (in my case) a view of half the stage. For a concert or, even, I suppose, an opera, it’s not so bad. But, for a ballet, it’s truly disastrous.

Anyway, to be safe, this time I had bought tickets in the stalls, just about half way back from the stage.

F had said that you didn’t need to dress up. But, that didn’t stop some people. Next time I’ll know – dress up as much as you like! We were smart but you could have gone all the way.

We arrived about 4.30 and met up with FfC. We went in and I bought two programmes – one for J and one for FfC.

Just after we sat down, it started.

And then, just as you start enjoying the singing and the spectacle, someone coughs. And then again. They’ve got that awful, irritating cough. The one that won’t stop. I half expect the singers on stage to stop and wait for the person to finish coughing. The coughing stops. And then starts again. Obviously, this person has a problem. Every few seconds, the cough comes. I try to ignore it and I may have been able to but for one important thing. The coughing is from the person next to me. And the person next to me is FfC!

I feel two things. The first is that I feel so sorry for her. She’s been looking forward to this and it’s a really nice treat when she’s going through such shit – to be ruined by coughing. Of course, once you start, knowing that you shouldn’t, you cannot stop! And she can’t. I offer her a gum. She drinks some cough medicine. But it is being persistent. She just can’t shake it off. The other thing I think is that I’ve paid €300 for her ticket and, although she feels terrible, I don’t want her to leave!

Eventually, she decides she will have to leave the auditorium. She is told she “won’t be let back in” – but I can’t believe that!

Meanwhile, the opera continues.

It is glorious. It is spectacular. A translation of the songs, in English, is available from a little screen attached the the back of the seat in front of you. The set was minimalist but, to me, just perfect. I didn’t know the opera work but I had read a synopsis and it was a typical “tragedy”, of course.

FfC didn’t come back in.

At the interval, I went out for a cigarette, leaving J in her seat.

FfC texted me. She was in the lobby and, obviously, she could come back in for the second half. She offered to buy me a drink. She said she had had a cup of tea and felt much better and would give it a try. She had been watching it on a monitor. Apparently, at every performance they get 4 to 6 people who have to step out for one reason or another (but often for persistent coughing).

Although there was the occasional cough from her, she survived the second half. J loved it all which, after all, was the reason we were there. If I were rich enough, I would love to go more often. Ah, well, you can dream.

The finale was spectacular! Both in terms of the set and the singing. This was not some amateur affair (nor amateur prices, of course) and, anyway, we were at La Scala!

Afterwards, we went to a restaurant called La Torree di Pisa – not cheap but stunningly good lamb (my dish), so worth every penny of its expensiveness!

All told, a lovely evening and I would do it all again tomorrow!

p.s. also a nice change from the Friday, of course.
p.p.s. J got me to sign her programme the next day. I wrote a little message and then she started crying. You may remember Venice, last time. She does cry at the simplest things :-D Bless her.

Waxworks, horror and frighteners, part I

It doesn’t break for breaking implies noise, suddenness, unexpectedness.

This fades in (or fades out). This steals upon you. One minute it isn’t there and the next it is but it seems like you missed “the moment”, like the moment happened whilst you weren’t looking. I realised this when I could see the mist hanging low over the fields as if the earth was still in bed and hadn’t yet rolled back the covers. But it was time to wake up. Although, of course, I’d already been awake for some time.

In fact, I’d been awake since 2 a.m. Sort of. I guess I must have dozed a bit. The clocks did their thing at every quarter hour. I remember most of them. Then came 4 and I was worried that I would oversleep and miss the alarm set for 4.30. I nearly got up but thought that some rest was better than none, even if sleep was not possible.

The alarm went off and the dogs were there, waiting to be walked. For them, it doesn’t matter what the time is. Middle of the night, middle of the day, it’s all the same. The alarm means a walk. Except if F is here. But he’s not and they seem to know that and seem to understand that the alarm is different when he’s not here. I don’t have so much time. I get up and take them out. It is dark, of course.

I get back, make coffee (I will need coffee) and get ready. I leave. It’s a little after 5.30 and I know I’m a little bit later than I wanted to be. The navigator says I’ll be there about 10 to 8 but I’m hoping I’ll make up a little time. There is little traffic. I make it to the motorway.

And, it’s as I’m driving that I realise that dawn doesn’t break at all but just slowly, imperceptibly, comes into being. It’s not summer but it’s not so cold. Cold enough for a coat though, which I have forgotten. Well, I can’t go back as I have no time. Anyway, I think, I’ll be in the car or the church or somewhere for most of the time so it’ll be OK.

So, I’ve started in the dark and now it’s light without any fanfare, without any sudden break, just quietly daylight and sun and clear blue skies. I smoke too much. I am tired but awake. I drive. I wonder, at one point, if I shouldn’t have gone down the day before. This is crazy. But I couldn’t go down the day before. I have the dogs and J is here. I am already leaving her alone for the day. But this has to be done, even if F had said that I don’t need to come. I did need to go. I’d thought about it sometime between 2, when I first woke, and the alarm gong off. I wanted to say thank you. Thank you for permitting me to join the family. And a big thank you for giving me F. And, for that, I would have left at any time to travel down.

I arrive a few minutes earlier than the navigator had said. There was hardly any traffic to speak of and the journey was one of the easiest ever. I text him that I have arrived and he texts me to come up. I go up. I give him a quick hug and then his mum comes out and I give her a hug. It’s all subdued, of course. His mum makes me a quick coffee, for which I am grateful.

I follow him to pick up his sister, brother-in-law and niece. The BiL and niece get in my car and we drive to the hospital and find somewhere to park.

We go in to the small chapel-like place. We enter the room on the left. I don’t really know what to expect but I immediately feel like I’m on the set of some horror movie. The waxwork-like figures have what, at first glance, seems like cobwebs all over them. It’s as if they’ve been there for years and nobody has cleaned them. In fact it’s a white netting but the effect is quite surreal and I’ve never seen it before so it’s all so strange. The first woman, I note, had a huge, pointy nose. Well, she still has that but the thing I’m looking at is the wrong colour like the creator of the model didn’t have the right colours to make a human colour or the dyes were so old that they had faded. There are two coffins with these waxwork figures in them with the cobweb-like netting draped over them. Then we go past to another room. And there is PaC. Except, of course, it’s not him but, rather, a model of him. A likeness of him without really being like him. He too has this netting over him. I realise it’s probably to keep flies off, for if it was summer it would already be so hot. But this is not summer and it is cold. There’ll be no flies.

We stand around. People touch his forehead and then kiss their lips with their fingers. Except his sister who strokes his forehead and cries nearly all the time.

I don’t do this – neither cry nor touch the waxwork. I’m not sure that I could do that for anyone. I almost seem outside myself. I worry, sometimes, that I have no real feelings.

Worse still, we are in the mountains and it is damp. Although it’s light and bright, the sun doesn’t get over the mountains and into this part of the valley until a little later. My hands are cold. My feet are cold. I go for cigarettes. People wander in and out. Hearses arrive. There are at least five waxworks here. It seems most are going today. F suggests we go for a coffee with his brother. It is welcome.

Back at the chapel, F’s sister sometimes seems as if she’s gong to jump into the coffin. I’ve heard of it. F shows me that he’s put a cigar in one pocket, a pack of playing cards in another and, down the side of the coffin, a Toto DVD. It’s his way of making this lighter for him and everyone else. I smile. He is so sweet. Eventually, they close the coffin (although everyone except the sister are outside by now, in the sun which has breached the mountain top) and load the hearse.

We drive to the church. The same one for the Aunt. This is not like the UK, at 5 miles an hour but, more or less, at normal speed. We park up and arrive at the church as they wheel the coffin in. F, bless him, comes to find me and we go in. I’ve learnt that he (the deceased) was a well-respected tailor here. I didn’t know. We go and sit in a pew. We are on the front row again. The big fat priest is there as before. As is the uncle priest who has flown in from Sicily last night and the cousin nun.

The big fat priest does his stuff. The church is freezing and everyone wears coats except me and F’s brother. I regret forgetting my coat.

At one point during the service, we all sit down and F remains standing. I lightly touch his arm and, after a few seconds, he jerks a little as if just waking up, turns to me and sits down. He was lost in his own thoughts. I understand. I want to give him a big hug but can’t. At another point, as we’re standing, I look at him and, suddenly, I see him as an old man, slightly stooped, bearing the weight of life. Again, I want to hug him to tell him it’s OK. I realise that, in some years he will look like this – an old man. But then, so will I. And still I love him. But, for a moment, when he seems so old, I’m frightened both for him and for me. It won’t be the last time today that I feel like this but for different reasons.

The service drones on. Again I am struck by the absurdity of this religion thing (sorry, Gail). As if the suffering of this guy years ago, should it be true, has even the slightest effect on us, now, at this time. But the priest drones on about some point in the story. I am grateful I don’t understand so I don’t get too angry. I do wonder how it is possible for all these people to believe in this fairy story. Especially the priest who always looks so bored by it all. Who drones on in a way that says he’s so bored. Who says this is nothing and just a story. Who says everything as if he is an unbeliever.

The service ends, and everyone files outside. I move away, into the sun. People come over to me to say “hello”. I know quite a few people there now. There are kisses and “how are you”s. As I’m with these people, different people, like a changing of the guard, I watch F being greeted and consoled by people I know and people I don’t know. His mum too. I watch and feel part of it and not part of it. I’m grateful that people seem bothered to come and greet me. All this, in Italian, of course, which limits me as to what I say; as to what I am able to say.

At one point, E, his cousin – the one whose mother died in September, the sister of PaC, the sister of the priest uncle, the aunt of the cousin nun, the aunt of F – says to me that soon, we should come, at a different time, a better time, to eat. She smiles as she says it. My reputation as someone with a “good appetite” is written in stone.

The uncle/cousin/second-cousin? doctor tells a funny story about PaC, in Italian, to the group I’m with at the moment. I don’t really understand. He can speak English but prefers to repeat it slowly in Italian. I do get it. It’s about the fact that they ran (PaC and F’s mother) a laundry and PaC said that he could clean any mark. Any mark that is, except one. But, the doctors tells, I said to him but what? You always said you could clean any mark! Ah, yes, PaC replies, except the marks (scars?) of the heart. People laugh politely. I smile. Is it true, this story? And, anyway, does it matter? After all, the truth of the story is not the point.

F comes to me from time to time. I am there, for him. For his mum. For PaC, though not for him since that is too late.

People drift away. We go to the cemetery with the flowers. The body will be cremated in some place over 2 hours away. The ashes will be interred in the tomb with the aunt. It’s why they haven’t finished off the tomb yet.

There are too many flowers so some are distributed amongst other graves of relatives.

F tells people that I am going to go soon. He’s going to get a coffee with me and then I will go. That’s OK for me. I don’t want to go round to his sister’s where they will cook and talk and I will feel guilty leaving. But I must leave soon. I am tired and I have to drive back and J is waiting at home for me and so are the dogs.

We leave, being almost the last to leave. We go to our usual café in the Marina. We have sandwiches and coffee and cake. On the way, I ask him if he spoke to PaC when he arrived down, before he died. Apparently he wasn’t awake. But at least F was there.

We eat. He thanks me for coming. I think he appreciates it but I didn’t really do it for him. Or, not only for him. I got to say thank you, even if it was to a cobweb-covered waxwork.

He drives me back to my car and I leave whilst he goes up to his sister’s where the family are waiting.

I drive back. Now it hits me how tired I am but I arrive back in good time. I park the car. I get home and J makes me cups of tea. Several. I am exhausted but I can’t really rest.

Whilst we’re sitting, relaxing, my niece texts me. She wants me to find a hotel. She’s coming over to stay in April and she’s staying with V. Or so I thought. And then, that was the other thing that was frightening. But that is an entirely different reason and an entirely different post ………..

It is as it is.

Nearly, nearly done.

The cocktail cabinet is in the wrong place. And, by that I mean that we both agree that the place where I have put it is wrong. It will have to be moved and the chest of drawers that is in the hall will have to be moved to make room for it. Where the chest of drawers is to go, I have no idea!

The final bit is the final payment which will be done tonight. And then it is finished, done, complete. Phew!

F arrived home last night. PaC continues to go through good days and bad days. I asked how his mum was. He said that she seems OK but he really couldn’t tell. Sometimes, with the exception of his sister, they seem more English, with the stiff upper lip, than English people.

He should be going away to Venice at the end of the week but he’ll cancel. He should go to Greece next week but he’ll cancel. It’s all a bit uncertain.

But J comes on Thursday. And the weather is quite spring-like which seems likely to continue. I keep thinking of what to do when J is here. So, I thought maybe of going to the lakes (Lake Orta, Lake Maggiore) if the weather stays good. I had thought of taking her to Villa Litta where they have a fantastic water garden but, unfortunately, it is only open from May through to October.

But I have some ideas for a rather gentle time, strolling through Milan, etc. Nothing too strenuous. We shall see but, in any case, I’m looking forward to it. How much F will be here, of course, all depends but I’m planning that he’s away most of the time.

It is as it is. And nothing I can do will change this.

Getting my stuff back

I was apprehensive.

The text messages had been weird. Too familiar, too intimate. It had given me unease. I concentrated on the body of the text. We agreed on prices. Then there was a sudden “Can you give me some money in advance.” I see that nothing has changed. And, of course, I know very well how people, in general, are “dealt with” and so I know the tone really means nothing. It all is, after all, a great big lie.

Still, I have this strange feeling of unease as if, any moment now, I’m going to be hit with some information that I really won’t like. It shouldn’t affect me but I’m wary in case, in some way, it does. In my head, the answer is “no” to any question regarding loans.

As usual, I’m asking “Why?” Of course, on the surface, it’s plain and simple but my experience tells me that nothing is quite as it appears. He’s not doing this as a favour for me, how ever prettily it’s all wrapped up; nor is it in memory of “us”. I don’t believe that one for a second. Still, it’s odd.

I had a text the night before confirming everything but saying that he had “no electricity” to recharge the batteries on his phone as the electricity has been cut off. The story of this is both funny and ironic. Apparently. I suspect it’s neither funny nor ironic. I’m not even sure if he understands the word ironic. He’ll tell me tomorrow, apparently.

The day dawns and I find myself nervous. I’m nervous, in part, because I’m wondering how I’ll feel seeing the things that, in the main, I bought, being “left” or “thrown away” or “sold” (if he can find a buyer which, at such short notice is hardly likely). Will I feel sad? Will I feel some draw? In spite of myself. I’m also worried that I will be hit with some information which leads to a request where I will have to say “no”.

I’m nervous about the dinner service that I will be getting. Maybe F won’t like it with his “minimalist” approach. Ah well, it can always go down to the cellar. I shall have it anyway. And the chair. And the cocktail cabinet. The rest I’ve said “no” to. After all, where would we put it? Come to think of it, where will we even put the cocktail cabinet? Another for the cellar? These things I only left behind with some sadness. I guess, the difference would be that it wasn’t because they were “us” but because of the few things I have left from the UK, they were things that I really liked.

I had people over for dinner the previous night. Take-away Indian. Just for a change. There was FfI, FfC and L. I told them about the exchange of emails and the agreement we had reached. They weren’t happy. I got the feeling that they didn’t trust me. Or him? FfI reminded me of a comment he made all those years ago of “I could get him back any time I want.” He wasn’t right then and is certainly not right now. But my friends are worried.

“Have you told F?”, I am asked. I haven’t. Their question is heavy with alternate meanings. I do understand but they don’t apply. And, yet, my friends are incredulous that I haven’t mentioned it. I haven’t mentioned it because he has hardly been here since last week and he has more than enough to worry about, what with PaC and the rest of the family. He is tired and under stress and this is of no consequence.

But that is not the real question, is it? The real question is “Is F comfortable with you seeing him?” It’s so hard to explain that it’s OK. At least, I’m sure it’s OK. We don’t work “like that” and never have. It cannot be explained and, to be honest, until I met F, I wouldn’t have understood or believed it either. It’s called total trust and it’s what I like about our relationship and I refuse to be deterred by people who cannot believe in it.

But, you know, for a moment, they put doubt in my mind.

But, I find it impossible to explain because it’s not in other people’s experience so they don’t know how it could possibly work. Of course, everything was fine, as I expected.

So, I drive to the place. His house. I park nearby and ring the doorbell. I’ve forgotten which floor. I thought it was the 7th. Turns out it is the 4th. I am let in and introduced to Max. I don’t ask who Max is because, quite frankly, I don’t care. I see the stuff in the hall. There’s a LOT! CDs in bags. The dinner service in bags, wrapped in sheets and pillow cases because neither V nor I have newspaper or any packing material. I hope nothing gets damaged.

I wonder if it will all fit in. I note that the chair is broken. It wasn’t like that when I left. But, it can be repaired and I will get it repaired. It’s also not so clean. In fact, I decide to have a cigarette first before starting to load the car. I sit in the kitchen with Max whilst the DVDs are packed. Max tells me he’s not a good cook but he had made cous-cous for lunch. He’s right, it looks dreadful.

Whilst sitting in the kitchen I notice how filthy everything is. I’m used to living with F where cleaning is like a drug. It’s not here and it makes me feel uncomfortable and dirty. Funny how quickly my standards have changed.

We load the car. Everything fits. I pay most of the rest of the agreed price, keeping some back for the delivery of the cabinet. I will get that on Monday evening, apparently. Just in case, I’ve kept some back.

I get home and unload everything.

F arrives back earlier than expected, just as I’m cleaning the kitchen floor. He sees the service and really likes it. I am relieved. He also likes the chair. I am doubly relieved. He’s also happy to go through the CDs (although he will already have most of them.) And, since he came home on Sunday, we’ve been thinking about where to put the cabinet.

Although, surprise, surprise, I don’t have that yet.

Now promised for Thursday. We shall see.

But the unsurprising bit of news has been given – the deposit money for the new flat may not be available. I’ve ignored it. And, on Thursday, in my wallet, will be exactly €50 more than we’ve agreed. Which will be perfect.

And, then it will be done. Done and finished – the end of it all.

Maybe.

Strange days indeed.

These are peculiar days and not only because of PaC.

There’s an email I’ve received, the tone of which I find incredibly odd. I won’t go into details and I could be very, very wrong, but it’s freaked me out a bit.

Then there’s “the other thing”. I won’t go into details – at least not yet, but it’s a thing that has been growing slowly over the last couple of months and, in particular, the last couple of weeks. It makes me feel alternatively frightened/sad/angry/despairing. Today, I feel angry. Yesterday, I felt a little lost. Sometimes, I just need F to be around. He doesn’t need to do anything but the very fact that he’s there gives my confidence a boost. And, of course, he’s not at the moment. And I can’t bother him with this, right now. A result of yesterday was that I had about 2 hours sleep last night and, maybe, that’s partly why I’m angry today – but it’s only a part. I’m also angry because I cleared things in my mind and I thought about things long ago and I WILL NOT LET IT HAPPEN AGAIN!

PaC, on the other hand, is not at all good. Maybe I was right after all. Sadly.

A long weekend with an old, old friend

What I really need now is a weekend off.

I am, in fact, completely fucking exhausted. The last four days have been just constant activity. And, for almost all of it, F has not been here. PaC is not good so he was down there for a couple of days and then he had to go to London for work. So, it was just me and I feel like I just want to relax now.

But, back to the long weekend, (since Lola is so insistent). It was exhausting because D wanted to walk everywhere. I do understand but, obviously, for me, living here means that I don’t need to see everything so the metro is fine.

But we walked. And walked. And bloody walked. Then, whilst they were relaxing in their hotel I would be out walking the dogs, of course. And then walking them in the morning and in the evening. I actually feel like I don’t want to walk for a week.

Or eat for a week when it comes to it. From my usual one meal a day to breakfast, lunch AND dinner. I am stuffed.

So, there it is. After around 30 years of not seeing each other, D was just the same. A little older, true, but really just the same. And I’d forgotten how much he talks. We would be in a restaurant and we (J, his partner and I) would have finished eating whilst he had been talking, so his food was cold (I imagine). And still he would talk. And talk.

And, what did we do besides walk and talk (or listen) and eat?

Well, not much as it happens. They didn’t want to go inside anywhere. I did take them to Villa Necchi – but I think I only got away with that because it poured with rain on the Saturday. And, so, being inside was a good thing. They said they wanted to soak up being in Italy, so I did my best to give them that.

On the first day, we walked to the centre of the city (via the flamingos off Corso Venezia), past the Duomo, into the Galleria to the front of La Scala then up to Brera where we had lunch. Then around Brera and on to the the Castle and then back down to the Duomo and back to their hotel via Via Della Spiga and the park. That evening we went to Ristoranti Al Grigliaro where we ate fish (this is because J really likes fish and so does F and F was only going to be with us for that night for certain.)

The next day, F was at work. I met them at their hotel which was close to our flat and we strolled through Porta Nuova (the brand new area of Milan), stopping for ice-cream (it was J’s first time in Italy), walking down Corso Como (we stopped in to take a look round Corso Como 10 a famous designer shop/café/restaurant which also has a bookshop and an exhibition space) and then on to Eataly where we had lunch. From there, down Corso Garibaldi and back to the centre and straight back to Corso Buenos Aires. That evening we went to eat at the Cantinetta Belle Donne so that F could get home easily if it got late.

The next morning, early, F left for London. I had some errands to do so I ended up at their hotel about mid-day. We went to La Belle Aurore for a simple lunch and then to Villa Necchi Campiglio (the villa that featured in the film I Am Love). The nice thing was that, this time, we had the tour with a guide who spoke English (rather than a recorded tape) and, as there were only 6 of us, we saw a couple of rooms that I hadn’t seen before (the bigger groups don’t get to see them). In addition, they had finished the work on the basement so we got to see the Butler’s pantry and what had originally been the changing rooms for the swimming pool and the snooker room. That evening, in spite of the persistent rain, we went down to Navigli (we took a tram) and had an aperitivo (with mountains of “free” food) and then a pizza at Fabbrica – they loved the pizzas.

By the next morning, it had almost stopped raining. By 10.30 we were on our way to via Paolo Sarpi, the “Chinatown” of Milan for the New Year’s celebrations. We got there early and walked about. We couldn’t get in to any of the Chinese restaurants but went to a Sardinian place off piazza Gramsci (Ristorante Giulia) and came out just before the parade started.

As J comes from Taiwan, he was able to explain the procession – the Emperor, the concubines, the courtiers, the common people, the wedding party with the bride and groom, etc. So it made it much more interesting.

Then, even before the thing was over, we were back on the bus to their hotel as they had a plane to catch and I had a lesson.

It was really nice to see D again, after all these years. And J, his partner was lovely. There weren’t any “difficult” moments and it was all very easy (if exhausting) and I think they enjoyed it very much. It was unfortunate that F didn’t get to spend more time with them. But I think they did get a flavour of Italy, which was important.

And in a few weeks, my friend, J, is coming for a few days and a trip to La Scala, so that will be nice.

A change in feeling

So, I mentioned before that a friend is coming to Milan who I haven’t seen for more than 35 years. And, I mentioned that I was a little bit apprehensive. After all, we’ve kept in touch by Christmas and birthday cards only. Not even letters or stuff. So I don’t really know much about him over all these years.

At one point, the cards started to come with J’s signature. I guess that was about 10 years ago or more. I’ve seen some Facebook stuff and J appears to be Chinese or of Chinese origin (in fact, I learn, Taiwanese.)

They’re coming tomorrow.

We’ve exchanged phone numbers. And last night, we talked. It was so strange. It was him and it seemed like, apart from knowing almost nothing about each others’ lives over the intervening years, we’d always been in touch. Which, of course, is very good.

In his words, they want to “soak up the atmosphere.” They mean, of being in Italy, of course.

And that made me think. I’ve been here so long now that I don’t see things as different or strange. Or, at least, not so much. So I’m having to rethink. To try to remember what makes Italy different from being in the UK. What makes you go “ooh!”

Aperitivo is one thing. I’ll have to pick some places to go. Eating outside isn’t really on right now, unfortunately. Ice-cream, of course. Pizza. Coffee at the bar. Coffee near the Duomo, sitting and watching the people, even it’s it’s outrageously expensive. The places we should go.

I’m gong to take a couple of days off work. F doesn’t really understand this. He thinks it strange. But, then, even if he’s lived in the UK, he doesn’t quite understand us that well.

Anyway, he’s hardly going to be here. Sadly, PaC is not good and he’s going down for a couple of days. Then, on Saturday, he has to go to London for meetings. I’m not sure when he will be back. Possibly Tuesday. So, in the end, he’ll just have dinner with us a couple of times. But that will probably be enough for him.

So, now I’m quite looking forward to seeing D and meeting J. It should be nice.