Tag Archives: Strange things

Some things just don’t fit, do they?

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I remember coming to Milan many years ago, probably the second time, staying at the Antica Locanda Solferino,* and walking from there to somewhere and chancing upon a McDonald’s.

Here we were, staying in one of the areas that retains the oldest buildings in Milan, in a city that is in a country where “fast food” – e.g. a slice of pizza – is always available, permitting a company that puts a tasteless piece of cardboard (called a burger by them) between two bits of soggy, over-processed bread buns, with some bits of highly-sugared/salted extras to mask any tastelessness and calls it food, the chance to sell their rubbish (or “poison” as I call it).

Oh, yes, I don’t really like McDonald’s.

I was, frankly, both shocked and saddened. But, I thought to myself, surely Italians don’t actually go for it? I mean, compared to a slice of pizza or foccacia, there is no contest.

But this was in a slightly out-of-the-way area. It closed within a few years. Yay!

Imagine, if you will, one of the prettiest places in Milan – the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II, just across from the Duomo, the place that leads from the Duomo (Cathedral) to the famous opera house, La Scala.

The picture doesn’t do it justice at all. You have to be there to see the beauty of it. Of course, being the main way to get from the Duomo to La Scala it is almost always full of tourists. At Christmas they usually have an installation, e.g. a HUGE Christmas tree, done by Swarovski, so full of glass ornaments that catch the light in such wondrous ways. The glass ceiling is wonderful; the murals, high above the ground, marvellous; the floor itself, beautiful – and it’s full of shops (high-end, of course – Prada, etc.) and elegant, old-time cafés. One can imagine it has hardly changed since 1877, when it was finished.

Of course, the cafés are over-priced. But to sit there, under the glass ceiling, protected from the cold or heat (depending on the season) is one of those ‘must do’ things for a tourist.

So, given my hatred of McDonald’s, I was truly shocked to see a McDonald’s there, right in the centre of the arcade. Worse still, people used it!

OK, so it wasn’t the usual garish McDonald’s with the over-sized M but, still …….

However, it is no more. The other day they were giving away free burgers as they are closing up and moving on. And hurrah for that, I say!

As you can see above, it almost blended in – but to me, in this land that prides itself on its food and flair, McDonald’s is an antithesis. C’mon, you cannot disagree?

Now it will be replaced by Prada. Anyway, there are enough cafés there.

It’s a shame they don’t replace all the other McDonald’s in Italy with something else.

My thanks to the Guardian for the story and the picture of McDonald’s.

* p.s. The Antica Locanda Solferino is quite a wonderful place to stay. A short walk from the centre of town, the rooms (that I’ve stayed in) are very large and comfortable. They do B&B but the breakfast is served in your room as there is (well, was), no dining room. One of the strangest things (a little disconcerting) is (was) that there are (were) no locks on the doors to the bedrooms! But in all the years we stayed there, we never had any problem. It was a wonderful, quirky hotel and I have recommended it to others. Not cheap but if you don’t want the standard hotel with the standard room, this is for you.

p.p.s I even put the tag “Food” against this post – even if it pained me to do so.

At long, long, last!

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F-I-N-A-L-L-Y!

I suppose everyone does this, don’t they?

I look back at the very few photographs I have and think that, actually, I was quite good looking. By which, I mean that, at the time, I didn’t realise it or I thought that, whereas not downright ugly, I was not “all that”.

And, of course, at that moment, what I thought looked really cool, actually may not have looked that good. But looking back at these phtographs, I realise that, actually, I was quite good looking and I wish I had known that then, at that time and, better, had done something with it.

But, physically, my ideas of how I looked are NOT the same as the reality.

For example, for many, many years, in my head, I had a button nose. Even when I looked in the mirror, that’s what I saw. I hated this button nose. I wanted a long one, perhaps more of a Roman one. In fact, I would spend time pulling my nose down and out as I really hated this button nose.

It wasn’t until I mentioned it one time in company that I was put straight about this thing. I didn’t have, and never had had, such a thing as a button nose.

Now, although I realise this to be true, my mind plays tricks on me and, occasionally, I still think of it as a button nose. Which, even as I think about it, I know not to be true – like now, when I’m writing this. Still, in my head (at this moment), I think of it as short, stubby abd turned up.

The other thing that’s important to me, as far as physical looks go, is my hair. This has been so every since I can remember. At 12 I was telling my parents that “everyone has long hair at school, and I want long hair too”. Really! I only “saw” long hair on other kids but now, I realise, this cannot have been true.

My hair has always been ‘important’ to me. When I was about 17 or so was the ‘best time’ (apart from the other best times, of course). In reverse order, I’ve had very short and natural grey, very short and not-natural, almost-black, slightly longer and black, shortish and natural, longish and natural, spikey and long and blonde, normal and natural, long almost to my waist and natural, longish, just past shoulder-length and natural (the ‘best one’), spikey and sometimes blue and before that I don’t remember.

But, since F convinced me to stop dying my hair (and I ended up with the first one in the above list), I haven’t been entirely happy. So, since the summer before last, I grew it.

In my head, it reminds me of the ‘best’ one from when I was 17.

In the mirror, I see a head full of hair, longish flowing locks, nearly as it should be – but not quite.

And then I see photos of myself now. It looks quite dreadful. In the photo. In the mirror (and my head) it looks nothing like that. I picture myself as I was at 17, just back from holiday, brown, with these flowing locks and looking really good.

And, even if I know that the camera doesn’t lie, I still think that it does. Or, at least, it distorts. Maybe it wasn’t a good day? Maybe it was a little windy?

And my hair is thinner now. I know this for if I put a mirror to show me the back of my head, you can see I’m going a bit bald. Except I was thinking that about 20 years ago. It just never really quite happened! But I am certain it’s much thinner than it was and the almost-bald-patch is now almoster bald.

So, where were we?

Ah, yes. So, in my head and when I look at myself in a mirror, I am almost the same as when I was 17. Except I’m not, of course.

And I started growing it because I wanted a style. Some sort of style but I wasn’t sure what. I thought: if I grow it I can choose what to have. Except, after almost a couple of years I’m no closer to making a decision.

And, even if I’ve asked F for his advice, I get nothing from him. And I’ve been wanting him to suggest something or say something but I could solicit nothing.

Until last night.

For our anniversary, as normal, I came with a last-minute idea for a present. The present was one of those digital picture frames. I’ve always thought they were a bit of a waste of time but, you know, when you have little idea of what to buy, it came in a flash that this might be something he would like, being keen on photography and all.

And, it turns out, it was a great choice. He loves it. And so he spent a long time putting over 300 photos on it which he brought over last night to show me. Of course, they are 300+ photos of the dogs!

But in some of them, there is him or me (with the dogs).

One came up of me the summer before last, when we were on holiday in Umbria, just before I started growing my hair.

“You should cut your hair,” he says, when he sees it. “Short hair makes you look younger.” I tell him that I am very happy that he is making some comment. And I AM very happy. It’s just not quite the comment that I want.

Sure, I want to look younger.

I’m not that bothered about looking younger.

Maybe he WANTS me to look younger? Maybe he thinks that I look much older now? I want to do what he wants. I don’t care about being younger or older and, yet, …… I do care on some level.

Later I suggest that I need a style and should he see something, to tell me. His response was “It’s too thin.” He means, of course, go and get it cut, really short, all over – like it was.

In my head, of course, it’s not at all THAT thin. I reply that it’s been like this for years and years.

But he’s right, of course. He suggests that maybe I can keep it like this for the winter and get it cut in the spring. He doesn’t really think that, of course. He’s just saying that. Maybe my face said too much?

Of course, this isn’t really what I want to hear but, in his way, he’s being nice whilst being quite direct. This idea I had that I have hair like I was 17 or, even, that I had almost convinced myself that I look like some old, eccentric, English professor should be banished from my brain. Should be but it’s very difficult to do.

And, although I absolutely HATE the idea of not having a choice any more, he is, of course, quite right. And I am so glad that he’s finally said SOMETHING!

Now all I have to do is to summon up the courage to go and get it done! This is not easy for me and will take me some time and then I have to choose somewhere to have it done. This, too, is quite difficult. I have to pick the right place. I remember when I went from waist-length to quite short, when I first went to work. It was almost the most excruciatingly painful thing I had ever done (not physically but mentally). I can only imagine how Samson must have felt. This will be the same.

I am convinced that no one else has this problem (the pain of having one’s hair cut). For no one else does it seem such a big deal. I don’t even know why it is for me. It’s just weird! It’s the stuff in my head …. again!

Or, maybe I CAN find a style ………..?????

A change.

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It all feels a bit unreal.

As if I’m in some sort of fuggy dream. As if I’m not really there.

The change seems overnight although, in reality, it’s over a weekend.

And now, for me, it’s a race to the other end; a race to the light – almost literally.

I had promised to take the dogs out this morning as it was probably going to be raining and would probably keep right on raining until later in the morning. Which it has.

Although, when we were out, it didn’t seem too bad; not the heavy rain predicted, more of a lighter rain – the one just after or just before the heavy rain. It was dark, of course, but, then. it had been dark at this time for a few weeks.

As we approach the second traffic lights, they change from flashing amber to the normal red/green. I thought I must be late but, instead, it’s the lights’ change that’s early – by about 5 minutes.

The dogs (even Piero) keep as close to the buildings as possible.

I don’t let them into the dog area. They are wet already and there’s no need to get them really dirty as the puddles testify that the area will be just mud. Anyway, there are no other dogs in there (and probably won’t be, at least this morning), so Piero isn’t missing any play time. But, then, there aren’t usually any dogs in here at this time.

It’s raining, slightly, but not really ‘cold’ as such. About 13 degrees.

We walk back home. We, all three of us, want to get back.

As we wait for the lift, Dino is trying to dry himself on the walls. He looks forward to the towelling he has when he gets wet.

We get in the flat and I get the towels, Dino not taking his eyes off me, knowing what’s coming. Obviously, I do him first, dropping the towel on his head and starting to rub him down vigorously. He throws himself into this ritual and I think he would like it if I didn’t stop – but the other one has to be done.

The other one, on the other hand, does not really like it and tries to escape. But he’s still small enough to be able to keep in check without too much effort and he gets ‘done’ anyway.

I get ready and have coffee and leave to go to work.

It’s still raining – in much the same way – not too hard.

The car is close and, since it’s service, starts first time, which is great.

But it’s the drive to work that’s different. It’s still dark. It’s miserable. And different to Friday morning when it was light.

Of course, it’s made darker by the rain clouds.

But, as I drive, I don’t feel altogether “there” and it’s unnerving.

The traffic is, for the most part, quite light. Soon it won’t be like this.

It starts to get light on my way but I see the 50-shades-of-grey clouds, patchy and bleak, in the sky.

The race is on to February or March when it will (hopefully) get warmer and brighter.

On the plus side, F noticed that the heating was on last night (at home, obviously. At work the place is close to fridge conditions – especially as these fucking crazy Italians feel the need to change the air – or let the bloody cold in, as I like to say) and I am VERY happy about that.

Plain stupid driving.

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I’ve seen some strange things here.

For example, there was the live parrot in the taxi some time ago.

Then there was the rioting. And the winds that blew down the scaffolding in front of a 7 or 8 storey block of flats.

Then there was, one time, I saw a car driving on the tram track.

But this morning was, to be honest, amazing.

The trams run on rails. Sometimes, the rails run through roads and there, the top of the tram rails is the same height as the road. Obviously.

In some places, however, the road is at the side of the rails and the rails resemble normal train rails – i.e. the rails are not set at the height of the surrounding grass or small stones. Especially where the tracks have recently been re-done.

Like on Viale Regina Giovanna. The road is so wide (Viale meaning Avenue) that the road is split with dedicated tram tracks in the centre, lined with trees. The tracks have recently been relaid and, whereas before, the grass areas between the tracks were only slightly below the top of the rails, now the small stones are well below the top of the rails.

So, it would be really stupid to try to drive say, a car, down the tracks. Unless, maybe you had a 4×4?

Not least, it would be stupid because to enter the tram-exclusive area is not easy. I mean, you really have to make a concious effort to do so and you would have to be a) completely unaware of the trams and b) actually turn onto the tracks as opposed to following the road.

And, yet, this morning, holding up the trams, was an nice new Audi, stuck, with the rail being so high as to make the wheels ineffective.

There were about 3 or 4 guys trying to push the car backwards to, I guess, a place where the wheels would have some grip.

The shame was that I was in traffic so I couldn’t stop the car and take a photograph.

I wonder how long it was before he managed to get out. And, how embarrassing it must have been.

Mind you, some people are just plain stupid.

Drinking in Italy – now there’s an “under age”?

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I have mentioned this before – but then, I’ve been writing this blog for a while now, but when we first came to Italy, one of the things we found very refreshing and pleasant was the absence of drunks, even in the centre of the city.

I mean, people drink but they don’t (seem) to get drunk and, in particular contrast to the UK, for example, when drunk, they don’t become agressive. Nor do they become so drunk that they are throwing up all over the place or going to sleep (?) in the gutter, etc.

Of course, that was then. This is now. And things have changed.

Maybe you can blame it on those alcopops – made to look and taste like soft drinks. Or maybe it’s youth unemployment. I don’t know. Anyway, now it is said to be a problem, this drinking to excess, at least for young people.

So they say.

And, while looking for some information for a colleague, I saw this on the CiaoMilano (tourist) website:

Be careful: starting July 18 2009 teenage drinking is prohibited all across town and anyone who supplies youths under the age of 16 with alcohol – either wine or spirits – will face punishment.
The Milan City Council was among the first to introduce a regulation of this kind in Italy.

Whether you agree or disagree – at CiaoMilano quite frankly we find it a little over the top – please keep in mind that a fine of up to €450 will be imposed on the parents of offending children and on shopkeepers or bar owners who serve them.

I didn’t even know! Not that I hang around with those under the age of 16 (or those under the age of 30, much) – but, still, I haven’t seen signs or anything in any bars or restaurants.

And I used to think (well, I still do) that teaching kids to drink in moderation – at dinner or lunch – was a good thing. F still often has water in his wine – a way of introducing kids to wine – not making it such a big deal, like it was in the UK.

However, it seems like there’s another bit of Italian “culture” going down the drain. I’m really not sure it’s a good thing.

Add water and wait a few days. Surely it can’t be THAT much different?

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The shock! The horror!

I sat down to lunch. Someone had seen, on an Italian news programme – Strichia La Notizia (which, apparently is very famous) – that the English can buy Wine Brewing Kits.

I was asked if this was true.

And, of course, I replied that it was and that’s it’s been around for years.

The Italians were horrified.

“It can’t be true!

“It would taste horrible!

“It’s simply not possible!”

The consternation this caused was mixed with some humour at the very idea of producing wine ‘from a box’. The idea that the taste could be anything other than vinegar – if, even, that good.

I further explained that, when I was a kid, my father used to brew Dandelion wine (and a few others, I seem to remember). Again, this was treated with some derision.

I CAN understand this – in a country where even the smallest patch of ground can be used for grapes and wine can be cheaper than water. However, their shock (and, frankly, disgust) at this was a little over the top.

As I tried to explain when someone said that you needed to use grapes and go through a fermentation process – but why not, at some point during that fermentation or before, extract the water from it and then, later, you can reconstitute it by adding the water back?

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not rushing to buy a kit just to prove to Italians that it can be good but I did suggest to one colleague that, the next time he goes to the UK, he should buy a kit and then, after he’s made it, do a blind tasting with his family.

Even he liked the idea of this.

And I do admit that getting a home brew kit for, say Chianti or Primitivo and bringing a bottle to work for colleagues to give their opinion (without knowing it was from a kit) would be kind of fun.

Especially if some of them (or even one of them) were to quite like it.

How would they EVER live that down? :-D

It should be in the job description.

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I guess you’ve seen something about it. It’s certainly all over the British press.

First there was some drunken party games which involved stripping and, surprise, surprise, there was someone with a phone and the next thing you knew it was everywhere.

Then, we have some woman with her tits out and people are outraged. Well, the media is outraged – people can, of course, think what they like.

Now, if I get a job, say, as model, a job in the public spotlight, I don’t want to be caught gorging on burgers. Or a married TV presenter – I really don’t need to be caught kissing one of my colleagues in the park.

And, if you get a job as a royal, you don’t want to be caught with your bits out for all to see.

OK, for Harry, he didn’t get a choice about the job – he can’t really say ‘no’. Even so, can you imagine Charlie having a party like that and permitting someone to take a photo?

And, in any way, can you imagine the Queen being more than semi-naked (and by that I mean with a swimsuit on) in any place except the bathroom?

So, whereas one can argue that the photographer was wrong to take the pictures and that the magazine (or is it magazines, now?) was not really being nice by publishing them, the real question is this:

If Kate took the job of being the future Queen of England, what was she thinking of getting her bits out in anything other than a very private place (like the bathroom)?

Worse, still, is thinking that you should be suing the magazine! Come off it, you were there, without a top, outside. Act like a Queen – after all, you took the job when you married William and, I’m afraid, with the job (for which you will never have to actually work or be short of food or worry about what you can wear or anything that normal people do), come some responsibilities.

And, if the ‘thought didn’t cross your mind’, then you’re quite stupid.

Lost respect, now, I have.

p.s. not that the pics were any good anyway.

Secret things

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Of course, I may be wrong.

Last night, I got home from the beach about 6.30. Almost immediately, I knew there was ‘something’. Piero had been chewing the newspaper I had left on the floor for him to pee and pooh on (not that he seems to need it). I have a theory about the chewing of newspaper – he only does it after he has been ‘disturbed’.

I went into the kitchen to have some milk as I am wont to do in this hot weather and noticed that the rubbish bag for plastic was not where I had left it. In fact, it was nowhere to be found. But when I opened the fridge I saw a bag had been left for me with food. Also the normal bin had been emptied. F’s mum had been in.

Yesterday, at the beach, F’s niece and boyfriend had come to the beach about lunchtime. I was eating my lunch – an ice-cream. I told them this and they laughed as I expected.

Today, she comes again and this time comes with a small tub of diced water melon for me. And she has tried to ring the vet.

I think they are all trying to look after me. And, I suspect, that F has something to do with this!

It’s kinda sweet, really, even if I don’t really NEED looking after. Still, we are in Italy and children stay children forever and, as I am F’s partner, I guess I qualify as a kind of surrogate child. Bless them.

The White City

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I don’t suppose I’ve ever mentioned before but this place reeks of marble. This is, so I am told, the place for it. It is mined (or is it cut) from the mountains that sit behind me – me being on the beach, looking out to sea.

Apparently, this place (of which I had never heard before I came here with F) is famous, if not infamous, for it’s marble and. In particular, it’s white marble.

Various famous people have come here to pick their own marble for their kitchen or whatever. There are big yards, near where F has his house where there are huge, almost square blocks of the stuff, where they also cut it into huge flat sheets. Yesterday I saw some people who were being shown round one of these yards, obviously choosing the block or sheets they wanted.

The marble, since Roman times, was hauled down the mountainside, to the sea front where it has been shipped all over the world.

As one would expect, with marble being such a big thing here, marble is used in some of the strangest of places.

I mean, there are the usual, expected sculptures and monuments. At every roundabout, variously placed outside public buildings, in squares and one, of what looks like a baby polar bear, outside the school.

Some are modern, like one with waves with hands and heads sticking out – I guess to remember those lost at sea, some old and rather forgotten like the one of a dog, about 5 feet tall.

Then marble is used on houses that, elsewhere, would be unthinkable. Like, for instance, the base of houses, up to the damp course. And for tables and instead of skirting boards.

Then there’s the street. The pavements are not paved with gold but often marble. And, for me, the most extravagant thing is its use for kerb stones.

This is certainly a place for marble and mostly white marble. And it gives the place a rather opulent feel.