Tag Archives: Italy

This is the Endy ……. and other Italian/English things.

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I don’t and can’t get upset about it.

F’s Mum has a problem with my name and it’s become a bit of a joke within the family. Even though she has been corrected a number of times, she still calls me Wendy. It makes me laugh and I thought it was only her but it seems not.

M, as I mentioned in a previous post, booked tables in the two restaurants for me. As she booked the table, in both cases, she told them that it was Andy with a “y” (ipsilon), just to be clear.

For Griffone, the table was, indeed, reserved. There was a handwritten note on the table with my name. Except it wasn’t quite my name – it was, in fact, written as Endy.

It made me smile.

On the differences between the language, Italians (those who know something of English) realise that adding “ly” to an adjective creates an adverb. So quick becomes quickly, horrible becomes horribly, etc.

Except, of course, for exceptions. One of these exceptions is “hard”, especially used in situations where you mean “a lot” – like work.

It makes me laugh to read “I was working hardly” when what they mean is “I was working hard” :-) But it’s not really their fault – the rule is well and truly broken for this word.

And, of course, there are those words that we use that have more than one meaning – except that, the meanings don’t always coincide – making them, somewhat, “false friends”. If you say that someone is/seems miserable you mean (quite clearly) that they are/seem unhappy, sad, etc.

Unfortunately, miserabile, in Italian, when used to describe a person, is something like low-life or wretch. Not quite the same thing.

Second Floor?

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“It’s on the first floor,” he says.

He gives some instructions but I only listen to the first bit – “turn right out of the lift”

My room is 257. Strange that. Usually, rooms on the first floor start with a “1”. But I don’t really pay heed.

I turn left and follow the signs. I’m in a hurry. There’s a beer with my name on it. It’s Mantova. It’s what I do here.

After twisting and turning through the maze of corridors that seemed to go on forever, I see the sign for some rooms in the two-hundreds pointing up some stairs.

The room IS on the second floor after all. And now I remember him saying something about “stairs”.

I reach the second floor and see why. There are a handful of rooms on this “dead-end” floor. The only way back out is down those stairs to the first floor!

It felt like it had taken me about 20 minutes to get here.

Of course, subsequent journeys to my room were quicker – seemed quicker. But it’s always that way. When you don’t know the way the journey doubles or triples in time and distance but once you know the way, then it’s OK.

Anyway, “second floor” made me think of this. Enjoy


Suzanne Vega – Luka

Mantova – hotel and food; My “meat” place near Carrara will close :'(

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Change. It’s what happens. Some people welcome change, some put up with it and some hate change but, in any event, it’s inevitable.

People change, places change and restaurants change.

I mention this because one of the highlights of my trips to Mantova for the Festivaletteratura is a visit to Grifone Bianco, right in the centre of Mantova. The service has always been perfect, the food “to die for” and they always remember me even if I only go once a year!

So, I’m in Mantova for the Festival and I go to see M, who is the manager of the festival, to ask the usual questions – i.e. what events should I go and see and the booking of restaurants.

I was there for almost 2 days this year, staying overnight in the Albergo Bianchi Stazione. A decent hotel with rather good, helpful staff. My room was clean and tidy and as it is right opposite the station, it was very convenient. A 10 minute or so walk to the centre of Mantova.

So, my plan was one dinner and one lunch. I thought that a Saturday night dinner would be nice and then Sunday lunch – as I wasn’t driving, drinking wasn’t a problem :-)

Obviously, I just had to go to my favourite restaurant and thought Sunday lunch, in the sun (hopefully) would be rather nice. As it turned out there wasn’t to be sun and, even a smattering of rain. But that didn’t really matter for M told me that it had changed hands. Massimo, the owner, still owned the building but, so the story goes, a guy walked in last year and offered to rent the whole thing, as it was, for what must have been a ridiculous sum of money. M told me that one person who had gone there during the festival had said he’s waited over 3 hours to be served the food after ordering! So we decided on two different restaurants. Sunday was booked no problem but the one we chose for Saturday night was already fully booked. So, we booked Grifone Bianco anyway with the promise that I would tell her how it was.

In the past, the waiting staff were rather good. They seemed to have all been there for years, they knew what they were doing and it was rather splendid. As was the food. This time, however, the waiting staff were all quite young and, it seemed, they had been taken on for the festival as they didn’t seem to really know what they were doing. Having said that, it wasn’t bad service – it just seemed a bit “hectic” whereas the old staff made it seem effortless.

As for the food, well, I had the same as usual – affettato misto (a mix of local salami and cold cuts with parmesan cheese), tortelli di zucca (like ravioli with a pumpkin filling – a speciality of Mantova) and stracotto d’asino (a stew made with donkey meat – another speciality of Mantova and really more of a winter dish – it comes with polenta).

But, I’m sorry to say that, although my choice of food was, more or less, the same as last year, the food was definitely NOT the same. The thing that I like about the affettato misto is that it come with mostarda a kind of pickled fruit with a slight mustard taste. Mostarda is another speciality of Mantova. Except now, at Grifone, there is no mostarda – plus the coppa looked a bit dry, to be honest.

Then the tortelli – beautifully rich yellow squares of deliciousness – but not in this case. The taste was OK but the look was not quite so nice. The stracotto was OK and, more or less, the same as always.

But it definitely wasn’t the same restaurant which is a shame. Will it still have a good enough reputation in three years time when it goes back to Massimo? We shall see.

And, on the change note, this may be the last time that La Brace, near Carrara will be open. This is my “meat” place for Carrara and something I always look forward to – a little like Grifone in Mantova. We went there in the summer, as usual, to learn that the couple who run it are thinking of retiring by Christmas and, rather than sell it as a going concern, they’re going to convert the place back to a house and then sell up! It was a bit of a shock and now I wonder if I can survive for a whole holiday without my “meat fix”. We shall have to find somewhere else, for sure.

Back in Mantova – I took Saturday lunch in the enormous “canteen” they run at the festival for volunteers, staff and guests. With my ticket, I was permitted to go into the guest room. The food is rather good. It’s quite full but there’s a table partly free near the door in that there are two people sitting there but 3 spare places. I ask if I can sit there and am told yes. I hear that they are speaking English (although one of them is Italian). The Italian lady (realising I’m English because of my English pronunciation of Italian) asks me, in English, if I would like some water, which I take. The English lady asks if I am an author. I say that I am not – just a friend of the festival. I ask her if she is an author and yes she is. She is, in fact, Margaret Drabble! I am embarrassed. I feel I should have recognised her but, you know, authors aren’t generally like other celebrities – their photos are not splashed all over the newspapers in the way that showbiz people photos are! Still, I feel embarrassed and, as usual when I’m that embarrassed, I come out with something so annoyingly asinine which, thank goodness, I only realised was so trite and terrible some hours later. However, we chat for a little while about Mantova and Milan and where she lives, etc. Bless her, she ignored my opening lines.

Sunday lunch, on the other hand was truly delightful. The place was L’Ochina Bianca (little white goose), M’s favourite restaurant at the moment. It’s cosy atmosphere fuelled by seeming to be sitting in someone’s front parlour, was made more so by the slight informality of the place. As if I had been invited over for a Sunday lunch with Italian friends. Of course, it was a restaurant and not someone’s house. But, still, it was lovely. I chose to have the Salame mantovano to start. Now this was more like it. A delightful selection of Mantovan salami, ciccioli (which would best be described as pork scratching – absolutely wonderful), mostarda (properly “home made”), grana (like parmesan cheese) and gras pistà (I’ve no idea what this was – it was like soft polenta with something similar to creamed gorgonzola). I skipped the pasta dish although, in hindsight, it would have been worth trying their tortelli. I chose the Guanciale di manzo stufato con verdure – beef cheek stew with vegetables and polenta. Incredible! Luckily, they also do fish so should F ever come with me (I’m still hoping), it’s perfect for both of us. I will be going back there, for certain.

So, although disappointed with the change at Grifone, I’m quite happy to have found the little white goose thanks to M.

I am, now, of course, very fat!

Wild all-nighters

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As I mentioned in my previous post, Saturday night was the Notte Bianca in Marina di Massa.

Effectively this is an “all-nighter” but rather than a single club, in the whole town. There are stalls (selling trinkets and hand-made stuff (i.e. crap), food and, in the case of the one on Saturday, beer (which, of course, we had to try)).

And what I forgot to mention in the last post was something I thought of whilst we were watching the concert.

The street were FULL! Absolutely packed with families, couples, children and ……. YOUTHS.

And, what struck me was that, in the UK, such a thing would have been a night for DRINKING. And by drinking I mean alcohol and lots of it. So, there would have been young people who, almost certainly, would have had a little (read A LOT) too much to drink – by about 11 p.m., if not before – and would be staggering around, possibly vomiting, possibly lying in the street and probably fighting. The weather was warm and very pleasant.

There were indeed “gangs of youths” – but they were walking around in groups, talking, laughing and, although they had possibly (even probably) been drinking, there was no staggering that I saw, certainly no vomiting or lying in the street and definitely no fighting. Italians don’t tend to drink alcohol until they can hardly stand up. They seem to know when enough is enough. And, even if they do get drunk, their pleasant side seems to come out.

Italy makes me feel safe. I can walk the street of a city (although I’m sure there are areas of any city where walking around could be a little hazardous) and not feel I have to keep an eye out for drunk people who just want to fight.

Maybe, after we left (about 1.30 a.m. – so quite early, I suppose) it got more like a British all-nighter – but I doubt it.

I know that there are stories about kids getting drunk more often. But I don’t really see it much (and I live in an area of Milan with many popular bars for the yoof of Milan). And, certainly, there’s not the aggressiveness between people that there is in the UK (especially when mixed with a bit of alcohol). So, one can enjoy it. If I had kids, I wouldn’t be worried about them being with me at these events. It would be OK. And there are many young children and babies around.

I wonder if this aggressive streak in something in our genes?

Anyway, for me, it’s one of the beautiful things about Italy. Thank goodness it’s too expensive for hordes of Brits to descend upon and create a more dangerous and unpleasant place.

Fig sandwich

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Last weekend was “at the beach”. And a long weekend too as we took Monday off.

When I say “at the beach”, that wasn’t really all. The weekend was also about partying till very, very late – which we really hadn’t done all summer. Partying till late meant getting up later and, therefore, getting to the beach later – but now, as most people have already gone back to work after the 3 or 4 week summer holidays, the place was quieter and we could find parking, etc.

Friday night was a surprise party given for a mother who has recently had a kidney transplant by her son. It included all the nurses who had been looking after her during her 4 years or so of dialysis. It was lovely and included a sit-down dinner/supper. We got home at about 2.30 a.m.

Saturday night was dinner (although we all had pizza) at a restaurant in Marina di Massa (the next beach town down from Marina di Carrara), on the terrace of a restaurant which overlooked the main square. The point wasn’t dinner at all but watching a concert in the main square. It was also Notte Bianca (White Night) in Marina di Massa. Notte Bianca is when everything (more or less) stays open late into the night (or early the next morning) – it’s a little like an all-night street party. I’ve never stayed until the end so I’ve no idea if it is really “all night” or not. Anyway, there were also fireworks on the beach and the place was heaving! We had such a great position above it all. Loredana Bertè was the headlining act and she sang for almost two and a half hours! For those of you who haven’t heard of her, she was a very popular and famous Italian singer in the late 70s and 80s and was once the girlfriend of Bjorn Borg. Since then drugs and stuff have taken their toll and she’s supposed to be a little bit wacko and unpredictable but …… she gave a good concert even if I didn’t know the songs.

Anyway, here she is:

But, here again, I’m going to talk about food. Italian food, of course, but mixed with a little bit of English retrospective.

I remember, when we were kids and used to go to my grandmother and grandfather’s for Sunday lunch, that, sometimes, sweet would be fruit cocktail. Not, in those days, made by hand but out of a tin. And, in some throwback from the second World War, there was always bread and butter. Now, I also hated having fruit with bread and butter. I just didn’t get it at all. The taste and textures just did not mix.

Moving on and I remember things like chip butties (sandwiches) which many people used to love and I just couldn’t stomach. The idea of carbohydrates with a filling of carbohydrates just didn’t really mix well and the couple of times I was persuaded to try them I found myself gagging at the mix of bread and potato I was trying to force down my throat.

There were also, at one time, banana sandwiches. I had the same problem with them as fruit cocktail and bread and butter – they didn’t really compliment each other in my mind.

The only thing I could go for was jam sandwiches. Jam was, somehow, different.

Since coming to Italy I have been made aware of Nutella and, with it being a kind of spread, it is often used on bread. I’m not a big fan. It’s OK but I could live without it (although many people can’t, it seems).

When we arrived at the beach on the Saturday morning, one of the ladies at the café was proudly showing us the figs that she had picked from her garden that morning and gave us one each to try. They were lovely.

Although we don’t usually have lunch at the beach, F decided that he wanted a sandwich and so he went to buy one.

Now, I’m sure most of you will know of the Italian dish Melon and Parma Ham. Well, here, they also do Parma ham with figs which is just as nice and a great option if you can get really sweet figs (peel them and then drape Parma ham over them – as you would do the the melon dish).

What he came back with was focaccia with figs. He shared half with me. My initial reaction was that it didn’t taste right. I mean to say, fruit with bread (although focaccia is really a leavened pizza base)! Apparently, he had asked for fig and prosciutto – but only if the prosciutto was without fat and, quite obviously, it wasn’t.

Then I got to thinking about jam sandwiches and this was, after all, a little like a fig jam sandwich. So, after laughing about it, I had to concede that it was very nice.

Of course, these figs were very fresh, very sweet and not from a supermarket.

I think I would have preferred to have the ham as well, even with some fat, but it was very nice after all.

Autumn brings ………………. something to look forward to

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Well, in two days it will be September and, so Autumn.

Actually, since last weekend, it’s felt like Autumn. There’s been quite a bit of rain and the nights are cold. So much so that two nights ago we put the sort-of-duvet on the bed again. I don’t think I’ve ever done it so early!

Apart from the cold weather and rain which I do hate, Autumn/September brings one other thing – the Mantova book festival – Festivaletteratura!.

Once again, F will be too busy to come, which is a shame. In fact, for this festival he will be away in Greece opening new stores/concessions for the company. However, in another way, it’s kind of better in that I get to do what I want and see what I want. There’s also the slight possibility that I shall be able to stay overnight which would be great because maybe I can go to Scritture Giovani – which I love.

So we shall see but, in any case, I shall go for the Saturday and, depending on the weather, hope to have my usual stroll around the town, go to some events and meet up with old friends (and eat some lovely food).

It’s really brightened up this cold, miserable, rainy day for me :-)

There will be a room for cleaning products!

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It should be good. Why on earth, then, was I felt left feeling uneasy? Almost to the point of being scared? It doesn’t make sense, even to me.

I’ve just spent three weeks at F’s flat in Carrara. It’s not the “perfect” house, by any means. First, he shares it with his brother (at the moment) and that means that his brother “leaves” a mess which causes stress to F (and so, to me).

Then the house has not been “done up” since it was built (more or less) – the kitchen is old (but serviceable); there is only cold water in the bathroom sink; the hot water boiler sometimes gives you hot water but, mostly, gives tepid water; the toilet has been “fixed” (since last year when we used to have to use a bucket of water to flush it) but the plumber or whoever did it didn’t clear air out of the pipes and so it makes a terrible noise (you have to leave the cold tap running in the sink until the toilet cistern is full); the garden is not really grassed as such but is full of that rough grass; etc., etc.

It’s a house (or, rather, two flats) built in the 50s, I guess. It’s not really my “style”.

But, I’m not complaining. It’s been great to go there for weekends and holidays. The dogs love it and this year even F agreed that we had a very relaxing holiday.

He wants to do it up. The old guy who lives upstairs is a sort-of relation. In any event, in his will, the flat goes to F’s brother (he who used to look like Johnny Depp but doesn’t any more). But it needs a lot of work done – new roof, the walls need to be re-done (as they’re letting in damp) and, as part of the deal, F will pay for the repairs and his brother will sign over his half of the ground floor flat to F. It just needs to be made to happen.

But F really wants this. And, the night before last when we were out with An (where I had tartare which was incredible – I will put details of the restaurant up later), F was excitedly telling her about what he wants to do with the flat. Which walls he was going to knock down, how he was going to arrange everything, how there would be room for me to do English lessons ……..

This is something (the English lessons part) that he mentions regularly. This is the good thing. Isn’t it?

Well, yes it is. It means he is thinking of our future, not just his. He’s thinking of us living there and me doing lessons as a real job (which, of course, is about the only thing I could do there).

And that’s the problem, I suppose. For one thing, I don’t really think of the future any more. I stopped doing that more or less after I left England. Now, even thinking about next year is a rarity, let alone a few years hence.

The second thing is that, although this future includes me, I don’t have any real say over how the house should be done. Oh sure, I’ve made a couple of suggestions but, as I won’t be paying for it, I don’t really feel I have any right to say much.

For example, he draws the furniture in. It’s not my furniture. I’m attached to the furniture I have. I know it’s not important and I try not to be attached to anything any more. After all they’re only “things” which are not really important (those of you who read my blog know this already), it’s experiences and friends and the dogs that are important. Things can be replaced, destroyed, etc. They have no feeling. But, you know, if I’m going to be there, in this future he’s creating, I want something of mine.

I think.

So, suddenly, I came over quite cold and scared. The future. A future with me. But without things that are part of me. All these things make me a little uneasy.

However, to lighten the post a little, at one point he is describing the “laundry room” that he will create. It will have the washing machine and some shelves. On one side it will have shoe storage (he’s a bit of a maniac about shoes – they have to be aired and they have to be stored – usually in individual boxes). On the other side, I suggested we could put the sheets, towels, etc.

“Oh no!” he exclaimed, “this is where we will put the cleaning stuff.”

I laughed and laughed. The room will be mostly cleaning products. As I pointed out, he’s the only person I know who would build a room for cleaning stuff. Bless.

Away

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Well ……….

Sorry for the lack of posts over the last few days but my phone is getting worse and I’m worried that it would break whilst I’m away. Obviously, I wanted to make sure that all my contacts and calendar entries were safe, so I looked online to determine how to transfer these to keep them safe.

Apparently, there’s no really secure way and so, over the last few days I have been transferring contacts and calendar entries across to my email system, manually. One day these phone companies will properly understand that you want to keep everything and transfer them to the next phone.

So, I have been busy and, also, someone at work asked me for historical details of a previous project – so, in between entering all my details, I have been finding this information and sending it to them.

And now we’re on the last day. There’s still some of the last task to do but, in about seven hours from me writing this (or earlier, maybe), I shall be on my way home for three weeks of holiday. As such, Internet connection will be more difficult (with my phone as it is and with the house not having Internet connection) and it is highly likely that I won’t post anything nor respond to anyone much over the 3 weeks. I can, of course, get access in an emergency.

And the plan?

Well, F has only 2 weeks (the first two of my three) and, given that, on the 14th and 15th August, Marina di Carrara celebrates the public holiday with fireworks on the sea (and Dino does not like fireworks), we may, if all goes well, go away to Umbria for a few days or even a week – somewhere away from people and, as long as there are places to walk the dogs and a swimming pool, we will be very happy. Also, for F, it means a real break – and that will make him very happy and so, in consequence, I, too, will be very happy.

If I get the chance to post something, I will, particularly if we go to somewhere in Umbria.

In the meantime, should you also be on holiday (Lola) or not (Gail), have a great three weeks and I’ll see you when I get back.

Holiday; Weather; Books; BMWi3

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You know that thing?

You’re on holiday.

You wake up in the morning and go out onto the balcony and the sky is that strong blue and the temperature is such that a pair of shorts and a T-shirt is more than enough to wear.

That. That thing.

Well, that’s what it’s like for me nearly every day in the summer here. Like I’m on holiday :-)

Anyway, last weekend, I started two books. Quinn’s Way and Bleak House.

I finished one of them.

And it wasn’t Bleak House. Just the introduction notes to Bleak House took me an hour or so!

Quinn’s Way was OK. My criticism would be a) that there was a load of stuff about the scamming in the motor trade that was almost like making a list and b) the ending went too fast and my character kinda disappeared.

Bleak House is something else. Not exactly a light read.

Anyway, the weather now is superb. Not too hot (about 33°C) and warm in the mornings.

Oh, yes, and we went to the Milan Launch Party for the BMWi3 last night. This is the new battery powered/hybrid, slightly-larger-than-a-Fiat-500 car. The party was invitation only and it’s ‘cos we know a friend of a colleague of F’s.

Anyway, it only started at 9. We got there about 10 and left about 11.15. But it was nice.

At one point, F said to me: “I hate these people”. “What people?” “The people here. It’s all so false.”

Which is true – but, still, it was nice.

Today, I have been mostly drinking coffee

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I have already had about 9 coffees this morning.

I am tired and tonight I have to travel down to Carrara – just me and the dogs because F will stay near Venice tonight and then join us tomorrow.

So, I’m doing coffee today, mostly.

I’ve had a very busy week. Monday was a pizza and stuff with one of F’s colleagues and her boyfriend. We got home late.

Tuesday was the Earth Wind and Fire concert. And we got home late.

Wednesday was out with A and, because we didn’t go out until late, I got home late.

Last night was round to where FfI is now staying – and I got home late.

In all cases there was MUCH drinking.

Let me just say that, in every case, I didn’t intend to drink much. It’s just that I did.

And, last night, I really needed to come home early but, instead, because I felt that FfI needed me, I didn’t come home early and we drank two bottles of wine between us (more or less).

The “perfect gentleman” ex-boyfriend had not only thrown her out but had also cause a number of bruises and a bite.

So, not really the “perfect gentleman” after all.

Nor is his son, who, the next day, punched her daughter when she came to pick up her Mum.

I was told the story and, given that this is Italy, having had the whole story, I could see why he lost his temper (although hitting someone because you’ve lost your temper is NEVER acceptable).

The problem is the mentality of (certainly older) Italians. The problem is the homophobia that is rife here (as is racism).

In this case, in the heat of the argument, he told her that it was her fault that his son wanted to leave home. He said that she was so horrible that his son couldn’t be in the same house as her and was, therefore, leaving home. His son is about 25 years old.

Apparently, at this point, she advised him that the real reason his son was leaving home was because he was gay.

Given that I am writing this without being involved, I am, probably, not giving the correct feel of this “conversation”. I suspect that there was much shouting at each other and that it was as far from a “conversation” as would be possible.

However, whilst in no way condoning his physical response, I can understand why he lost control.

This is his one and only son. Both his eldest and his only child. This is Italy. Whilst outwardly he does not seem homophobic (I have met him several times and he always seemed quite a “nice” man) as it certainly used to be about 50 years ago in the UK, don’t tell a man that his only son is a raving poofter! In case you don’t know what I’m talking about, the film Billy Elliot shows you (although in the interests of a good film (meaning a feel-good factor) and to show how enlightened we are in the UK now, the father eventually realises that he loves his son for who he is – which was certainly NOT the reality of the situation). And this is Italy, so even though straight men are camper than straight men in the UK and the USA, etc. by a LONG way, being gay is not seen as OK. In fact, they are STILL discussing amending a bill in parliament to make it illegal to discriminate on the basis of sexual preference (so I think marriage is way off yet).

Anyway, back to the story – and so, the ex-boyfriend got angry and, unfortunately for all involved, got physically abusive.

His son, who witnessed some of it (and, apparently egged his father on), felt the need to emulate his father the next day after being provoked by FfI’s daughter. But, then, his role model is not exactly one that I would want my son to have.

Have I ever mentioned that the last time I ever hit anyone was when I was about 12 or 13? I felt so ashamed by my own behaviour that I never hit anyone again. Ever. I was ashamed because, even if I had been provoked and even if I had been the subject of a lot of bullying (both physically and mentally), and even if the boy I beat up was my age and in my class, he was weaker than me. And I have never forgotten that nor how bad I felt about what I had done. I did what my father had told me to do – but instead of to the bullies (who were both bigger and stronger than I), I did it to someone who was supposed to be a friend.

So, my hatred of violence stems from then.

And so, I felt the need to stay with her longer than intended.

And now I am suffering. Ah well, F is only joining us tomorrow so tonight I will go to bed early and try and recover from this week.