Category Archives: Outside Italy

Things that happen when we travel outside of this Bel Paese

I slip on a pair of old jeans

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Fashion. Like modern art, I like what I like. The problem for me is that, when I like something, I like it a lot and for much longer than I probably should. So, I tend to keep things even if they don’t really fit or are just “out of fashion”.

Some things, of course, are beyond the fashion of any particular time. They have an elegance and style that may never have been the height of fashion but, in any event, will never really be out of style – ever.

I have some things like that. In the “good old days” when we had money, they were expensive but have proved to have been worth every penny, since they have been worn time and time again, in different guises, and have been made so well that they still look as if they were bought more recently.

Some years ago, with my first foray into Iceberg (one of my favourite labels), I found a pair of jeans in Harvey Nichols in London that I just had to have. Unfortunately, they only seemed to have bought one size of each pair and my true size had already gone but the size down were there, being tried on by some guy. We waited as he umm’d and ah’d about whether he really liked them or whether they really fitted him.

Eventually, he put them back on the shelf and it was all I could do to not snatch them up before they had actually touched the shelf. I tried them on and, although they felt more like a second skin, took them anyway.

After about a year of living here I found I had gained a little weight until, unfortunately, they were just too tight to do up the top button.

And then you bring love and break-up into it, for certainly, when you are in the first stages of love it seems (or has done for me) that it sheds pounds although I do not feel that I eat less. This is true for break-ups.

And so, after the move, I find these pair of jeans, ironed and ready to wear and tonight, as I am off out with friends for a pizza I thought I would try them on.

They fit perfectly and as they remain my favourite pair of jeans ever and they still look as if I bought them this season (apart from the fact that there are no jeans this season that are like them – to be honest, even when I bought them I never did see anyone else wearing them either in the UK or in Milan), I am wearing them as I wait for my friends to call to say they have arrived. I guess I’ll be wearing them a lot this summer. I am so happy about that as they look really good with a T-shirt and sandals!

I can even call them “vintage” jeans now! Whoah, yes!

The Final Conclusion or The Final Betrayal; Travelling and Quandaries; Not as Gay as I was?

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The Final Answer to The Final Question has been confirmed in the affirmative. This has made V very happy despite it being too late in certain respects.

Of course, The Final Answer is not the end of it. There will either be The Final Conclusion or The Final Betrayal. At this stage, obviously, I don’t know which. I have been promised The Final Conclusion but, if you’ve been reading this blog over the last few months, you will have some idea as to my uncertainty regarding things concerning V.

This last few weeks have been somewhat busy at work, hence my lack of posting. And, when I get home, there is, now, less time to sit at the computer and ‘mess around’ than there was.

And, it is almost certain (I shall know on Friday, definitely), I shall be going to the UK for a few days for work. Whilst I am there, I shall stay on a few days to renew my passport. It seems, from the website, that I shall be able to get it all done in 1 day (at extra cost, of course). This is slightly imperative on the basis that I shall only have one day to do it before needing to travel back to Milan! I shall let you know how it goes, for all of you ex-pats.

The alternative was a month to wait whilst it went through the consulate in Rome.

And then there will be Paris in June.

And the reason for writing this is the dogs, for I absolutely MUST do something with them and I cannot take them with me. So what to do? I can put them in kennels of course. Or I could get someone to look after them. Or I could ask V but asking V means that I have to rely on him. It’s a quandary. In addition, the day I come back will be the day that used to be our anniversary. I don’t know that I want to go and pick the dogs up on that day. However, since it is only two weeks before the first trip I do need to do something pretty sharpish.

Finally, as you will have read in an earlier post, it seems I may not be quite as gay as I thought I might be, in spite of using hand cream. And by that I mean that I lost the cream (it fell from my pocket whilst walking to the car) and I didn’t notice for two days!

To be fair, my hands, or rather, the part of my hands that were particularly bad, are much better. But there is still a stubborn area of hard skin. So I bought some new hand cream and have started using it once or twice a day. I’m not sure I can stand any more than that!

But, as soon as they are back to normal I shall stop using the stuff and be back, once more, to being the straight gay guy that I have always been. Hurrah!

Primark in Milan? Why not?

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From my glance at the stats every day, I’ve noticed that quite a few people come looking to see if there is a Primark in Milan. The short, easy answer is no, there isn’t. At least, as yet. Although I don’t quite see why Primark haven’t expanded their exposure abroad. Surely, at this time of economic crisis, Primarks would be welcomed all over the world, including Italy?

Alright, as I’ve said before, the quality is not brilliant but, for the price of things, you wouldn’t really expect them to be, would you?

So the material is a little thinner than one would expect, the finishing is not really so good, the amount of time you can wear them is less than for other things – but, hey, they look OK and do a job!

The pair of jeans I bought a couple of years ago will be coming out of the wardrobe very soon (they are summer jeans for work), which means they will be paying for themselves for the third year running! Not bad, really.

As soon as I find that there is a Primark in Milan, I shall, of course, let you all know.  It’s only a matter of time…….

The trouble with Paris, France; A new recipe; a great pasta dish

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Yesterday, my so-called boss, was delighted to tell me that I was on the ‘exclusive’ list to go to some important show and be one of the people on our stand. He asked if I would like to go, all smiles and glee at the thought that he was doing me a favour.

His face dropped big time when I said that absolutely, I did not want to go!

There are a number of reasons. 1. I do not like industry shows – even as a visitor but, worse, as a person on a stand. You stand (which is the first thing that is not good) for very, very long hours; you have to smile and treat incompetent visitors like they are kings, 2. You have rare opportunities for breaks, which means cigarettes, for me, 3. You get to see nothing else except the show, the hotel room and, maybe, some hotel restaurant and, in addition to these, to make it worse, it is in France!

Now, some of you will like France. For me, the best thing about France is that the motorways are good and allow you to cross it fast when driving from the UK to Italy. Oh, yes, and the food (particularly the cheeses) and the wine – which are, actually the only two reasons I would go to France.

Worse still, this to be Paris. I realise that, for most of you reading this, you will think that Paris is a wonderful city. For me, it is full of French people and not really that wonderful. It has the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre and some other bits and bobs. Hardly a reason for visiting it more than once.

It’s also further north and has weather more similar to the UK than Italy.

So, if I really have to go to this bloody thing, the only saving grace is the food and the wine (as you would expect, Gail).

To try and look on the bright side, I think they probably have the best cheeses in the world.

I said that, of course, if I am obliged to go, I would go but that I really, really didn’t want to go, if I had my way, and what is the point in me going? I don’t understand the subject, I am not interested in the finished products (except to use them) and I will be thoroughly bored out of my mind. I won’t even get to see any of Paris! Not that I really like it anyway.

I will probably have to go anyway.  Damn!

Last night FfI cooked dinner. It was a light dinner but really lovely. It was steamed asparagus tips, with a fried egg/two on top (the egg should have a runny yolk but have crispy, brown edges to the whites) covered with a good sprinkling of Parmesan cheese. Washed down with a half-decent bottle of wine, of course, and with some nice crusty bread to eat with it.

I shall definitely be doing it myself sometime.

Tonight, with any luck, it will be pasta with broccoli – now, one of my favourite ways of having pasta and something I’ve never seen in the UK. At first I thought it was a very strange combination but the taste, well, it is to die for!

I feel hungry already……..

I clean and wait

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I should be working. Both ‘real’ work and the ‘other’ work (which, in reality, is just as real and, if I actually got my ass into gear, would pay for a new laptop).

I sit here, in the office, with my coat on. It is not so cold – except in this office.

FfI arrived last night; late. She should have arrived at about 11 and instead it was about 11.45. It did make me clean the house and put some boxes in the car to take back to V; or, rather, to take back to the old place to allow me to pack some more stuff to take away and try to find a place for it in a flat with no storage.

FfI bought me an ashtray and some chocolate-covered wafers from her trip to the strange land. The ashtray is nice and also very useful, since the split means I don’t have so many of them each. The chocolate-covered wafers are, apparently, fantastic. We shall see.

It was to be for one night. Now it will be two but she ‘should be gone after that’. Another friend’s ex-husband is leaving to go back to the country house and so there will be room. I am not holding my breath

I finished the cleaning; flattened some boxes; went round to V’s place (that was our place and now is an alien place even if the furniture is still ‘our’ furniture). I collected a duvet (it being so cold at night) for FfI, some mugs (I realised I only had two) and some pans (I had none). These things, in the main, having been forgotten by me in the rush to advise each of the packers in different rooms

V and I had a glass of wine. He lent me some incense – it being essential to mask the smell of the dogs, especially in this damp or wet weather.

I went home and sat at the kitchen table in the silence of the night although, if you listened hard enough, you could detect the hum of the traffic and the clang and grinding of the trams; I opened a bottle of wine and poured myself a glass and read the book that I had been lent about 9 months ago and should have finished about 8 months ago.

I wouldn’t do that at the previous home. I expect, when I get the TV functioning, I will do less of that. But, for now, it’s such a pleasure to be able to read in the dim light of one lamp (since all the light fittings have been taken – as they do here) and a glass of wine in one hand.

Dino, of course, wants to play. I am mindful that throwing things for him too much could cause problems for the people below me – first, the thud of the toy hitting the floor and then the clippety-clipping of the toenails as he scampers to retrieve said toy and then, occasionally, the crash as he slides into something like a door or bookcase.

When I stop the playing, he comes and, almost, takes my arm off, such is the force by which he ‘nudges’ me. It makes it difficult to drink the wine – I have to sip it in between the ‘nudges’.

FfI arrives and, having just travelled for hours, is not so sleepy. I pour her wine in the other glass I got out some time before, ready, for just this moment. She wants to hear about the flat but also wants to tell me about the trip; the things that were done; the shade of brown she has become; the men she has met or re-met; the old friends that she saw.

I only half listen. Had she not been coming I would have been like a log in my bed by half past ten.

As it is, we chat for a bit. I try to concentrate on what she is saying, I do, I really do.

I help her make up the ‘bed’ in the lounge.

I crash into my bed – I can’t even be bothered to turn off the computer. It will be five hours and I will be up again. I would normally say ‘roll on the weekend’ but, again, I will have so much to do I know I will not have the lie-in that I so want.

On the plus side, when Best Mate comes next week, now that she is sleeping like a normal person, I should be able to catch up with my sleep – if that is ever really possible!

Make-your-own Chicken and Mushroom Pie – don’t look at the contents and it really IS very tasty.

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Make your own Chicken and Mushroom Pie

Whilst away, on business, we were taken to the client’s canteen for lunch. Canteens are canteens – never the best food in the world but this one, whilst nowhere near as good as ours is OK, although the food can be a bit odd sometimes.

We walk in and the main course is, what can only be described as, the results of someone having been very very, very ill.  Globby, congealed, pale and, to be frank, quite sickening to look at.

Our hosts showed us how it was done. Next to the grey/light-brown ‘mess’ were some ‘fancy’ pastry cases. You took one or two of these and filled each with the sickening gloop which, I was told was chicken.

But, then I tasted it. I realised it had been some time since I had eaten Chicken and Mushroom Pie where the pie crust was make from flaky pastry. It used to be quite a favourite of mine although we never saw it served like this, of course.

But, to be honest, providing you didn’t really look at what you were eating, it was really nice. Served with peas, which was always the perfect accompaniment!

And then I realised that ‘pies’ of any sort don’t seem to be that common here, it Italy. I mean things like Steak Pie, Steak and Kidney Pie, Chicken Pies, in fact, most pies really don’t exist. Strange, isn’t it?

My own private jet….and airport…..and security……. aka the joys of travelling these days.

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I remember, 10 or 15 years ago, travelling, for me, was still exciting and pleasurable. There was the thrill of the flight as I really love flying; the fun of having an expense account and being able to eat and drink, more or less, as I wanted; the prestige of being one of those ‘business travellers’ that you see or hear about.

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When a town is not a town

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It was last weekend when I went. It has the word ‘town’ in its name so, I thought, it must actually be a town. Seems reasonable to me. Being an ‘outlet’ town, I was expecting something similar to Bicester Village, Vicolungo or Serravalle.

I don’t really like them, as you may remember but this was one of the first in this area and is in Switzerland and, travelling by road, to and from the UK, I have passed it many times.

In fact, it’s only just past Como, so immediately, one thinks of beauty with the backdrop of the Alps.

And, as it was so famous, I did want to see it. It’s less than an hour from Milan and easy to get to (Motorway all the way unless you don’t want to pay the annual motorway fee in Switzerland.

Apart from the fact that it rained all day; we weren’t high enough to see snow-capped mountains; and the place itself – it was wonderful.

So, why didn’t I like it? Well, it’s not a town. It’s called Fox Town but, really, it’s a shopping centre (or mall, to you Americans). And a very ugly one at that. Everything seems Italian (the language, the people) except the currency which is Swiss Francs. The prices are not so cheap for the fact that it’s stuff that’s already out of fashion – certainly no cheaper than Vicolungo or Serravalle, although on the plus side, the guy assistant in Iceberg was rather cute.

Overall, much more of a disappointment than I thought would be possible. And then, back in Milan and my umbrella was ‘borrowed’.

To be honest, if it’s a nice day, I would prefer one of the other outlet centres, should you be visiting here and insist on doing outlet shopping.

Rude? Embarrassing? Both?

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There have been some great, well-respected leaders in the world.  Clinton, whatever the Americans thought of him and, in spite of his infamous non-sex episode, was well respected.  Bush, unfortunately, was seen as a bit of an ass.  I can’t speak for British leaders as I am British and, therefore, have a biased view, although, from what I can tell and from conversations I have had here, Margaret Thatcher was also well-respected (in spite of the damage she did to the country).

When we are in meetings, it is quite common for the meeting to be interrupted by a phone call to someone, whether it be personal or work, people here answer it as if, whatever they are doing, is completely unimportant and the phone call is a matter of life and death.

If you visit someone at their desk and a call comes to their desk phone, even in the middle of their conversation with you, the phone call will take precedence.

At first, it was frustrating but now, I guess I am used to it.  It is, therefore, no surprise to pick this up from the BBC site.

And, whereas it is no surprise, I cannot believe that an Italian, at the highest level can be so bloody rude.  It doesn’t matter what the call was about.  It would have been easy, as the car stopped, to say he would call back in five minutes and, once inside, out of the glare of the cameras, he could have continued the conversation.  The only good reason for continuing it and keeping Merkel waiting was if his wife was about to give birth or someone was dying.

And for me, if a British leader did that I would be embarrassed for Britons and my country as a whole.

And the whole incident comes almost straight after acting like a hooligan at a football match, shouting Obama’s name at a reception held by the Queen.

Hmm.  I thank goodness I am not Italian for I would certainly, after the phone call thing, be hanging my head in shame.  I don’t care who you are, you don’t keep a head of state waiting and, certainly, head of state or not, a lady.