I know that V will survive without me but, sometimes, I wonder how?
I mean, take last night as an example. He arrived home and asked me if I had a washing machine where I was going. I replied in the affirmative. He suggested that we could get one for free from a work colleague and all we had to do was pick it up. This would, indeed, be useful as the washing machine no longer works and both of us are fed up with hand washing.
I hate supermarket shopping. It almost always seems to put me in a bad mood, even thinking about it.
V is cooking dinner tonight so I thought I would go and get a bottle of wine. Oh, yes, and some milk.
“He’s going to live there on his own?”
The old man was incredulous. You could see him thinking how strange these foreigners are.
“Yes”, FfI replied. “He needs a studio”.
Obviously, this exchange was in Italian. I could do this but it would take me much longer and things do get lost in translation (especially when I try Italian).
He seemed unsure. We walked in to the flat. Built around 1920 or 1930, it had not really been updated much since then. The ‘cucina abitale’ (living kitchen) did have a table in it. At a squeeze you could fit four people round it, as long as the oven wasn’t still on, otherwise the person sitting with their back to it would be in hospital with 2nd degree burns.
The hallway was pokey. The bathroom had a half-bath with an (old) shower fitment over it. There was no room for a full size bath in any event.
“Why don’t Italians like baths?” FfI asked to me.
Room 1 was a bedroom. 2 single beds and a mismatch of furniture (wardrobes, chest of drawers). Some of the furniture was newish. But none of it was bought at the same time or bought from the same store. Room 2 was another bedroom with one single bed and a wall unit that would not look out of place on a bonfire. In fact, that is where it should be.
All the furniture would be staying. He was adamant. The girl living there obviously was not trying to sell the place. The washed clothes were drying on a rack in the hallway.
The girl explained that she didn’t live there on her own. In fact, as FfI put it (she is American but has, obviously, lived here too long) – they are in three – a literal translation of the Italian “sono in tre” – properly translated as “there are three of us”.
That’s how they could afford the rent. Which went up €100 Euro when my friend asked how much the rent was – at least compared to the internet price.
We didn’t ask about the dogs. And neither of us bothered to question the other about it. This was, excepting for the furniture, only marginally more salubrious than the “crack den” down on the Navigli.
As FfI put it later, you wouldn’t want to go home to that. I could only whole heartedly agree
We discussed the fact that, only as a student could one live in one bedroom. Later, over lunch and coffee, we discussed the fact that, given the cramped conditions in which Italians live, it is no surprise that they spend most of their spare time out, walking, eating, meeting friends, etc. And, why they never really seem to do dinner parties – at least, not like we do.
Today is the Saint’s Day for Saint Biagio. I learnt about this because, apparently, in order to protect yourself from problems with your throat, one should eat some panettone from Christmas.
We arrive about 1 p.m. The place is heaving with people. Italians, not renowned, in my view, for moving to one side, bump and jostle with each other to get to the stalls, get to the next aisle, get to a place for food.
“Italians don’t drive at night.”
WTF??????
Obviously, spending more time with V does wonders for the odd funny comment.
Today, at lunch, I chose to have melon and parma ham. Normally served as an antipasto dish, this was the main course and, as I haven’t had it for years, I decided to give it a try.
Of course, I then had to go hunt for the final, perfect finish to the dish. My co-workers were absolutely horrified. Really! There was that horrible shock/horror moment as they watched me sprinkle black pepper over it.
It seems that this is something never done in Italy but, for me, this dish without it just doesn’t quite hit the spot.
I looked round at everyone and said:
>Well, I am English.
That seemed OK as they think I am quite weird anyway.
So, next time you have parma ham and melon in a restaurant in the UK and the waiter offers black pepper AND if they are Italian why not ask them whether this is normal for an Italian meal in Italy. It would be interesting to hear what they had to say, don’t you think?
Italians are meticulous about cleanliness…….inside their houses. Outside it can look like it’s run down or neglected. Outside they’re happy to put up with dog poop in the street, throwing litter, overflowing rubbish bins, etc. But inside the house, everything must be spotless.
The shame is that this trait does not extend to personal hygiene. OK, so that’s unfair as not all Italians are like this (and, of course, some (many) Britons suffer the same problem). However, ride on any bus/tram/metro carriage, particularly in summer, and the stench can be quite unbearable. During the summer months I regularly take 2 or three showers a day (and, on a rare occasion, four).
But last night was a tad embarrassing. There is a person, in our building, who seems to have a problem with their water supply. I think the person lives on the fifth floor but I have obviously never met them, as I would remember, believe me.
Unfortunately, when the person leaves the lift, they leave behind an odour that, to be frank, makes me want to heave. So much so that, as they normally use the right-hand lift, I now will happily wait for the left-hand lift, even if the right-hand lift is ready to go.
We were a bit worried as we wondered if the other people in the building thought it was us or, to be more precise, the dogs. I can assure you it is not. Sure, when it rains they can be a bit whiffy, but that’s a doggy smell. This smell is an unwashed-for-ages smell.
Yesterday, as we were off to visit FfI, a friend who had a rather serious accident about a week ago, I was in a bit of a rush. With the temperature at about 35 degrees or higher, going to get some trashy magazines for her followed by essentials from the supermarket (wine, vermouth – oh yes and washing powder), I ended up with about four heavy bags (they use thick glass in wine and vermouth bottles 
).
By the time I got to the flats, I was hot. I have this unfortunate ‘problem’, inherited from my Grandfather, of sweating profusely in heat when it is coupled with the slightest form of exertion. It’s not that I’m not fit, although I could be fitter. It has been happening since I was in my twenties, if not before.
But the sweating comes on big time only when I stop doing the exertion. So it was yesterday evening. I got in through the lobby door, collected the post and a lady from the fourth floor came in just after me and as the left hand lift was there, opened it. As I was getting the post, I slowed down a little. I thought ‘OK, I can wait for that lift’ (the other was on the fifth floor – and I know what that means).
However, she held the lift door open, seeing that I had a lot of bags, and offered to share the lift. I accepted and walked into the lift. The next few minutes for the lift to reach our floor seemed to last half a lifetime. >As soon as the door closed I did my usual impression of Niagara Falls. Unfortunately, it’s highly visible and there is absolutely nothing I can do to stop it. I try, in my head at least, to squash into the corner of the lift and I don’t look at her for the shame of seeing the look in her eyes. The look of shock or horror. I was grateful to escape the lift.
Then, as I am unlocking the door, I wondered if she thought it was me who made the other lift stink? I hope not.
To be honest, the heat last night (and hurrah that it has finally arrived) was so hot that no matter what I do I have a permanent film of perspiration. It gets worse after a shower, even if the shower is cool, but at least I feel clean. However, this is the weather that I prefer. I can shower as often as possible and would sooner do that than be even a little cold.
So, are they engaged, or not? I really don’t know. F was sporting a very nice diamond engagement ring – but on the third finger of her right hand!
We just couldn’t quite get a straight answer, particularly from A. They implied that, once an actual date had been set for the wedding the ring would be moved to the left hand. This was just a sort of half-commitment.
I tend to get roped into all sorts of things here on the basis that I am a native English speaker – and the only one in the company.