Tag Archives: Outside Italy

My trip to the Northern Lands

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Unexpectedly (even for them) the weather was gorgeous – even better than Milan and less humid.

We even got chance to wander about the capital city and, being as it was so much further north, we marvelled at the daylight extending into the night (although I didn’t marvel at the bloody dawn starting so much earlier).

This picture is of, what we think was, the Cathedral.  My picture doesn’t do it justice but the tower of wrought iron (I guess) was quite fabulous.

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We ate in a restaurant called Mårten Trotzig where I had fish roe with a wonderful slice of warm cheese pie to start and followed that with Reindeer with a sauce which, to me, was really like a redcurrant sauce.  It was really good food and well cooked.  A delight.

A nice red wine would have been perfect but I was with one colleague and one of the customer’s representatives – so we had beer.  Don’t get me wrong, I love beer and I like to taste different ones but, when I’m having a meal (unless it’s a pizza) there’s nothing to beat a glass (or bottle or two) of good wine.

The price, though, was astronomical.  For the same money I could have eaten in one of the better restaurants in Milan and had wine, water and more food.  Still, I won’t be unhappy to go back there again, if I have to.  Of course, the weather is not normally better than Milan!  However, next time, for certain, I will get a hotel in the centre, preferring to travel to the customer rather than be on the customer’s doorstep but having to travel into the city.

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I don’t know what this building was but it was taken a few minutes after the other one – it was after 10 p.m.!  It should be noted that my phone (see post below) is not really that good for pictures and they seem a little dark.  It was not as dark in real life as it seems in the photos, sorry.

Making a new purchase is difficult

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I’m not really what you would call “a shopper”.  In spite of V’s 20 years of trying to make me one.  And now that I don’t have him to “force” me to do so, I find that putting off making that purchase suits me just fine.

So, I really could do with some new shirts and there’s a shop just down the road with shirts for €10 so there’s no excuse, really.  But still, when I pass, which I do often, there’s always a good reason why “this moment” is not the right time.

The same is true of the table that I really want but just can’t be bothered to get in the car and drive to get, which is annoying, even to me and yet, not annoying enough that I actually do something about it.

However, if I need to shop or are in a situation where I am with others who are shopping, purchasing can be quite easy.

Food shopping I do actually enjoy.  Not going to the supermarket, exactly (but even that is quite nice if I have a recipe/meal in mind) but looking round interesting food shops (which I have been doing some of whilst abroad, recently).

And when I was getting my passport renewed, we were stuck for some hours in a town and I managed to pick up a couple of very nice T-Shirts for a very reasonable price.  For clothes shopping, the way that works is I walk into the shop, take a quick glance at the rails I can see and quickly determine if there’s likely to be any chance of finding something I will like.

I go to the rail and quickly flick through the things and only if there is something slightly unusual or interesting do I bother to even pull it out.  Then, if I can’t find my size within milliseconds I find an assistant who can do all the looking for me.

So, as you can imagine, finding something more “technical” quite fills me with dread.  Although I seriously need a new computer, I just cannot go looking.  The same with a new mobile phone.  You see, the problem is that there is too much choice and you can’t tell what you want just by “browsing” through a store.

However, I thought that getting a new vacuum cleaner would be a bit of a breeze.  Although I had put it off for about 2 months, I decided, yesterday, that I really had to do it as I cannot beat out the big rug – it’s just too big to go over the balcony and I was finding it difficult to clean.

I knew what I wanted.  A Dyson.  Now there’s a simple thing, I thought.  I go to the shop in Corso Buenos Aires that I know.  As I get to the right area I see an array of vacuum cleaners.  Not a good sign.  I find a few Dysons.  Actually, a few too many!  There’s one for allergies, one that says “Origin” (meaning original?) and a few others.  They are expensive so I briefly toy with the idea of a Hoover or similar equivalent but remember that the Dyson is definitely better.

I pick one as if sticking a pin in a map and deciding where to go.  It’s the Origin.  Not the most expensive but would seem to be the right one.

The one on display is the last one they have.  I ask for a discount.  They won’t give me enough and so I leave.  I decide to go to the other shop of theirs that is between Piazza Oberdan and Piazza Repubblica.  I can get the same one there that hasn’t been on display.

I go to the right areas for vacuums.  Here they have even more choice of Dysons!  There’s even one for Pet Hair!  Who would know that you could have a cleaner that was specifically designed to get all the pet hair up?  However, that one costs almost €200 more than the normal ones.  Although I may need it, I am not paying so much extra.  But there were at least another 4 different types!  Why?  Too much choice in this sort of thing just makes me want to walk away.

Anyway I plump for the one that I think will suit.  The girl has a good time (not) searching for one that has the correct tool for both hard floors and rugs but, eventually, finds one. I pay and catch the tram back home, grateful, in fact, that the tram stop is right outside and that I didn’t have to lug one from their other shop.

I put it together at home but didn’t actually try it as I am feeling so tired following my recent trips.

I decide to hoover up this morning.

I try to find a socket or adapter that will take the plug.  None do.  My flat is old and uses a special (old) type of socket that requires special adapters to permit normal plugs of today to fit. However, I was surprised that none of the adapters would work. Damn!

So now I will be back to the shop on Monday to find (hopefully) an adapter that works.  The cleaning will wait.

Potatoes, Turnips, etc.

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I’m afraid I shall be away, again, for the next few days. This time I go to a northern country from where there came a delicious root vegetable. Actually, I don’t really know why the nationality should share their name with a root vegetable at all.

Still, as far as I know, it’s not famous for its food and they are unlikely to make wine. I seem to remember reading that their alcohol is extraordinarily highly priced (to stop people drinking so much, from what I understand) but it’s on expenses so that won’t worry me in the least.

I am going with a colleague (again) but one that I know better and, I think, will be more on my wavelength.

So, I’m back late on Friday night and then have a million things to do over the weekend. Ho hum.

Help me find someone, somewhere?

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Our stand is near one of the doors which leads to one of the entrances and next to one of the outdoor cafés.

As such and because of bad signage, we are more like an information point – for the toilets, in the main.

It was the first thing that M explained and that question is asked more than most, closely followed by “Do you have any gadgets?”. To which, the answer is ‘no’, since we don’t. But you can see by the slight hesitation before the walk away (and the distrustful look in their eyes – or is that just my imagination?) that they don’t believe that. They obviously think that, stashed away, behind the ‘counter’ we have sack-loads of things that we are choosing not to give them – but only them. One kid even came to the side, to check if we were telling the truth!

However, the best was a girl, quite beautiful, French probably, slim, tall, long hair that fell beyond her shoulders –

“Excuse me, can you tell me where the entrance to the show is?”
“Which entrance?”, I ask.
“The one to the show. Only I have to meet someone”.

Interestingly, one would have thought that she had to arrive through an ‘entrance’, or was she beamed in, like in Star Trek?

We get the ‘map’ out.

“There are many entrances, we need to know which one”, I explain, pointing to the map.

It dawns on her that, of course, this is true.

“There is a stall with a juice machine that makes juice from fresh fruit”, she says, helpfully.

Hmm. Our sign, above the stand does not say “INFORMATION – WE KNOW THE ANSWER TO ANY QUESTION YOU MAY HAVE”

“My friend doesn’t have a mobile phone”, she adds, not being helpful at all.

I want to reply “Sorry but what idiot comes to a very large show to meet someone, in 2009, without a mobile phone? In fact, who doesn’t have a mobile phone these days, unless they come from Mars?”

Instead, I ask, “How is your friend getting here – by car or taxi?”

“By bus” she replies, brightening a little.
“Here is the symbol for the bus stops”, I say. M finds the stop on the map. I suggest which way to get there.

She leaves, happily.

I hope she met her friend. I hope she convinces her friend to get a bloody mobile phone!

Into another world

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[From Friday, 19th June]

I arrive at the hotel late in the afternoon. The receptionist is most helpful and I get a smoking room on the sixth floor. Of course, these days, they are not keys but cards. I get the lift to the floor. A range of room numbers is given on a sign near the lift. The top range is not for me. The bottom range is. I go right, not having read the sign properly – I assume the top range was to the left and the bottom to the right. After a few steps I realise I must be wrong and go back to look at the sign which clearly has arrows showing the top range to the right and the bottom to the left.

My room is 636. I proceed and there is a fork. This time I read the sign more carefully and the top range is mine (627 – 639). I go to where the arrow points – to the left.

I note the room numbers as I pass. They are all on the right. 627, 629, 631, 633, 635…. but no 636. Perhaps the even numbers are on the left but later, or on the right in a minute, or there is a turn in the corridor up ahead?

But, no. I am faced with a green door with no signs. I decide it must be through there.

And, like I am in some sort of strange dream or nightmare, I pass from a white-walled, pastel-coloured-carpeted, well-lit corridor into a gloomy, dark-brown, dimly-lit (almost spooky) corridor. The room doors, instead of just having the number of the room had, what was supposed to be, a painter’s palette, on which the room number was painted.

Perhaps I had gone through some portal into another time and place? I looked out of the windows on my left and saw the same ‘courtyard’ as before. Still, I figured, I was in the ‘smoking corridor’. And the room numbers continued on but, this time, with even numbers too.

I feel strange about this though. It’s as if I am Alice and have stumbled through the rabbit hole. Any minute now the White Rabbit will hurry by complaining about the time!

I find my room. But the keycard doesn’t work. Then I notice that the room next door, I have already seen – in the previous world.. This just HAS to be another hotel – a different hotel. I mean, the same building but really, a different hotel. I retrace my steps, the uneasy thought in my head – what if I can’t find the door back to the other reality, the one I left behind?

I find a door that may be the one. It is locked – what if you can only come through it one way?

There is one next to it. One I had discounted. I open that one and, like a miner returning to the outside world from the depths of the mine, the brightness explodes in front of me causing me to blink several times!

I go back to the last sign and note that, to the right are almost the same range – but the start and finish are even numbers (although this is NOT very clear).

I go to my room. My key doesn’t work. I try every way. I get a red light and not a green light. I briefly wonder if, by going into that other world, I have, by stepping through the door, invalidated my keycard. I go back to reception. Apparently, the machine the machine that provides these cards, that the girl had used, doesn’t work. The other machine does.

It is with such relief that I enter my room that I fail to notice the fact that it is tiny, badly furnished and too cold.

I hunt for an ashtray. I fail to find one.

I ring reception.

“The ashtray is in the bathroom”, she says. “In all IBIS hotels, we put the ashtray in the bathroom”

Of course you do! How stupid of me not to look?

“I know it sounds strange”, she adds “but it’s always the same in our hotels”.

Globalisation or something, I expect.

The police versus the courts – opposing situations?

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It was written ‘The law is an ass’, supposedly said by one, Mr Bumble.

And there have been a couple of stories on the Guardian website today that bear more scrutiny.

The first is this. When first reported, some weeks back it reminded me of the BNP. There he was, this Chief Constable, a person who is supposed to uphold the law as it is and follow the instructions of the courts, saying that he would not. He gave his reasons which, on the face of it seemed very reasonable.

The problem with this, though, is that he is charged, as part of his job, to ensure that the ordinary citizen upholds the law and the rulings from the courts. Surely he cannot, therefore, decide to go against the court.

But reading a little deeper, the claim is made by the man whose goods his police force seized, that the police are, in fact, out to get him. And the judges in the case criticise the Chief Constable ..

.. for attempting to smear Bates in a series of newspaper articles “all of which were directed to bring Bates into disrepute as a result of suggestions that there was salacious material which he had on computers otherwise than for purely professional purposes”

Maybe the Chief Constable should have used Nixon’s line with a little change thus:

When the Chief Constable does it, that means that it is not illegal”?

The other case was that of the blogger who wanted to remain anonymous. He wrote a blog called NightJack (no longer available). I’ve never read it but it won the Orwell award for his blog, so I’m guessing it was good.

He needed to stay anonymous so that the cases detailed on his blog would remain untraceable and, also, so that he could continue to blog truthfully about his cases and the police force (from what I have gathered).

The Judge, however, thought that he had no right to privacy regarding his identity because the act of blogging is in public.

Now, for sure, this, like most other blogs is available to all who wish to read it, even those people at work (if they can find it like Pietro did). I don’t wish to be anonymous, particularly, although I have no wish to be absolutely open either, if you see what I mean BUT, if I were writing a blog about work and, say, there was some aspect of my daily work that I felt the public should be made aware of that, maybe, my workplace would not be in total agreement to, then I probably would prefer anonymity. In fact, it might be crucial.

And, in this case I think it was crucial as now, as a result of him being ‘outed’, the blog has been deleted. What a great shame.

But it does beg the question – if a blogger has no right to anonymity, then, surely, a journalists sources have no right to anonymity since, through the journalist, they have allowed their comments to be made public? And, since it was a journalist who ‘outed’ the policeman, I wonder how he would feel if all his sources were to be made public? Surely, then, it would be harder to get their scoops? And that must be bad, don’t you think?

And, therefore, for me the writing of a blog anonymously fits neatly with the source of a journalist remaining secret. The only difference being the person who actually writes the words

It seems that, in both cases, there is one law for some and another for others, depending upon who you are and this cannot be right nor just.

Not really missing the BBC; It must be summer; Looking forward to the weekend (almost)!

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Further to my post, I’m pleased to say that weaning off the BBC is a little easier than I would have thought. I always did enjoy the Guardian and now that I’ve had the chance to explore the website a little more, I am decidedly liking it.

I also like being able to comment on pieces, unlike the BBC which just had the “Have Your Say” which, quite frankly, was not really very good.

Just like in the UK, people here complain about the weather – often. At the moment we are getting above 30 degrees in the afternoon and they are complaining that it is too hot and too humid. Certainly, as we are in a city, the humidity is worse (but nowhere near as bad as in the UK) but really, it’s not so bad.

Well, at least, there’s one person in Milan who is thoroughly enjoying this hot weather!

And, I have to ‘fess up. I don’t like travelling for work any more (or, really, travelling at all); I don’t like Paris; I don’t like working weekends and I don’t like shows (even less if I am working the stand). But….. I am almost looking forward to this weekend when I shall be in Paris.

Don’t know why, really. Possibly because I will be able to have some really good food? Or a nice bottle of wine? Or get some of the cheese (Boursault – and I shall have to get some for V who is looking after the boys) that I really like? Or, the chance that I will be able to do some reading during the boring bits (which is likely to be most of it, I think).

On the plus side, I go to the airport directly from home (about 10 minutes by taxi) and from the airport, directly to the hotel. So I only have to put up with the ‘show’ for two days. Then Monday is an all-day job driving back. There will have to be frequent stops for cigarettes, for certain, as I shall be with a colleague.

But, still I’m not quite sure why I am almost looking forward to it. Very strange.

Is this goodbye to the BBC?

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The BBC have changed the way their website works. It changed during the day on Thursday or Friday of last week. They changed it for me!

OK, to be truthful, they changed it for the likes of me – people who are abroad and access the BBC website.

The problem would seem to be something to do with advertising. See, us pesky ex-pats have this annoying habit of choosing the UK rather than the International version. This means they had their work cut out having to have two versions of the UK site – one without ads (for the people living in the UK) and one for us foreign-living folks which included slightly-annoying, irrelevant advertisements.

They did give that as a reason but also that, apparently, we found it confusing!!!!

I don’t think so. In fact, I know that this was not so. For me it was clear. I wanted UK news. If there was anything that happened in the world that was really important, it would be on the front page anyway.

The current news appeared on the ticker at the top of the page. I looked at the main page, then England and then Wales. Finally I would look at the Europe section.

Very rarely would I look at Africa, the Americas or Asia.

I don’t really trust the BBC for International news and so, now, having been given no option but to have the International version I have decided to leave.

Shame, really. But now I would rather have Google News set to the UK and the Guardian website to pick up on the other stuff.

I know it will take me a while to wean myself from the BBC but the International version that I now have to have is so annoying that I don’t think it will take long.

So, this may be goodbye to the BBC after all!

Friends come round for dinner

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Now, here’s a thing. When I first met V, he could cook Spaghetti Bolognese and that was all. Over the years he became quite proficient at cooking and we entertained quite a lot. I would always do the sweet whilst he would do most of the other things.

However, now that V is no longer there, I am back to doing my own thing.

Whilst in the UK, I bought quite a few pieces of Stilton and Cheddar. Also, from Londis in Hay-on-Wye, the best smoked bacon I have ever tasted. They cut it and vacuum pack it on the premises so it’s not like supermarket bacon which shrivels as the water content vaporises but it stays almost the same size and is really very tasty.

So, as I am determined to demonstrate to Italians that the food from the UK is not like they think, I had promised A that I would do dinner, mainly so that he could try the Stilton (with Port, of course).

Friday night was a night out with colleagues at an agriturismo called Ai Boschi in a small village called Origgio, not far from Milan. The nice thing about agriturismos is that they grow a lot of their food on the premises. I suppose they are an extension to the British ‘Farm Shop’. Agriturismos will have a restaurant and, quite often, rooms. Unfortunately, they are not all great. This one was, well, mediocre.

It meant that I did not get home until about 2 a.m. I had already said to A that dinner would be Saturday or Sunday depending on how things went (cleaning the house, etc.). As it was, I actually got up about 11.30 which was very late for me. And put me all behind.

However, I made the supreme effort to clean the house and, finally, at about 7 p.m. went shopping. I managed to make it in time to get the Port from the little off-licence near Corso Buenos Aires so called A to say we were on for the dinner.

To start, I had a baked pasta dish, given to me by G, our cook at work. Then I made a warm bacon and chicken salad – the bacon from Londis and the salad including salad cream which I had also picked up in the UK. Finally, cheese, British cheese biscuits, apples and port.

A made some big thing about me being able to cook and it made me think that V did most of it after all. A didn’t know I could cook whereas, in reality, it was me who taught V how to cook.

The meal was a great success. F really loved the bacon and the Stilton, which made me very happy. My first dinner in the flat!

Sunday I went for brunch at A&F’s. M, A’s friend was there too. As he pointed out, it was more like a wedding breakfast! Many courses and it lasted for hours.

And, the weather over the weekend was great so a good weekend all round.

A Security Issue

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How well can we rely on the security staff at Europe’s airports to do their jobs? Can they really protect us from a terrorist who is determined to blow up a plane? Are they, or the machinery they operate, up to the job?

My experiences show otherwise. The number of times I have been checked through British Airports and then European ones, each having a different set of rules and each finding different things to concern themselves with, make me wonder what this security thing is all about.

Take my latest trip.

From Malpensa through Brussels to Birmingham. Fairly straightforward, you might think. However, add in the fact that, in order to smoke, I go through security more than once at most airports. I get to learn what they want and this makes it quicker (for them and me) – however, something is most definitely wrong.

I am taking coffee in my hand luggage. This is finely ground coffee. It’s special Italian coffee and is for Best Mate.

First there is Malpensa. In the tray I put my bag. In another tray I put my coat and my mobile phone. My coat contains my cigarettes and a lighter. I keep all my coins and my other lighter. Stupidly, I have worn my boots which have a large chunk of metal round the heel. The security guard wants these on the conveyor belt which is, kind of, fair enough.

I slip through the gate with no beep. I collect all my things and on we go to the aircraft.

We arrive in Belgium – Brussels to be exact. I leave the airport (as if I am going to Brussels) so that I may go outside to have a cigarette.

Of course, I have to go back through security. Here they want all shoes off – metal or no.

I put my bag in a tray. I put my coat (with mobile , cigarettes and lighter) in another tray. But wait! Here they also want loose change. I take the Euro coins from one pocket and the English coins from another and add them to the coat tray.

I step through. No beep.

However, here, they decide that my bag requires checking. Nothing has been added or taken away since Malpensa (except the Milan-Brussels boarding card).

They go through the bag. They are interested in the tobacco and the coffee but, of course, everything has to come out. Nothing is found that is bad (I am not a terrorist).

I pack up and walk on.

After coffee and a sandwich, I really need another cigarette. Once again I leave the airport to stand outside the arrivals and have my couple of cigarettes.

I go back through security. This is the same security gate that I went through before. Exactly the same gate. There were a few different staff.

I placed my bag in one tray; my coat (with phone, cigarettes, lighter, Euro coins and British coins) in another and my boots in a third.

Then he asked if I had anything else in my pockets. I said my wallet (credit cards and cash) and he wanted them too.

So, there I was, going through the same gate as I had done an hour before. Personally, the only differences between last time and this were:

Minus: Credit Card Wallet

Plus: One glass of beer (inside me, of course); One chicken, bacon and lettuce sandwich (again inside me); A couple of cigarettes worth of extra tar/nicotine/whatever; Dust or anything that may have been floating in the air and is too small to see.

It beeped.

So then I had to be searched as did my bag.

The guy actually said that he had seen me go through before.

My conclusion to this was that either:

  1. The machine beeps every fifth or tenth person through, whatever.
  2. Someone in the team had a remote control switch that made it beep (and that is for another post).

Either way, it simply WAS NOT POSSIBLE for the machine to detect beer, chicken, bacon, lettuce, tar or nicotine in my body. And I honestly assure you there was nothing else that was additional on my person.

Speaking to someone today who knows someone in the Civil Aviation Authority in the country they come from (not Italy or the UK) he said that his friend had advised that, in fact, these security checks were a waste of time, money and energy but that ‘it makes the passengers feel safer’.

Well, not me it doesn’t. It makes me feel angry as I now know that the security gate in Brussels (the one on the left as you go through to the UK flights) doesn’t work properly. And, if it doesn’t work properly, is it the only one? I suspect not.

And then there was the UK on the way back. Going through Birmingham security:

Female Security Person: Do you have a belt, sir?
Me: No.
FSP: Can you take your sandals off please sir?
Me: Why – that guy has just gone through with sandals?
FSP: Exactly sir, and it set the alarm off.

I went through sans sandals.

Whilst waiting for my stuff to come through, the next five people were allowed through with their sandals on!

I’m sorry but you are just being random. And random doesn’t make me feel safe. Random means lucky not secure. Random means you are there to annoy me rather than make me feel good. All this security rubbish has to stop.

So, Brussels security does not make me feel safe and Birmingham security are too random for me to feel safe.

At least with Italian security you know where you stand – I.e. they are fairly relaxed about it – but, weirdly, it makes me feel safer as, instead of concentrating on rubbish, they probably have time to truly observe the people going through and can spot someone who might be acting in a suspect manner.