Tag Archives: People we like

I am learning but it seems a long lesson

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It was misty.  Not misty so that it made everything wet but a ‘high mist’ that just made the skies particularly grey and half-hid the tall tower blocks, like they had had a thin veil draped over them.  I hate this period – you know it only leads to winter and cold and wet and unpleasant and that you have to go through all that to get to February and March when things get brighter and warmer (and less dark).

The guy was sitting there with a piece of paper, seemingly engrossed with its contents.  I cannot tell you what he looked like nor how old he was.  I sensed he was not Italian and I cannot tell you why.  I was standing next to him, eyes bleary, the contact lenses grating on my eyes, which were watering anyway.  I really should have taken them out on previous nights – it’s not good to leave them in whilst you sleep.

I glanced at the page.  It looked like some sort of poem, almost.  There were 15 lines, I counted them.  And a post-it note on the bottom of the page, the page having been torn out of one of those exercise books.  This page being from one of those commonly used to do graphs.  The writing was capitalised and neat – but, still, Italian, which I find difficult to read anyway – and I was looking over his shoulder; and my eyes were not at their best – so I just counted the lines.  Actually it wasn’t that difficult although it took me a few moments to realise that.  They were grouped in sets of four lines, just like a poem.  The last group only being three and yet, in my half-awake state, I started counting from the top before realising it was four times four less one!  I felt slightly stupid, even if there were good reasons.  I was only on the metro for about 10 minutes but, in that time, he studied the page as if it were some long and difficult thing.  Even with my poor Italian, it would not have taken more than 1 minute to read – and so, why?

I guessed that, either he was learning Italian and knew less than me or that it was just a ploy so as not to look at anyone else.  The ploy I use is to keep my eyes looking at the floor being, as I am, dressed as if I’m going for an evening out; with hair that has obviously not been through a shower or, even, combed; with eyes that still have the traces of sleep and, because of the conjunctivitis (a result of not taking out my lenses in the previous 6 nights away) look like shit, the bags deep enough to put a weeks shopping in them.

Yes, I look like shit.  I am grateful, in some way, that F didn’t really wake up and that, when I kissed him goodbye about 10 minutes earlier, the room was dark and he could not see me.

I wish there was some way of getting home without having to see people – well, there is but to try and find somewhere to park and then drive home and look for somewhere to park again would probably double the time of my journey home – and I am already getting up almost an hour later than I should although F doesn’t realise this.

I decide that I can’t continue this much longer.  I’m just too old for it.  I need more sleep.

_________________________

I had told him that A wanted to go to the outlet on Sunday – for shoes.  He didn’t know where this outlet was.  He said it was dangerous as he spent money.  I thought of V.  And not in a good way.  The difference is that, although we are a couple, I am not responsible for him……yet!  And so there is none of the worry.  But, I wonder: would it be the same?  I’m not sure I could go there again and yet, it seems I attract and am attracted to these type of men.  Boh!

The outlet trip depends on what AfL wants to do and ensuring that we get back on time for the dog.

He asks if I would like to go out tomorrow (that is now today) when AfL arrives – almost certainly they will go out and he wants me to come – if I want to come, that is!  There really is no need to ask.  With or without AfL, I would be there. He will call me.

So, it will be every day that we shall see each other except, maybe, Sunday, when I will go to the outlet with A, whether F and AfL come or not.

I worry about how F and A will get on.  I want to explain to F that, although A can be a bit, shall we say, abrupt, he has a heart of gold and is, really, really, a nice guy.  I want A to like him anyway.  Which he will.  Or, at least, he will say he does; only now is he saying that he hopes F is easier to talk to than V, who he found a little difficult!  Who knew?

We cannot be late back (if F and AfL come) as F is dog sitting, remember?  And so he must be back for the dog.  Who sleeps on the bed – did I mention that?  F will be putting a sheet over the top of the bed to keep the dog from getting ‘dirt’ on the actual bedclothes.

I also have a problem.  I can’t talk about it yet.  I need to sort it out and then, maybe, I can talk about it.  I sometimes think a brain transplant would be an excellent idea!

But, last night was wonderful.  I had missed him so much and yet, I cannot continue like this.  It is wearing me out.  I’m not 30 years old now; it’s not my own business; there are too many difficulties.  It would be much easier if we lived together.

Today F goes to sort out his flat.  I wished him good luck this morning as I left.  This morning he didn’t tell me he was like porcelain.  Perhaps, because, last night, I called him on it, saying I had seen the smirk the other morning.  He grinned and said but he was like porcelain in the morning.  I said that, perhaps, it wasn’t quite true.  We hugged and kissed.

I am learning but it seems a long lesson.

In the half-light, I could see the smirk

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He tried, on the internet, to find a film in original language, bless him, even though I tried to explain that they did not have original language films on a Sunday any more.  They used to do it at the Odeon, near the Duomo but stopped it a year or so ago.  I guess not enough people went.

But he tried anyway and for that I was happy.  He had said he wanted to see the new film Julie & Julia, with Meryl Streep.  I told him that we could go and watch it anyway, even if it was in Italian.  In fact, I insisted we did as I knew how much he wanted it.  My Italian is improving, at least my understanding of it, mainly because I have less choice now and, although we speak almost exclusively English when we’re together, when we meet his friends or, in general, Italian is spoken much more often in my hearing.

We had had a rather lazy Sunday morning, including a quick trip downstairs to the nice café for breakfast followed by a quick trip round the supermarket for some essential items (including wine).  The clocks had gone back and so, effectively we had the extra hour – although, after so many days/nights like this, I was completely shattered and needed about 3 extra hours!

He was going to lunch with friends and then to see a flat that was, apparently, rather small but had a terrace and was on the top floor and, much more importantly for him, was 3 minutes from work.  This is not so important right now but the first three months of the year it is, as he works from about 8 a.m. until 10 p.m. every day.

I went home to spend some time with the dogs.  They are being a little neglected right this moment and so, when I’m home we go for longer walks and I play with them more.  Still, this week I have to spend some nights at home, which fact I still have to tell him.

We agreed that we would meet at the cinema. Before that I googled the film and got the synopsis and watched clips so that I would have a good idea of what the film was about.  It is more difficult to understand if I don’t really know the subject.  It looked a funny film.  I Skyped FfI who explained that Julia Childs was very famous in America – a sort of Fanny Craddock, I suppose.

So, when we met, I already had a good idea and could remember some of the clips.  We had quite good seats.  I did follow quite a lot of the film.  There were a couple of bits where I really didn’t quite get it but not so many and there was only one bit that I had to check with him afterwards – although I had got the gist of it after all.

Good film.  One of those feel-good films and one that I now want to see in English, to get all the nuances.  But I do think that he liked the fact that I went with him.  I hope so.  It’s all part of the strengthening of the relationship.  He also wants to see it in English.  At the end of all this, he’s speaking in English to me partly because he wants to improve his pronunciation and general command of English (although he is already very, very good).

On that subject (but see the bit about the bar, below), we went out on Saturday night to an Indian restaurant (The Dhaba, Via Castaldi 22) which has to be the best Indian restaurant I have been to in Milan.  Superb food and excellent service although, for those of you from the UK, a little expensive.

Whilst we were chatting over dinner I found that he doesn’t eat red meat – or, at least, not unless it’s minced up (ragù (Bolognese sauce to my English readers), sausages, etc.).  This would be a bit of a problem with Roast Beef and Yorkshire Pudding then?  Hmmm.  That’s a bit like really loving ice-cream and being told that you may never be able to have it again!  But he did tell me some funny stories of when he was a kid.  He still makes me laugh and I really like that.

Afterwards we went to a bar nearby (the corner of Castaldi and Via Settala) where a friend of a friend was having some special evening.  AfL, the friend, was there with her friend M.  AfL is married to an English guy and has lived in London for 5 years.  F asks me, when they have gone to the bar for another drink, if his pronunciation of English is better than AfL.  I tell him yes, of course.  It does help that it is the truth but he is immensely pleased with this.  He tries so hard to talk with a more English accent, bless.

I leave them to go and do the dogs.  I text him when I am almost back home and he tells me he is coming to pick me up in a taxi (as we had agreed).  In the taxi, on the way back to his place, he tells me that AfL (who will be staying with him next weekend) thought I was really nice.  This is good.  One should always be the best of friends with the friends and colleagues of one’s partner – certainly at the beginning.  You have all seen ‘Hitch’ haven’t you?  And the being friends with the friends is pretty crucial.  Luckily, all the ones I have met so far have been lovely so it’s not so difficult.  Anyway, I can be the perfect English gentleman with all the charm switched on, when I want.

Sunday night, after the film (we went to the 5.30 showing), we went to Al Basilico Fresco restaurant (Viale Abruzzi 21) where we had pizzas.  Nice place.  The pizzas are thin (like Pizza OK) but not so large.  Very nice and not so expensive.  I like that after the meal they give you a sorbet free of charge.  It is nicer than having a limoncello or mirto or something.

During the meal we were talking about films and cartoon films (which we both like).  His favourite was Ice Age, which I’ve never seen.  When we got home, he put the film on the DVD in the bedroom and we watched it.  It was good.  After the film was over, apparently, I went to sleep immediately!  And to be honest, I am very, very tired.  I’m almost looking forward to him going away for a night this week!  I need sleep.  Also, next weekend, it is very unlikely that we shall be together as, not only does he have AfL staying with him but also a dog, for whom he is dog sitting!  A dog who sleeps on the bed!

And, this morning, at about 6.15, just before the alarm went off, he again said that I should remember that he is like porcelain in the morning, but now I’m thinking that this may not be quite so true as, in the half-light, I could see the smirk on his face.

Strange Days Indeed

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The world is a new, brighter, more interesting world. It’s a strange thing. There is this whole new life out there that I have only just begun to explore. There was a song, by the Weather Girls – It’s Raining Men – a great gay anthem when I used to go to clubs in Manchester – and it seems so appropriate.

But, in general, it seems I’ve lost interest. Not in life or work (although, right now, work is NOT the most important thing in my life) but in trawling the sites. The new world exists outside the sites where now, every man I see becomes a potential gay man – and so many are.

But, the loss of interest in the sites worries me. As I was explaining to FfI last night. What if Gordon is not ‘the one’ and I’m making a big mistake? Today, I am meeting Othello. Othello I found through the first site I signed up on. We’re a 70% match, so they say. These sites are full of shit.

OK, I’m shallow, maybe, but crucial to anything happening between me and a guy is how he looks (and there’s still a post in draft waiting to be posted on that one). I know I’ve been spoilt – V was/is, after all, stunningly beautiful – but I can’t go for something less.

Add to this that all I can think about is Gordon, I am less than interested. Gone, out of the window, is the idea that I needed more friends who are gay; that I would have loads of sex before I got far too old – just because I never did that, really and part of me feels that I somehow missed out on all that; and that I need to keep looking for ‘Mr Right’.

But, do I have that wrong? What if Gordon is NOT the one?

So, this, being written later (this post will take 2 days to write, I feel it), I have now met Othello. We meet in the park. Othello is OK. His English is excellent – he lived in London for 5 years. He has a wicked sense of humour – very like mine. We stay in the park until he gets too cold, then go for lunch at my Saturday lunchtime café (Free Time, just off Corso Buenos Aires) which he is really impressed with; and that makes me happy. We see some guy walk past to his table. I say to Othello ‘He’s gay, isn’t he?’ (and by implication, so is the guy he’s sitting with). Othello confirms this. My gaydar seems to be getting better.

We had talked in the park. Well, mostly I did the talking. He said his life wasn’t that interesting but I did get some blood from that stone, so that was good. It seems he has never had a relationship but ‘dated’ men who already had partners. Apart from that, we have much in common, well a sense of humour, anyway.

After lunch, we take the dogs to the nearest dog area and we continue to talk and take the piss (or is it pith?) out of each other. It’s good. He would make a fine friend. And I hope he is….we shall see.

Later, Henry, who has been saying he would come (he lives out of Milan) says he will come again (this would make it about the 5th time he says he is going to come – “going to” being the operative words and “coming” not actually happening – and HE’S the reason that, on that particular day I moaned at Gordon and why Gordon and I are, possibly, maybe, perhaps, something – I do think it is a strange world full of strange coincidences). I do not think he is coming. He arrives. I am really surprised! OK so I had made an effort to make the place a little less untidy – but not really going out of my way!

He only has about 20 minutes before he must go to the party. So all the things he said he wanted to happen are simply not going to happen. But, you know, whilst Gordon and I are not yet something, I was, kind of thinking that, perhaps, maybe, I should take the opportunity….my last chance and all that………….I’m not sure if I turned him on or he was just desperate or that’s the way he is……….in about 10 minutes it was all over for him. I may need a little more time amongst other things. Anyway, he didn’t actually come to see me but was coming to a party, for which he was late. Too rushed for me. Next time, perhaps….unless Gordon becomes ‘the one’ in which case – not ever. Shame really. Cute kid (and when I say kid – I’m talking about over 20 years my junior) and he seems nice…..but, let me see…….someone who’s 40 in a full-time job with a 30-year-old body or someone who’s actually 30 and no real job and not such a body!

Hmmm. Let’s see what happens.

Later still. I am out with friends for a pizza. Again I find they have Ham and Pineapple pizza – which I have. The place is Pizza OK in Piazza 8 Novembre, near my house (i.e Porta Venezia). It’s a new selection. Still the Italians don’t go for it but it is different than the ones we used to have in the UK (and, I guess, the USA would be the same). It’s not cubed ham but slices of fresh boiled ham and not cubed pineapple from a tin but slices of very fresh, very sweet pineapple. Delicious. Oh, yes, and if you like really thin pizza base, then this pizzeria is the best I have found in Milan for that.

During the meal, Gordon phones. He is in the concert of the Diva. He wants me to listen to a song but it’s just noisy and I can’t make it out. He phones later as I walk L home. This time I recognise the song. It’s a song for me. This is sweet and lovely and, given my day, a little scary.

(Diana Ross with Ain’t No Mountain High Enough)

I have said that, if he would like, I will pick him up from the airport on Monday night. He is with one of his colleagues. I said we would take her home and, at least, I would get to spend some time with him and get a kiss or something. We both have early starts on Tuesday so that will be all – but, to me, that is important. He said he would let me know – but I explained that it would get them home faster. I hope he takes me up on it. I really do want to see him.

It’s all very confusing and they are strange days indeed for me.

A meeting with V

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We have arranged to meet on Thursday for a pizza.

Last night was the theatre.  Actually it was nowhere near as bad as I thought it might be – only being bad because I thought I would not be able to follow the play at all.  In fact it was well done, although I would have preferred it in English since I didn’t get all the sense of it.  However, I did understand some of the jokes and that was good.

We met first for an aperitivo in the theatre.  Nice food and we talked.  It became clear to me that, although he is a nice guy, he is not for me, in terms of a relationship.  He has too many other people in his life that would take precedence……..and, if I’m going to have a relationship with someone then I want to be No. 1 – not further down the list behind a 9 year-old daughter, an ex ‘love of his life’, etc.

Anyway, he’s not really so attractive even if he is rich.  Rich is not everything – in fact, although it would be very nice, it’s decidedly nothing at all – for me, anyway.  Not all my friends think like this but everyone must choose what is important for them.

Beforehand I had rung the piano-player, who also lives in Pavia.  I was due to be there, rather than writing this from home.  The conversation was all Italian.  But he thinks (as a lot of people seem to) that I can understand it perfectly.  Boh!  Anyway, he has the ‘flu so it was cancelled.

I contacted my sweet guy but he was busy today.  I still can’t get him out of my head.

Later……he is online.  Against his name it has the status of ‘Date’ which should mean he is looking for a date.  I send him a message saying that he should know that I would go on a date with him.

He tells me he is working, which I know.  I reply that, if he would like, we could go to a Tuscan restaurant that I have been told is good, nearby.

He says yes, with a grin.  Maybe, perhaps, this will be good.  He wants to be romanced and seduced and I am good at that.  My problem will be holding back and not pushing it too far.

I am just browsing the people online.  I see one profile.  It is V.  He is lying about his age, shaving over 5 years off his age.  I don’t blame him since everyone is so hung up about the age of the person (including me).  I wouldn’t look at anyone my age…even if they did look good.  After all, I want someone younger and, as I was explaining the other night, the perfect man would be in his early forties with the body of a 30-year-old!

I then see that V has looked at my profile.  So, I think, it would be rude not to send a message.

I say hello and ask him how he is.  He tells me he’s fine and asks how I am.  I say I am good. He asks what I am doing.  Am I browsing.  I say that I was supposed to be in Pavia but it was cancelled and then start my normal complaints about Italian men.  He agrees and say that if they weren’t so good looking they’d all be single.  I say they aren’t all so good looking, etc.  I also mention that an ex-colleague is coming to Milan on such-and-such date and would he like to meet up with him.

He asks if the message was meant for him.  I realise that, perhaps, he doesn’t know who he is talking to.

I give the guy’s last name.

He asks if I am me (if you see what I mean).

I reply that yes, I am me and thought he would recognise the jeans!  (Since there is no face picture).

From there we have quite a funny conversation.  At one point he tells me that he was about to ask me out on a date.  Now that would have been funny.  I tell him that, if he had done that, I would have suggested Thursday.  Then we started talking about domestic stuff……Could I have some sunglasses, he has some cushion covers to give me, etc., etc.

I don’t know why, but it was a really pleasant conversation that we had.  It seemed so much easier over the chat and no pressure or crap.

Of course, I thought that, sooner or late, we would meet up online and I was a little worried.  However, it was very nice in the end.  I wonder too if, at some point, I will meet other people that I know……?

I wonder, if V hadn’t been my partner for all those years and I had found him here now, would I be going out on a date on Thursday as John (my onscreen name)?  Interesting thought, isn’t it?

And it continues…..

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No. of times out and about today – 1
No. of checkouts/flirts made at me – 2
No. of flirts by me in return – 1

The exhibition was, quite frankly almost nothing – and that nothing was crap.  However, I met with lots of friends and had a really nice time.  Martin was there.  He’s nice enough but he is far too camp for me and tends to ‘paw’, which makes me want to move away from him.  However, he introduced me to Robert.

Robert was really nice, a photographer, with, what he called a magazine but was, in fact, more like a book.  He called it ‘serious and boring’ which I found amusing as it was hardly a big sell on his part.

However, I did recognise he was gay, even if he wasn’t camp – greying hair, pretty, probably mid forties.

I flirted with him and he with me.  It was cool.  Nothing happened but, who knows for the future.  Cool job, cool guy.

Dennis has booked some restaurant for tonight; he is sweet and it’s all very touching – at least this is how the dating thing is supposed to go.  My problem is that I feel, somewhat, guilty about the fact that, on my part, this may be going nowhere.  But let’s see what tonight brings.

Gordon, whom I text to ask if Thursday is still on, suggests that it probably is but that, as it’s Fashion Week (one can tell, if only by the amount of bloody traffic and the difficulty with parking), he can’t be certain.  My heart sinks a bit.  I’m kind of fed up with everyone being ‘something’ in fashion – even though I know that being one of the fashion cities of the world and fashion seemingly having a larger ‘gay population’ than most industries, this is almost inevitable.  Still I text him back to say that good things are always worth waiting for, which he obviously likes – but then being charming I can do, when I want.

I don’t want you to get the wrong impression about this whole thing.  I am seriously looking for the ‘Mr Right’ and I know that only by getting out there will I find him.  This all may seem rather cold to you but this is the way I work and the way that I can focus on it all.  However, I suppose it does seem more like I’m looking for a new apartment rather than looking for a human being.  Still, logic and method is me and I can’t change that.  In fact, for me, this is far better than trying to go to some club and much less haphazard.

Oh, yes, and I keep coming across foot-fetish people.  It seems there are a lot of them about………who would have known? :-)

…..the post in which I explain how I am becoming paranoid (oh, yes, and some other things)…..

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No. of times out and about today – 1
No. of stares noticed – 1
No. of long/strange stares – 1

So, I’m now ‘on’ several sites.  I’ve actually only paid money for 2 of them so the others have very limited access – i.e. I can look and people can look at me but it’s a little like being in a soundproof glass box, it doesn’t matter if I were to scream, no one could hear me.

On some of them, I have my picture.  There is a very good reason for this.  I don’t look my age and, unfortunately, my age is against me in that, most people seem to be looking for someone who is a couple/five/ten years younger than me – so I need them to ‘see’ that I don’t look my age.

Also, and I can assure you this may seem very shallow but it isn’t, people pick people on looks.  It’s a good job we all like different sorts of people but absolutely, one of our major deciding factors in who we will consider, is their look.

So, I am looking for someone like me, more or less.  Not too fat, not too much muscle, not too camp.

Now, on the one site which is, mainly, for people looking for other than sex (well, I think that’s true) and one of the ones I have actually paid for, I’ve made an observation which I will share.

The Spanish, in spite of they’re being a Catholic country, have the most profiles that include pictures.  I reckon about 90% have pictures.  The French would be next at, probably, about 70-80%.  The British next with about 50-60% and, finally, the Italians.  The Italians boast about 30% of profiles with pictures.  My profile has a picture, of course.

Some of my friends have a theory about why this is – according to them it is because so many of them are married men who haven’t quite come to terms with being gay.  Admittedly, many here, in Italy, say they are bi rather than gay, which is, to me, a little disconcerting.

I have now added to my profile that I won’t contact people who don’t have photos.

But there has been a side effect of this.  I have become paranoid.

t seems (although I do realise it is probably all in my head) that men have been staring at me much more than before.  And I mean to say really staring.

So, the other night, at a restaurant, a guy coming out from the toilets, smiled (maybe at me) or (it being all in my head) at someone at the table he was sitting at (which was behind me).  He looked familiar, sort of.  Me, being me, just couldn’t smile back, which I must improve upon.

Then, this morning, at the supermarket, this guy couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off me.  Not that he was looking at me in a particularly pleasant way but he did make a point, at one stage, of looking over the top of his sunglasses to get a better look at me.  There have been many more occasions than just these two but I can’t remember the details.

Now, for those of you not in Italy, this would be almost a certainty – especially if you live in the UK.  However, here, as I have blogged before, staring is a thing that Italians do.  They will not look away, as they would in the UK, in embarrassment, the moment you look at them but will hold the stare and will even be quite open about looking you up and down, checking what you’re wearing, etc.

However, it seems, to me, that this is happening on a daily basis now.  And, as I can’t see pictures on most profiles, I have no idea whether that’s because a) they’ve seen me on one of the sites, b) because I look strange and foreign, c) because they just fancy me or d) because they’re just Italian.

In any event, I now keep thinking it must be a or b (and I mention b because now that V isn’t here to tell me I look OK I don’t know that I do – perhaps I am dressed strangely or have my flies open or my hair looks weird or I am odd in some other way).  Either way, it is starting to get to me and make me feel nervous and less sure of myself (sometimes) and this is not good.

Yesterday, I went to Mantova for the Festivaletteratura (Book/Writers Festival).  The basic story goes like this:

  1. Every year for the past 6 years or so, V & I have been guests of the Festival – free accommodation; free entry to events; mostly free food, etc.
  2. This year V & I said we would go.
  3. Unfortunately, they could not provide free accommodation.
  4. Because I would have had to put the dogs in kennels (which is expensive) and pay for a hotel room and because V has just moved house, we said we wouldn’t go but would come for the day on Friday.
  5. M asked if we could do last minute and I said ‘yes’ (V confirmed with me later that this was true for him too).
  6. Wednesday/Thursday I get email from M to say they have room for Friday and Saturday night.
  7. V said he couldn’t come (no surprise really – he seems to be totally unreliable now and I’m still waiting for the sofa swap!)
  8. I couldn’t find anyone to look after the dogs.
  9. I go yesterday for the day only.

Although, I really did have a nice day.  Got back about midnight.

Saw FfI and Friend with Shop in Isola (FwSiI) the other night for a pizza.  It was lovely, except FwSiI is not doing really great right now (problems with marriage, shop not doing so well in these crisis days).  So she was a bit down and now thinking of packing everything in and moving back to London (which would be a great shame as I, for one, would miss her).

Picked Rufus up from his vacation a few nights ago.  Need to cut his fringe as he’s now bumping into things left, right and centre (that was when we went for meal and cute guy smiled at me (maybe)).  However, as Dino and Rufus had been apart for more than a week, after a couple of hours back home I was ready to send Rufus back or kill them both.  Obviously we had to go through the bit where they had to re-establish who was top dog.  Much bothering by Dino and much growling by Rufus.  Much ignoring of me when I shouted at them.  However, all is now back to normal, even if Rufus is not so good right now.

Agreed with S the computer set-up that I need and his suggestion for my new mobile phone (cell).  Need to go and sort that and was going to do it this afternoon but now I have to Skype someone at 4 so it may be Monday now, damn!

That’s all really.

What I will do though, going back to my new paranoia, is document how many times I get stared at by strange men.  Of course, I’ll tell you when/if one of those turns out to be the real deal…..

The Tiber; Via Appia; Roman eating

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On the banks of the Tiber, as a temporary thing (but every summer), they have bars.  There was a ‘literary’ bar, where, apparently authors come to read some work and take questions from the audience – except that it is a bar and in the open air but, apparently, no talking between patrons is allowed.

We selected a bar that did not have the piped music, the music from the other bars being at the right level for background music.

We ordered our drinks, mine an Americano, as always.  The weir nearby was loud enough so that we had to speak clearly but it was not strained, the noise of the water being a pleasant accompaniment to the conversation and the sound giving one the feeling of ‘cool’ even if it was not.  This was warmer than Milan but not quite as stuffy as Milan can get – maybe the water, maybe the breeze that was more in evidence here.

The waitress appeared with the drinks and we paid.

As she came back with the change, they decided to put on their music and the music emitted from a speaker which, unfortunately, was just behind us and which we had missed.  It meant that conversation was closer to the sort that one has in a disco or club.  Still, it was a very nice place, this island in the Tiber.

After, FfR had booked a restaurant on the edge of the Jewish Quarter in Rome (I didn’t even know they had one, although, thinking about it, of course, they would have it).

The restaurant was Hostaria Giggetto Al Portico D’Ottavia.  The meal was really lovely (the company unbeatable, of course), the main thing that was a specialty, was the deep-fried globe artichoke as an antipasto.  Absolutely delicious.  I also had pasta with cheese and something else that I forget now and a kind of lamb stew.  It had been a toss up between that and the oxtail, which I haven’t had for years.

The whole thing was delicious and not over-expensive at all (€35 per head including wine, coffee, etc.).

The following night with FfR’s sister and brother-in-law, we had some super pizzas at Baffetto2, near the Campo de’ Fiori during which time I found I had so much more in common with FfR’s sister than I could have imagined – apart from the amount we both smoke, that is!

I passed both the Vatican and the Forum as we were driving but that was about as touristy as it got, and for which I was really pleased as I’ve done the tourist thing there every time and it was really nice to not be doing that this time.

Although, we did do a four-hour stint along the Via Appia, lined as it is with the tombs, in nearly 40°C heat and not nearly as much shade as FfR thought, nor the breeze that she had pictured.  We stopped at this café where they were kind enough to come out with bowls for the dogs and a jug of iced water.  It’s one thing I’ve noticed about Italy – stop at any café with dogs when its warm and they invariably offer water for them.

Hopefully I will be able to get back there soon as Rome took on a completely different and very pleasant flavour.

In Como with true friends.

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In_Como_with_true_friends

Last thing I remember, I was
Running for the door
I had to find the passage back
To the place I was before

Hotel California – The Eagles

And the conversation over dinner in this rather nice and not so expensive pizzeria, in some square in Como, was a distraction from the current feeling and A was very concerned and, what’s more, I could see it in his eyes. For all that I complain about him, I could tell that this was true and that, even if he thinks I am some sort of alien, he does, really, actually, care about me as a friend. And I am grateful for that.

He has said he will call me from his holiday to check up on me and see how things are going.

I am supported by friends and, even if they cannot take this away from me, it is good to know that if or when I crash and burn, they will be there.

We had been to Fox Town, as I mentioned a couple of posts ago. I had wandered round Iceberg and found a very nice, blue suede jacket/shirt thing. I tried it on because it was so nice. It had the outlet price as half of the original but was just way out of my range and I wouldn’t have paid so much.

I had put it back on the rail and had wandered around more of the store, picking things up, giving a cursory glance, putting the stuff back. Neither caring nor interested, really, in what I was doing.

A came over to explain why they were taking so long. It seemed that the 60 or 70% sticker was the extra discount, not on the original price but on the discounted price. At first I didn’t believe him. But he insisted. So I went round to the rail on which this blue shirt/jacket was and calculated how much it was now.

It’s one thing that V has given me. I know that, this thing, although only a thing and, therefore, not important, can be worn for years and still look good. So, suddenly the price was not only affordable but, for something that will be worn so much, well worth it. I was very happy about it, as much as I could be given the circumstances – and it was the first time I have bought something that I didn’t strictly need for about 3 years.

After shopping, we were to have gone to Lugano but because it was late, we went to Como instead, somewhere I have never visited before (although I have been on a train through the station).

We sat and had aperos overlooking the Duomo and then went to the pizzeria which had been recommended. The pizza was good – not the best – but good. I’m sorry but I forgot to take a card so I cannot tell you the name.

And there, rather than pooh-pooh my story, which, in any event was difficult to explain and posed as many questions as it gave answers, is where A showed how genuine he was; how understanding; how much of a friend he was.

His advice coincides with my plan. I don’t know whether it’s the right thing to do but it is the only thing I can do. The only question now is ‘how’?

However, right now, with this tiredness and the situation, I could burst into tears – which is certainly not a very blokish thing to do – but I can tell I am only a step away from that. Let’s hope I can keep it together until I get home, at least.

Hawaiian Pizza in Milan?; Gay shirts!

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Hawaiian_Pizza_in_Milan_Gay_shirts

I have to hand it to A.  He doesn’t understand me at all.  It’s like I’m some sort of alien from some distant planet.  Maybe that’s why I like him, in spite of himself?

Anyway, he rings me and talks about going for a pizza.  Apparently, F really ‘cares for me’.  He wonders why people like me.  Me too.  I think that he says that because he’s also slightly jealous.  Don’t worry, if I understood why people seem to care about me, I would tell him the secret.

I suggest apero at mine – I have some Boursault cheese (both normal and Goat varieties) and I’ve been wanting him to try it and, after F’s love of Stilton, her too.

They come over.  F adores the cheese.  I feel she has had somewhat of a sheltered life when it comes to food and I like to be able to introduce her to new tastes which are not Italian – and she seems to like it too.  I think that this also makes A slightly jealous – but, really, he has nothing to be jealous about.

A wonders if my next love will be a woman.  He just does not understand at all.

‘But, you’ve been with women before’, he states.

‘That was over 30 years ago’, I reply, ‘before I found men’.

They are going to Fox Town again.  They invite me.  I ask F if the cute guy still works in Iceberg.  It’s a kind of joke that A doesn’t get at all.  F says yes so I say I’m coming.  She gets it and laughs.  A can’t remember him at all and he is definitely uncomfortable with the whole idea.  Well, if he’s my friend then he needs to get used to it.

We go to see F’s flat which has been ‘done out’ ready for rent.  Nearby is this pizza place that F likes and they have found in the last few weeks.

We go.  The pizzeria is called La Masseria – Via Feltre, 19.

I look down the list of pizzas and spot Hawaii.  Incredible!  Every Italian I’ve spoken to pulls a face at the idea of Hawaiian pizza but, here it is, on the menu in an area that is certainly NOT touristy.

I order it.  It is even better than any I’ve had in the UK because they have used fresh pineapple and it is really juicy.  The flavours of the sweet pineapple with the good prosciutto is sublime.  F tries it and doesn’t like it.  I didn’t expect her to, to be honest.  However, in all the time I have been in Italy this is the first time I’ve seen Hawaiian pizza on the menu.

I had remarked on A’s shirt.  Unusually, for him, the shirt is rather striking – brown, with a large printed pattern on the front.  F doesn’t like it.  After the pizza A explains that it is because she thinks it is a gay shirt!  I feign shock and horror for a moment but, actually, I think it is really funny.  She explains that she doesn’t like it on him – and that’s probably because he dresses like a fifty-year-old man already!

Everything is black or white here (or, rather, left or right)

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Everything_is_black_or_white_here_or_rather_left_or_right

We were sitting, having a coffee after lunch. Not a truly memorable lunch in terms of food but not horrible, just not memorable (even if I can remember it). At least the food itself. The rest of it was as memorable as things get for my memory, or, maybe more so, since I am remembering this.

He selected to have brown sugar and I selected white.

He explained that, here, in this passionate land, everything has a political side, even sugar. Selecting white meant you were right-wing and brown, left-wing. I immediately felt quite guilty with selecting white, not because I am left-wing or right-wing, since I am probably neither but because he might have seen it as being one side or the other and, at this stage in the conversation, I didn’t want these preconceptions clouding anything. He said that he takes no notice of these things but you never know and I didn’t want him to judge me. For me it is a practical choice – I select it, in general, because it dissolves better, especially in Italian coffee which is not boiling as it would be in the UK.

Anyway, it was stupid to feel guilty but there you go.

I mentioned that my colleague at work (who so kindly brought back some Boursault (although the goat variety, so I’m not sure if that will be as good) from her holiday at her house (flat) in the South of France) had told me that there was a perfume that was associated here, in Italy, with the left or right but I could not remember.

I said I would ask her when she came back.

I recalled our conversation. I asked her. Yes, it is true, she said. She could not, immediately remember the correct spelling and I could not find it on-line. Eventually I found it. It is called patchouli oil.

She didn’t believe the ‘sugar’ thing, when I had explained. She went on to say that she hates the smell of patchouli oil – but that is because she is right-wing, I’m almost certain.

For me I hate both strong right-wing and strong left-wing because neither of them allow any middle ground and not everything is black or white but, rather, shades of grey.

And that is true for everything.

I did add, to my colleague that ‘you Italians seem very strange, sometimes’.  I’m sure I am strange to them so we’re all equal on that score.