Tag Archives: Strange things

Woof Woof Sands

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Today, as it was cloudy, was the day for bau bau beach.

Bau bau is what young kids get told are dogs, much like we say ‘doggy’. Bau bau is also the Italian for woof woof or bow bow, being the noise a dog makes when it barks.

We took them to the pinetta first so that they would be tired. They were definitely tired – just not tired enough, it seems.

Actually, bau bau beach is one of the free beaches – i.e. one doesn’t have to pay. But you don’t get any facilities – like a bar, tables, a cabin, loungers or umbrellas.

Except, for €15 per season, you can use one of the loungers and one umbrella (that you must put up yourself).

Unlike a normal free beach, however, on this one you can take dogs.

It was Piero’s first time. He wasn’t keen on the water but, as it was the only way to get to some other dogs, he went in.

Dino wouldn’t go in further than his belly – until we threw a stick in. Then he went to retrieve it. Dino’ hair is short now so getting wet made no difference. Piero has never had his hair cut so when he got wet, he looked so skinny and drowned!

We did the paddling/swimming thing a few times and then went to sit under our umbrella for a bit. Piero found his voice. He wanted to be with a couple of border collies that were playing on the shore and, sometimes, swimming in to retrieve a ball that was thrown out for them. Piero didn’t like not being part of it so barked – a LOT!

But it was good fun for a few hours.

Then we took them to the pinetta again and then had breakfast (it being nearly 12.30). After doing some supermarket shopping we tidied up the garden a bit.

F is now having a bath, after which is dinner – stuffed tomatoes, watermelon and fruit salad.

Today was the dogs’ day. They are exhausted. And so am I!

There’s the truth and then there’s a whole load of lies!

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To be frank, I never wanted to go in the first place.

I had joked about it raining so much that, maybe, it would all be flooded and then we couldn’t go.

We flew with Monarch to Birmingham. We arrived and had to put jackets on. It was decidedly chilly. We followed the crowd to go and reclaim our bags and then came to a grinding halt.

The ‘hall’ was fuller than full. The queue snaked back and forth on itself, as these things do now.

It took us one hour and a half to get through to our bags.

I noticed the signs on the side walls, explaining the delays. Apparently they were checking that the document you had used for the flight matched the one you were using now.

Except, like all the misinformation about security and stuff, it wasn’t that at all. It couldn’t have been! We got to the desk and I gave in my passport (which must, of course, be taken out of its holder – but only in the UK) and my colleague gave in her ID card. You can travel throughout Europe on your ID card and it was used for the flight.

“Don’t you have a passport?”, asked the surly man. It was said too fast and with a thick, brummy accent. I answered for my colleague knowing that she hadn’t understood. “No”.

I wanted to add that quite obviously, she couldn’t use her passport because you were checking with the flight and she hadn’t used the passport for the flight.

He sighed. He then proceeded to type the number into his computer. But the thing is – why? What’s the point? I mean, she’s from Italy, is Italian and wouldn’t ever want to stay in the country longer than necessary.

So there’s an excuse for the long queues which is, quite frankly, a big, big lie.

Instead, the whole experience left me with the over-riding feeling of being unwanted in the country – and it’s MY country!

Someone said that it was something to do with the Olympics – not that we were anywhere close to the Olympics. But if I had a ticket for one of the events I would now, seriously, consider selling it.

My advice: if you don’t need to go to the UK, then don’t go. Once you get there it’s not that good anyway.

I am in a Tim Burton film!

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Nope! Still too much to do and not much time. And we have visitors here, at my ‘real’ job – so I’m just catching a few moments.

And tell you a story: but it may take more than one attempt.

It’s the Hay Festival going on right now. And, maybe that’s the key.

I’m not at the Festival, as such, but, rather near there. Or, at least, staying at the Crown. This is a pub/hotel. Even if this is not THE Crown, as in the one in Hay itself, it’s close by. I know this because the bar is packed with festival goers and authors and others. There are lots of people I know and I am fast becoming quite drunk. It feels as if it is my birthday or something. As if it’s a party for me, even if it’s not.

Then a ‘blast from the past’ walks in. A guy named Mike. He used to be one of the company’s trainers but I knew him when we were trainers well before that. He had a drink problem. A serious drink problem. We tried very hard to patch him up. The last I had heard was that he had finally solved the problem and the drink problem was no more.

It was unexpected, seeing him.

“Hi Mike!”, I said. I grinned because it was so nice to see him. However, he seemed a bit shifty. I asked him how he was. He evaded the question. I asked him again but he wasn’t giving an answer.

Then K walked in. Another surprise. We chatted for a bit.

Then someone rang the telephone at the bar and asked for me.

It was John. For some time we were owners of the company until one of the recessions took hold and John left to become a contractor. We had remained friends after that. Again, John had worked at the same company as Mike where I had been a trainer. So we all knew each other quite well.

“You’ll never believe it”, I exclaimed, “but both Mike and K are here”.

I went on to explain about Mike seeming a bit down and pondered whether it was that he had taken up drinking again.

The call ended.

I went back to the place where K and Mike were and told them that John had telephoned. I was really happy to have had the chance to speak to him. It had been many years.

Then, someone said:

“But, didn’t John die some years back?”

Ah yes, in both my drunken stupour and the happiness of this whole evening, I had forgotten that John was, in fact, dead, having died some years ago.

“How strange”, I said. It gave me a slightly weird feeling.

But I shrugged it off. It had certainly ‘been him’ on the phone and, yet, it couldn’t have been. Ah well.

The night carried on and I carried on drinking. At one point, I went to the toilet. As I walked in to an empty Gents, I heard someone coming in as well. I turned round. It was John!

“John”, I said, “What are you doing? Are you trying to scare me or something?”

He didn’t reply. That may have been because, although it was certainly him, dressed in a long raincoat, he didn’t have a head.

“C’mon John”, I asked, where’s your head?”. And I laughed.

I went back to the bar. There, sitting at a bar stool near to where I had been was P, John’s wife! I couldn’t believe after what had happened that she was here! Standing behind her was R, her (and John’s) eldest son.

“P”, I exclaimed, “how lovely to see you!”

I went on to tell her about the strange phone call and then seeing him, headless, in the bathroom. She started to weep. I know they were close. I turned for a moment at some distraction. When I turned back, she and R had gone. I went looking for them. I really didn’t want P to be upset over what I had told her. I couldn’t find them.

Later still, I was very drunk. I don’t remember going to my room but obviously I got there.

In the morning, on waking, I found that my room didn’t seem to have a bathroom. I went out of my room door which opened into the bar area where they were already serving breakfast. I went up to a waitress.

“Excuse me’, I said.

“I don’t have time now Sir. Please wait your turn”. She was abrupt. But I needed the bathroom. And I needed to shower. Today I was going home to F and I wanted to go home. I didn’t feel particularly bad (i.e. no bad headache, etc.) but my mouth was all ‘fuzzy’.

“Look”, I replied, tersely, “I don’t want breakfast but I do need the bathroom and there isn’t one in my room”.

“It’s the door round the corner of your room”, she replied, seemingly annoyed that I seemed so stupid.

I went back to the room. I went round a corner into a small area that I had failed to notice before and, sure enough was the door.

I went into the bathroom. I went to the mirror. I was looking at myself to see how I looked.

Except the mirror image wasn’t looking back at me but had its head down, so I could see the top of my head. I needed to force myself to lift my head. My forehead seemed abnormally large, more like an alien than a human. God, I thought, I must be feeling much rougher than I thought!

As I raised my head, my eyes came into view. A shockingly piercing but slightly dark blue set of irises looked back at me. Almost with malevolence. The blacks of the pupils seemed to be much blacker than usual and bigger – but this blue of the eyes was unreal.

I needed to shower. From the bathroom was another door. I didn’t want to go out and ask again. I found the door locked but one of the keys on the hotel key fob opened it.

I was outside. Into a garden. But the garden was also the shower. There were shower heads dotted around the garden with soap near each one. As I walked nearer to each shower, the shower started automatically. The temperature was perfect, some had aromatic smells, some plain water, some had coloured water. I started to shower.

Then some other people came into the garden. They wore swimming costumes. I didn’t know there were other people allowed. One of them said that I shouldn’t be naked. They had been told to always wear a costume. I explained that I hadn’t been told that and went to another shower to continue showering.

But this John thing was worrying me. I mean, what did it all mean? This was starting to resemble some sort of ghost story thing! I wanted to get home.

But what of John? And what the hell was I doing, naked, trying to shower in a GARDEN?

I woke up. It was, in fact, about half past midnight, last night!

As some of my weird dreams go, that has got to be one of the very strangest. As F said, when I told him a little of it this morning, it resembled a Tim Burton film!

Holiday and illness

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“The first time we book a holiday and THIS happens”.

He was really upset, even if it’s not. It is neither the first time we’ve booked a holiday nor the first time he’s got ill when we’ve been going to do something.

But he is genuinely upset as it is an important holiday. For ’tis the trip to Vienna.

For him: the most wonderful city in the world and where he would like to live.

For me: Much further North than I care to be. Risk of severe cold and rain (although, thank goodness, not snow).

On the plus side – they do strudel – which is the only thing that, for me, Austria has going for it. I remember the last time in Austria – a holiday, in August. the day after we left, they had severe flooding in the valley we had been in because it had not stopped raining for two weeks – the very same two weeks we were there. OK, I exaggerate a bit (but only a bit – we did have one or two nice days). But, there was the strudel!

But back to this trip.

It is an important trip in many ways. He wants to ‘show me round’ and, quite possibly, for me to love it as he does; he wants to visit the mother of a close friend who committed suicide (not long after we met); his friend (who lives there) REALLY wants us to come. I guess that’s enough reasons.

And we’re taking Dino.

Except, of course, for this small hiccough.

“It says 37.4″, he tells me after he has taken his temperature.

But I am crap at all this sort of stuff.

“Is that bad?”, I ask, adding, “I don’t know what it’s supposed to be”. He tells me what it’s supposed to be. I have already forgotten but something like 36, I think. Let’s be honest, later, I felt his forehead and it was very hot. I don’t need a thermometer to tell me he has a fever.

But he has a determination about this. He really, really wants to go. Or, maybe, he really, really wants to take me. Or Dino. One of those things anyway.

So, in spite of the fact that he had the same temperature at 7 this morning, he has taken Dino to the hairdressers and, I suspect, we shall go anyway, taking plenty of Lemsips with us!

So I shan’t be posting for the next (almost) week whilst we are driving to and from and staying in, Vienna. I have no computer and no computer access. Bliss :-)

In any event, I love going on holiday with him and, to be honest, I don’t care where we go, as long as we’re together.

Although the strudel is sounding rather good :-)

Just like a film?

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Well, I can’t explain it at all. So this isn’t really going to be a post that makes sense.

Sometimes this happens and it happened this morning. Actually, more or less ALL morning so far.

I feel there’s something wrong. It’s almost as if I am watching a film of myself, as if I’m not really experiencing this. Make sense to you? No, probably not.

So there’s this feeling that something is wrong but there is no pointer as to what may be wrong. It’s more like when you walk into a room and something is out of place but you can’t see what is out of place but it makes the room look different and ‘not quite right’.

Or if you walk into a crowded room and everyone immediately stops talking and looks at you.

It’s just a feeling. There’s nothing of any substance that you can put your finger on. Everything appears to be normal but it’s not. I mean to say, it is normal but, behind it all, something is abnormal.

It doesn’t really cause any ‘pain’ but it’s a little uncomfortable. As If I should do something to stave off this impending wrongness by fixing something but since I don’t know what IS wrong, it’s difficult to fix.

This morning I felt like I was going to work after a few weeks off. How strange is that? Worse still, it felt like I hadn’t driven my car for weeks when, in fact, I had driven to the airport to collect F only yesterday!

It made me feel like I shouldn’t be going to work – or, at least, not this work in this place. That goes with a growing feeling that I should really get off my arse and do something about finding something a little more personally rewarding (as well as financially rewarding, I suppose) – but it doesn’t explain how wrong it all felt. How wrong it all feels.

So, there you go. There’s no point to this post other than to tell you how strange I feel.

Just keep your mouth shut, Andy! Trattoria Righini

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It’s 3.22 a.m.

Not really a great advert for a restaurant, you would think. After all it is the restaurant that we went to at lunchtime that’s keeping me up. I’m still digesting the food!

However, it’s BECAUSE the food was so good that I’m still digesting it. I simply ate far too much. My stomach feels fit to bursting. Still.

Oh it was good.

The restaurant is the Trattoria Righini. It’s in a little place called Monteleone, right next to a small place called Inverno and Monteleone (Winter and Lion Mountain). Even the name of it makes you want to go there. There is nothing in the village except this restaurant (and some houses, of course).

The restaurant at night

Trattoria Righini at night

It’s nothing to look at from the outside – in fact, if you didn’t know about it, you would drive straight past it. It was a holiday here, yesterday, so like a Sunday.

Inside, there are about four different rooms. The biggest room is the first which also houses the ‘bar’. You don’t pick different times to eat – there is one sitting.

To start with, you can stand at this bar and they serve plates of Lardo and plates of the thinnest shavings of a special Parmesan cheese (it is very young) that you eat with your hands or, in the case of the Lardo, with breadsticks. And you have a choice of white or red wine. Of one brand which I guess is either theirs or a friend’s.

Then we went to our table which was moved (by our friends A & P) into this first room. They serve another plate of this Lardo with a pile of Parmesan shavings on top. There’s a plate of pickled red pepper (very sweet) and pickled onions as well. Then there was some salami delivered. Just two slices. Then some small meat balls (about 4 each), then some cottechino, then some sort of piece of omelet thing, then some other cold meat, then something else, then something else. All tiny portions. All served separately. All leaving you wanting more – which you could have if you asked ……. but if you go here, resist the temptation to have more. That would be a mistake and would lead you to be up at 3.22 in the morning following.

Then we had pasta. A couple of pieces of ravioli. Then a couple of pieces of different ravioli. Then some risotto.

Then there was polenta – with Gorgonzola or mushrooms, or figs done in wine or something else that I’ve forgotten now.

I had something of everything.

Then there was the main course. s. First there was some veal or some guinea fowl pieces. Or you could have both. And, if you’re really lucky, like me, your partner will give you some of his in addition.

The owner serving sweet, I think

This is how they dish out the food

So, that’s it, you thought. But no. Then they had a couple of slices of Roast Beef Inglese – which was the best I’ve ever tasted. By now I was refusing second helpings.

Then there was sweet – This was a sort of large cake, sliced into small portions with a kind of white custard, some ice-cream and chocolate sauce. Or you could have some fruit with the custard, ice-cream and chocolate sauce.

Or you could ask for and get both of the above.

Which is what I did.

Because I am stupid, I guess.

Then there was coffee.

During the meal we got through three bottles of the ‘house’ red wine and one of the house white we had drunk with the Lardo and Parmesan shavings (the last being for F – who drank the whole bottle to himself).

Then we had a glass of grappa.

The waitresses and the people who owned it were some of the most pleasant people. Smiles and kindness abounded. It was all very efficient, with only short waits between the ‘courses’. And, in the end it cost less than €40 per head. We went into the restaurant at about 12.20 and came out about 5. It was like being at an Italian wedding but with really glorious food.

It’s about an hour (or less) south of Milan, driving. Without a car you couldn’t get there. It’s closed most of the time (like all of January and August) – Monday and Tuesday all day, Wednesday evening, Thursday and Friday mornings and Sunday evening. Oh, yes, and they only take cash. No credit cards.

But it was wonderful. And I am now suffering because of my inability to say no in the face of good food or even just keeping my mouth shut from asking for a bit more, please?

Hidden Gems that make Milan a special city.

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There are hidden treasures in Milan, should you be visiting. Some of them are more hidden than others.

There has been a link on the right of this blog for the Dialogue in the Dark for some time, and I’ve written about it before, but it’s still worth a reminder.

A hidden gem that has become less hidden since it was featured heavily in the film I Am Love is Villa Necchi.

It is a stunningly beautiful Art Deco house and should be ‘must see’ on your trip to Milan. When I went there with J towards the end of last year, F couldn’t (and didn’t really want to) come. However, last week he went there and was talking about it for the rest of the week. If you go to the link, make sure click on the slideshow to see wonderful pictures of the house.

Another place that is really a hidden gem is an apartment owned by people who collected art – and then gave the apartment to the state so that it could become an ‘art gallery’. It is just off Corso Buenos Aires but so hidden away that you’d never find it if you didn’t know. It is the Casa Museo Boschi Di Stefano.

Even better, the one above is completely free – i.e. no charge!

The stunning Bagatti Valsecchi Museum, right off Via Montenapolenone has been written about by A Welshie in Italy in her dedicated post and I’m almost certain it is also free!

Milan is a great place to live and visit – providing you can find these hidden places, of course :-)

It’s like a party out there …… and here.

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There are plenty of taxis – just none that are free for hire.

For that matter, there are plenty of cars too.

And there are plenty of people. In fact, in this street, normally fairly dead at this time of night. In spite of the fact that there are some nice hotels on the road, mostly it is shops, and the shops are closed.

And there aren’t any people, normally, since the road doesn’t really lead to anywhere to which people would want to go.

But not tonight. Or, rather, last night. Last night it was ‘buzzing’, in spite of the rain.

It is, of course, the week of the Furniture Fair – Salone Internazionali Del Mobili. Apart from the fashion weeks, one of the most important times for Milan (or maybe bigger than the fashion weeks), showcasing all that is good and great about Italian design.

Now, the main exhibition is at the Rho Fiera (the big, new exhibition centre) outside Milan.

And whilst, when it first moved, Milan became a bit dead, now there are many smaller exhibitions and parties and things around the centre of Milan. And so it was last night, the third (I think) night of the Furniture Fair.

F’s shop had a book launch and so there was a small party, of sorts. Of course, now, I must go. I like to watch him schmoozing the customers – and he is very, very good. Full of charm and jokes.

I know some people, of course, and get introduced to more by F, permitting F to go off and see other people. I chat a bit but I do find it more difficult. I’ve never really been that good at small talk. Still, I do my best and the party is nice.

I step outside sometimes for a cigarette – watching the taxis and cars and people in this unusually crowded street. Feeling kind of odd. I mean, I don’t feel like I really fit in but it seems nice and I want to fit in; to be part of this ‘world’ of art and design and ideas.

But it’s OK. I have a glass of prosecco in my hand and, after several, I’m more relaxed. I meet people that I recognise but can’t place. One is an author; another a buyer or something for Prada; some English woman who is a buyer for some shops out of Milan. But I am crap with names and crap remembering. Somehow I manage to get by, sometimes having to ask F quietly, who it was I have been talking to.

I mention the dog; the new puppy – but they all already know and most have seen the photographs. “Yes, I have seen you in the photographs with the dogs”. Of course they have. I say to one, “I don’t know whether he’s with me because of me or because of the dogs”, laughing as I do. In fact, both are true.

And I am tired. His colleague from Paris has gone (and she is really lovely) and two nights of going out, eating, getting back at half-past midnight have taken their toll. Tonight I would have preferred to go to bed immediately but it can’t be so. It’s part of the deal of a relationship. One does things for the other. And, anyway, F enjoys introducing me as his ‘fidanzato’, especially to people who have never met me. They always think I’m something in fashion or design and he delights in telling them that I’m not. It’s his thing.

We walk home, since there are no taxis. It’s not late but both of us are so tired it feels like it’s midnight anyway.

In the middle of the night, we both stir for some reason and, for no apparent reason at all, as he turns, he lifts himself up on his elbows and kisses my face. He doesn’t really show affection as such but sometimes I feel happy that I know he loves me.

The Fallout

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For every action you make or don’t make, there is fallout.

In this case, someone sent me a message. I felt sorry for him as he’d certainly paid some money for a service that wasn’t a good service. I thought, “I’ll just go on and do a reply to him”. It seemed the fair and right thing to do.

I told him that I was already in a relationship and wasn’t looking for anyone any longer.

I didn’t get a reply back but, then, I wasn’t expecting one.

What I did get, though, was a load more emails!

That’s because I logged on to reply to the message and, so, I’ve been ‘promoted’ so more people are viewing my profile.

Luckily they automatically go to my spam folder now.

As I said to someone recently, I would NEVER use Meetic again as it simply doesn’t give you a good service. If you sign up, the chance of finding someone ‘real’ is remote.

The burning question – suppository or not?

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I have mentioned, before, that Italians have things like colpo d’aria (fault of the air) and pain in their livers (which cannot feel pain) as some of the (very) strange illnesses.

What I haven’t talked about (because I didn’t know) was that they also seem to have strange ideas about cures.

The colpo d’aria, of course, can easily get to your neck which is why Italians like to keep their necks covered. Wearing a scarf is NOT a fashion statement but a requirement if you are to keep that nasty illness away (although it may well have become a fashion statement now, as well).

I’m sure, for the Italians, we, from the UK, are strange too.

Take suppositories. In the UK, no one would admit to taking them on the basis that the only things they are really good for are jokes.

For example, this:

A guy goes to the doctor and the doctor examines him and gives him a prescription for suppositories.

“Take two of these a day and come back in two weeks”, said the doc.

After two weeks, the guy returns and the doctor says, “Well, how did that medicine I prescribed work for you?”

The guy says, “Doctor, for all the good those damned things did me, I coulda shoved ‘em up my butt!”

or this:

A man with a bad stomach complaint goes to his doctor and asks him what he can do. The doctor replies that the illness is quite serious but can be cured by inserting a suppository up his anal passage. The man agrees, and so the doctor warns him of the pain, tells him to bend over and shoves the thing way up his behind. The doctor then hands him a second dose and tells him to do the same thing in six hours.

So, the man goes home and later that evening tries to get the second suppository inserted, but he finds that he cannot reach himself properly to obtain the required depth. He calls his wife over and tells her what to do. The wife nods, puts one hand on his shoulder to steady him and with the other shoves the medicine home.

Suddenly the man screams, “DAMN!”

“What’s the matter?” asks the wife. “Did I hurt you?”

“No,” replies the man, “but I just realized that when the doctor did that, he had BOTH hands on my shoulders!”

The only things I remember having as remedies as a kid were bread with hot, sweet milk and special kid’s disprin.

Not so here, it seems. (Nor, for that matter in France). Here, apparently, suppositories are the cure-all and are given to kids as soon as they are able to ‘do it themselves’.

I must admit I am quite shocked. I mean I don’t know of anyone in the UK who would use one to, for example, cure a cough. But last night, I was assured, it absolutely totally cures such a thing and is much better than syrup or anything else.

Who knew?

These foreigners, they ARE strange people, aren’t they? ;-)

And, apparently, it burns a bit – hence the title :-D