Category Archives: Outside Italy

Things that happen when we travel outside of this Bel Paese

Teachers murder girl!

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As one parent quite rightly said on Twitter, apparently:

‘she should have been safe at school, she was just sat on a bench talking with friends….it could have been my daughter.’

After all, on school days, the parents have no responsibility for their children.

And, in addition, there is no such thing any more as ‘an accident’ but, rather, there is always some person to blame.

I suppose that if it had been a Saturday or a Sunday the headline could have read something like:

Park keepers guilty of manslaughter

or

Council killing children!

The actual headline of this article didn’t really say that teachers had murdered the girl but only implied it.

Girl, 13, crushed to death by a branch as she sat on a park bench after teachers went out on strike

But, then, this is the Daily Hate Mail so, I suppose, what can you expect!

 

On the subject of food – British food is the most popular ……. apparently.

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Yesterday it was the Daily (Hate) Mail. Today the Guardian. You can see the British rubbing their hands with glee it being justification and proof that the Italians don’t really have any better taste than us!

I must admit to being slightly shocked to see frozen pizzas in the supermarket, when I first came here. I mean, why? I’ve never bought one here, to be honest and yet, in the UK, we used to have at least one in the freezer all the time. Here, it just seems so stupid.

So, conducting my very own poll* because I find it so hard to believe this story, I find that S, my colleague, does have a frozen pizza in her freezer and, yes, it’s a Ristorante pizza. Her daughter, C, likes them, apparently. She uses them when she doesn’t have time to prepare something fresh.

When I’m in one of our local supermarkets though, I notice that it’s usually the foreigners who buy the frozen pizzas. I mean, certainly when you live in Milan, with a pizzeria and wood-fired pizza oven on every corner, why on earth would be buy an inferior frozen pizza?

S says that the crust is strange and it’s not a real pizza at all. The topping is, apparently, very rich – much richer than you get in Italy, I guess.

But, I still don’t really understand. I can’t even imagine having a frozen pizza when I can, within half an hour, have a freshly cooked pizza from one of the wood-fired ovens.

Still, when you look at the figures quoted it’s noticeable that these pizzas account for 20% of the Italian market. Nowhere does it actually say the number of pizzas sold nor the overall value of this market share. I suspect it is nothing like the value of the equivalent percentage share in the UK.

However, it does make me want to try one – just to see what they are like.

On the subject of pizzas, our chef at work, asked how my Hawaiian pizza was. I said it was beautiful. She said I would have to come up with some more ideas. S, my colleague has also said she might have the Hawaiian one to try :-D

* A poll taken of 1 person :-)

If you can’t text then don’t text.

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I don’t like people who insist on talking through a film, even if they are my friends outside the film.

I hate it when people have their mobile phone on in a film.

I hate it just as much when people use their phone at all in the cinema, even if it is in ‘silent’ mode – the illumination of the phone is too bright and distracts me. After all, I’ve paid good money to be there and I want it to be quiet AND dark.

So I would, definitely, frequent this cinema, if I lived anywhere near it.

Good for them.

Can’t see it happening here, though.

Eat dirt and die. Except it’s not true and I didn’t (die, that is).

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My parents found out, eventually. Well, I’m not sure they found out the whole truth. The problem was that I found it so tasty and apetising that I thought my sister may quite like it. So I fed her some. But I guess she was a bit messy and left bits around her mouth and in the pram.

I don’t think they ever found out that I used to eat it regularly. And, to be frank, I don’t think I would ever have admitted it (online or anywhere else, for that matter) were it not for this little piece.

Of course, it’s in the Daily Mail, not a renowned source for little things called ‘facts’ so it could be completely made up but I like that it’s ‘out there’ now. Perhaps the other people like me, wracked with a sense of guilt of carefully selecting lumps of earth from the garden before popping it in your mouth and eating it, can now ‘come out’ in the open without fear of recrimination?

And, trust me, I did carefully select these pieces. I can’t remember the taste but I do remember that it was rather good although I didn’t like the gritty bits so much. Also the texture as you ate it.

I think I ate it from about the age of 2 until I was about 6 or so.

Anyway, I didn’t die, obviously and, according to the report, it might have done me the power of good.

Mud pie for dinner, anyone?

Anyone?

Probably the best summer.

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We have mentioned it before but this time it was a bit different.

As he knows we both like the peppers filled with (usually) cod, he decided to buy some and bring them back. He bought 8 tins!

Last night we had two of those tins for dinner. I love them. We talked about how good Spanish food was. We both like Spanish food. And then we talked about him getting a job there. He said that he thought the future was the model used by a well known Spanish fashion brand. He said he could try to get a job with them. I said I would teach English or something. I would do something. I said I would be happy to go.

We looked it up online. We talked about some of the Spanish food we liked. Now, I wouldn’t mind moving. Why not? My dream was to come and live here. My dream before that was to live in the countryside in Herefordshire. I’ve done these things. I can do something else now. I never thought I would want to move to Spain but now I really don’t mind. In fact, I think I might enjoy it. Of course, it’s another bloody language to try and learn although I shall, probably, learn it in the same way as Italian – so never, then! And we wouldn’t go to the British enclave areas, so that would be perfect. And the weather would be better. Yes, I could do this.

Interestingly, we were talking about it together. About moving together. It was different than before.

He says that the Spanish people are nicer. Not so stuck up as the Italians. Of course, for me, the Italians are fine. I like them and they seem to have a more relaxed attitude to life, even in Milan. To F, they seem restricted. It must be the same for everyone when they think of the people of their own country, I guess. The grass is always greener, etc., etc. He thinks the Spanish are happier. Given my last few posts, you will know that I think the Italians are happier than the English. I guess everyone from a different country seems happier than your own people. You know too much about your own people. They are part of you, I suppose.

This morning we woke up early. He has caught the train to go down and decorate and clean the house. He’s now talking about me coming down with the dogs on Thursday or Friday. Maybe. If the weather is going to be good. He says that he’s doing it for me. But that’s not really true. He’s doing it for us. He’s already talked to R, his best friend, about R picking up the dogs from the house and meeting us in the dog area in the pinetta (I don’t know if I’ve spelt it right. It’s the area under the pine trees. The cool areas, near the beach) about 6 so that we can come from the beach and collect the dogs from R, saving us the need of leaving the beach early, going to pick the dogs up and then going back near the beach to walk them. He’s going to give R some money for doing this, justifying it by the fact that it will ‘cost us that in petrol anyway and we don’t have to leave the beach so early’. I think many of the things he says are so he doesn’t have to say he’s doing it for both of us, together. He can justify it by logic even if, sometimes, his logic is not the same logic as mine.

Still, either way, we have our beach umbrella sorted and, by the end of this week, if not before, the house fixed up for us to go to.

Boy, I am really looking forward to this summer. It’s going to be glorious. Probably the best summer I’ve ever had.

I don’t think I’ll be going back to live.

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“I couldn’t hardly get up this morning, Jack”, the woman in the dirty-looking pink hoodie shouts.

She isn’t shouting because of the noise, even if we are at the airport. A little later she almost screams, “Bye, Jack”.

It takes me a moment to realise that she’s doing it because the obese man opposite her is the one that is actually speaking to Jack on his mobile phone.

I am not pleased to hear that she couldn’t hardly get up this morning. Not least because of the bad English but also because of the Birmingham accent which, now, this time, this trip, really grates. Apart from the cold and the rain and the wind (as if that wasn’t enough), my desire to tell her and many, many more of ‘these people’ to ‘just fucking shut up’ has made my mind up. Unless I really, really, REALLY have to, I shan’t ever be back to live in the UK with its greyness both in weather, place and people.

Mind you, with this weather and so much abysmal, unfresh food, well, it would be enough to make anyone miserable. Obviously it didn’t rain ALL the time. There were moments of no rain and, dare I say, sunshine. The same with the food really, as I have already posted.

Not all people have this affect. Best Mate, for example. T, the new, old friend of BM who, so I was told, really wanted to meet me. That’s not unusual. People have never really understood our relationship. For that matter, neither have we (and we talked about it so I know her feelings are the same).

Just the weather alone would be enough. The people are just dreadful. The people in Hereford. The people in the airport. Just the people. I listen to other conversations. Mostly Brummie accents which really doesn’t help.

They are going or arriving. The ones arriving are dressed in shorts and T-shirts and flip-flops or sandals. They’ve come from somewhere hot, obviously. They don’t look particularly happy. Neither do the ones that are going.

They may all be respectful of personal space in terms of physical closeness but not as far as noise is concerned. I can see why other nations have such a poor view of the British people. Of course, it’s all a generalisation, even by me. Not all people are like this. My friends, for example. But there are too many like this and I don’t think I could live with it, day after day.

As I said to someone here, it’s probably as well that I don’t really understand Italian. Maybe I would have the same feeling about people here if I did?

No, I don’t think I’ll be going back to live there any time soon.

British Food – not really all it’s cracked up to be (or, Maybe the Italians are right?)

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Well, apart from trying to fix my blog for almost a month, now, I have also been doing other things.

Take last weekend, for example.

I went to Hay-on-Wye to see Best Mate. She wasn’t able to come here this year so asked if I would go over. F and I arranged it so that he could look after the dogs (and, finally, ‘do’ the bedroom – but that’s another post).

The travel there and back was one thing, again, maybe, another post. And the weather! So cold it was like being back in winter. In fact, the weather alone would be enough for me to never go back there, certainly to live – and that’s without the other things.

However, it was lovely to see BM who was considerably better than last time.

But I came to the realisation, whilst I was there, why it is that Italians have such a fixation about English=bad food (also see Lola’s blog post).

I used to relish going back to the UK. A Kentucky Burger was high on my list, if not essential. This time, however, it was very different. The real thing I absolutely love is Roast Lamb. The British do it so well. It is now, really the only thing on my list. But let’s look at the food I did have.

I arrive at Birmingham Airport at about 9.30 a.m. BM is there to pick me up and we drive back to Hay. This is about two and a half hours or so. By the time we arrive in Hay, I am ready for lunch, having had nothing but a biscuit and a couple of small croissants on the planes (it was Air France).

We go to Kilverts. The first thing is the beer. I’m afraid I forgot the ‘wine-non-diet’. The beer is great. The UK does great beer and, in particular, the real ale. I had some mild. It was nice and smooth. We looked at the blackboard for food. There was no lamb but I could choose something else. However, they were preparing the kitchen for the Festival (which is happening as I write this). We both agreed that was a bit strange. However, we had ham sandwiches with mustard. It was OK but not really as good as it was in my mind. Still, I had more beer, so it was fine.

That night we went to Red Indigo, billed as the best Indian restaurant in Hay, which makes me laugh because it’s the only one! The food was wonderful. I had a lamb balti. And beer – although Cobra beer. Indian food has come a long way from the time I was at University when it was, really, very hot or slightly less hot muck. Now it is fresh and so tasty. As normal I had Naan bread with my balti. In the UK they do nice large, thick Naan breads. Unfortunately, here, they do rather small and much too thin Naan breads.

Saturday, I needed to go shopping. I had things to buy – things I had come for. We got into Hereford and went straight to the cafe in the centre of High Town. It’s in the open air – so we can smoke. Aside from the cold, the coffee was a ‘Starbucks’ type cappuccino. I used to love these. Now they are too hot and too big. I am used to cappuccino Italian style. Tepid, small but lovely. As we are at the ‘bar’ ordering (of course, I noticed, for the first time really, how I am used to having a waiter serve me), I saw delicious-looking Almond croissants and decided to have one.

It was the first time I realised why the Italians think English food is so bad. It is bad. At least, if you’re not in the right places it is. The croissant (brioche, here) was filled with custard (crema, here). It had flakes of almond on top. Without the flakes of almond it would have been the same as the brioche I normally have for breakfast (when we go to a cafe on the weekends), except – the crema was not soft but more of a gel and it didn’t ooze out since there was so little of it. However, the worst thing was that, being used to having brioche that has been baked that very morning – this must have been baked several days ago. It was, quite frankly, stale. If they served this kind of stuff in Italy, the café would go out of business.

And then I thought: that’s how it has always been. The British tolerate this being given very little alternative or just because we don’t complain. I would have complained but I knew that this was perfectly acceptable here, so what was the point?

Later we got some cakes from Greggs. I had a Belgian Bun. It was OK. Actually, it was quite nice – but mainly because here, in Italy, they don’t do them. At least it was fresh, unlike the croissant.

Later still we went for lunch to the The Imperial. The beer (I don’t remember what it was) was fine. I ordered Gammon with Egg. It should have been good but it wasn’t. To be honest, G, here, in our canteen, does a much better job of making it and I had to explain how to make it to her! Also there were just too many chips. Don’t get me wrong, it was OK – it just wasn’t nice enough.

That evening we weren’t able to book a table at the Black Lion and so went to the Three Tuns. This was divine. Good beer (Butty Bach, I think) and rack of lamb. This is how British food should be. Fresh vegetables, good gravy and the lamb was perfectly cooked and juicy.

Sunday, we were in Hay for reasons I cannot disclose. We did go to Shepherds for a morning cappuccino (which wasn’t bad and much more like real Italian coffee) and, more importantly, I had a Toasted Tea Cake. Oozing with butter it is one of the things from my childhood. I adore Toasted Tea Cakes and this one was as good as any I have had.

We skipped lunch and I really wasn’t hungry anyway. That evening we went to the Old Black Lion. I do like the Black Lion. The beer isn’t so special but it’s OK. The food is very good, though. Again it was lamb. Again it was fantastic. I had some meringue thing for sweet. BM chose the summer pudding which I tasted and it was far, far better than my choice!

Before the Black Lion we were back in Kilverts where we met up with T, a friend of BM’s. I had a few pints of Butty Bach and I had really forgotten how good that beer is!

The next day I was back to the airport. I was there about 2 p.m. I had over an hour to ‘kill’. I went through to departures (after stocking up on nicotine) and went to the Weatherspoons pub in the departure lounge. The choice wasn’t brilliant but I chose a cheeseburger. It arrived. It was tepid which was a shame because if it had been hot, it would have been quite nice. Of course, they can do this as there’s no time to fix it, what with departing flights and all.

But it got me to thinking that, really, in the UK, if you don’t know the places, food is quite a hit and miss affair – in fact, mainly miss.

So, Italians are right, in a way, in that British food is not that good, unless you go to a place that does good food. Elsewhere it is liable to be fairly crap.

And, for the first time, I really didn’t want a Kentucky Burger. Too much salt and fat and sugar and crap. It seems I’ve moved on a bit!

Republicans love the Royality, it seems. As long as it’s not theirs!

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Further to my post below, I have to say that S, my colleague, seems more British than I.

When she finally realised (even if I had told her several times before) that I would be on holiday tomorrow, she was quite upset. She had been relying on me to find live coverage of that wedding thing on the Internet. In particular she wanted to see the arrival.

That’s right, I live in a republic where the ex-Royal Family parade themselves on televised song contests.

Oh, no, wait! Maybe that’s better than being a team on It’s A Knockout!

Grumpy old sod?

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I suppose I should mention it. After all, tomorrow is a special day.

Oh, yes, and some posh bloke is marrying some ordinary woman and they’re making a rather big deal about it although the Guardian is being funnier about it all whilst the Daily (Hate) Mail is getting it’s knickers in a twist one minute and all overly-excited, the next.

I will be at lunch whilst it’s all happening. At a vegetarian restaurant, of all places!

But, still, I have this annoying thing in my brain that will mean I shall probably try and find some coverage on the Internet when I get home. It annoys me because I shouldn’t (and don’t, really) care – but I am intrigued. And, I too, want to see ‘the dress’, even if it will be, after all, just another dress.

It makes me feel stupid. I am just thankful that I am not in the UK. I guess I would have stopped watching the news a few weeks ago.

Or am I just a grumpy old sod?

After the after-party party

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“Oh!”, she exclaimed, “we won’t be able to fit Rufus in. I have to pick up this other thing too and it will take all the room in the back’.

I turn from looking at the thing we had come to get – something like a washboard but not – and reply, “It’s OK, he can sit in the footwell with me”.

“No, no”, she adds, “I’m sure we can work it out”.

She is giving me a lift home. We are in a furniture restorers or carpenters place or something like that. F is not here. He is somewhere else. I’m not sure where. I don’t like him not being here. He should be here. I am uncomfortable with him not being here. It is the following day. The following day after the party or exhibition and after the after-party party or after-exhibition party at her house.

We had walked to her house from the party or exhibition. F had been there but not for the after-something party. It is disconcerting. I am not questioning why I cannot walk back home.

My worry about Rufus and whether he will fit into the car changes it all. I wouldn’t call it a nightmare – just a bad dream.

I wake up.

The TV is on. But it is silent – the sound turned right down. F is not there. I shout ‘Babe’ and he replies. “Are you OK?”, I ask. Yes, apparently he is. Except he’s not really as it’s almost 3 a.m. and he’s not asleep.

I can’t shake this dream even if the remembering of it is difficult. It has left me with a certain disquiet but for what, I can’t be sure. I get up and go to join him in the kitchen. I am really tired but know I have to get it all out of my head. Look at it logically – not that it was really logical – I know that much.

I grab a glass of milk and a cigarette. I ask him why he is up. He says he doesn’t know but he just can’t sleep. It’s not me or the dogs. He is playing ‘the game’ as we call it. He says that maybe it will help. I doubt it but say nothing.

I go back to bed. In the morning, when the alarm goes off, I put it to snooze and snuggle up to him. He got to sleep then, eventually.

I’m not even sure how the bad dream started. Something about a party or an exhibition. Rufus only appeared the following morning. It wasn’t Milan – nor anywhere I know. But it was similar to Hay-on-Wye. A group of us decided to go to the after party. I knew the people although, with the exception of F (who was never there but always just outside the picture) and one other, I can identify none of them. We walked up the hill. Maybe through fields. It was very late. F knew I was going and would join us later. We arrived with the girl whose house it was and who was giving me the lift back home on the following day. We started the party. Nothing really happened. More people came. It was nice. I worried about F not having arrived. I don’t know if I texted or tried to call but I think I did. I was worried anyway and really wanted him to be here.

Then V arrived. It wasn’t altogether unexpected. I mean, for some reason, I knew he was coming or, rather, might come. Somehow, he managed to avoid turning towards me. He was, as FfC and I say, ‘being fabulous’ as V does. But, still he wouldn’t look at me. I saw him across the room (with his back to me), taking off his jacket and talking to the woman. And laughing as he does. I was disappointed that he wouldn’t at least acknowledge I was there but other than that I didn’t really care.

He must have stayed for a bit and then he left, never once showing me his face. And then it was the next morning. And F wasn’t there. And, for some equally strange reason, I had Rufus (although not as thin as he is now) and we had to get home. And we were stopping on the way to pick up these things that the woman had to get. And then I woke up.