Tag Archives: Differences

Luncheon vouchers?

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I’ve never worked anywhere that gave luncheon vouchers.

Here, we have a canteen that is, in my opinion, very good. Every day (more or less), I have a pasta dish and a meat dish with a vegetable. It’s good value for money in that only about 7 cents is deducted from my wages.

Also, our cook is very good and tries to be a bit imaginative, which I really like.

But we are into the holiday period and, I have been informed, the canteen is getting some sort of make-over. And, so, it’s closed in August – for the whole month.

Here, in Italy, lunch is provided almost everywhere you work. Provided for a small fee. I think this sort of thing happened in London, at least until the Inland Revenue saw it as a useful source of extra tax. If your company (in Italy) does not have a canteen, then you are provided with these tickets. The value depends on your company. It is usually about €7 or so.

And so, we have some tickets for this period. The value of each ticket is only just over €5. Some people are less than happy with that. To be honest, I don’t really care. It’s not so important. After all, this will give me the chance for a bit of a ‘diet’ for the week before I stuff myself with food for two weeks and a week’s ‘diet’ for the week after the two-stuffing-weeks. It may, after all, be quite a good thing.

So, I shall probably, for the first time in my life, be like so many other annoying people at the supermarket queue – using my tickets for the shopping!

I am very excited. Does it show?

Families

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Just so you know, we have no Internet access at work – so no visiting of blogs and these posts have to be posted in the evening – and I have so little time. Hopefully, all will be back to normal soon.

In the meantime ……….

I had done a long piece about the falling out F had with his Mum. That was the weekend before last. There was a walk out, things were said and, afterwards I was told that now, he doesn’t feel obligated to go there.

Except I lived with V for over 20 years.

Let’s be honest, if I fall out with someone, I really fall out with them. It doesn’t go away. I guess that’s why, in the last 30 years or so, I don’t speak to my parents and have only seen them twice in that time.

It’s not that I bear grudges as such, it’s just that I don’t feel it can all be ignored. If there’s a problem then it remains a problem. I realize it’s my problem really but it’s the way I am. I tried to change when V left but V wouldn’t let me. Perhaps more of me rubbed off onto V than I had thought?

So, last weekend, I was, at once, surprised and unsurprised when, after we had arrived on Saturday, F phoned his Mum to say that we were down but we wouldn’t be going round for something to eat that evening.

On Sunday, he said he was sorry but we needed to go and see his Mum and Dad before going to the beach. He bought some cakes to have with coffee. I said it was fine (which it was). I may have a problem with forgiveness myself but I have no problem with other people being able to forgive – at least, between themselves.

And so we go. His Dad is on his own. He makes us coffee and he and F play cards, as normal. Hi Mum comes. She makes faces at me as if to ask ‘Is he OK now?’ or ‘He’s a strange one’ or something like that. I smile and raise my eyebrows and shrug my shoulders.

Finally, he and his Mum sit down (when his father has gone to the other room) to talk about a lunch at some restaurant to be arranged for his Dad’s birthday which is in a few weeks. I don’t suppose his brother will be there. But, who knows?

I don’t really understand families. Well, I understand my own – it’s everyone else’s that’s a mystery to me.

Service

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I have mentioned ‘service’ in Italy before now, probably in many posts.

Sometimes, it is exceptionally good. At other times it is, at best, abysmal. The abysmal usually occurs when you’re dealing with bureaucracy. There are many things which, whilst in the UK are straight forward, here require an amount of red tape that is, let us say, unfortunate.

Go to a small shop that, for instance, sells pens. There the service will be wonderful. When you have finally selected a pen, it will be wrapped with care as if it were to be the most important gift for someone – even if you are buying it for yourself.

Obviously, this doesn’t apply to all shops. Zara, for example, doesn’t carefully pack your purchased items but, much as shops in the UK, will just slip them in a bag. It does depend on where you go.

However, when dealing with something that requires the red-tape documentation, don’t expect a level of service even up to the Zara standard.

Instead, expect to wait; to be ignored; to be advised that you will have to come back with some other document; to be told that it simply ‘can’t be done’.

I go. Each desk is occupied both with an ‘assistant’ and a customer. There are a number of chairs for people who are waiting to sit on. It’s not a good sign. I’ve found waiting areas to be a sure sign of extreme slowness and incompetence. I find that I am not disappointed this time.

Two customers leave. The desks are empty of customers. The staff, though, are doing something else. Going for water; chatting to other people; walking around. They all look at me from time to time. I am English so am, to some extent, used to waiting. Quietly. Surely, I think, someone will attend to me shortly.

Another customer leaves. There are a lot of staff walking around. The desk where the last customer was definitely says ‘Closed’.

There are now only two desks which have customers at them. There is an office behind me that seems to attract the busy, walking-around staff. I could just pop my head round the door as it is right behind me. I don’t, of course.

Surely, I think, someone will notice the fact that I am waiting and that, by now, I don’t look like I am enjoying myself.

I wonder if the two customers that remain and are being served will ever finish.

A short man who could best be described as a retired spiv walks past. He is wearing one of those loud brown, striped suits. He reminds me of Danny DeVito. He looks at me and bids me good day. I mumble something in return. It’s not really a ‘good’ day for me.

The mumble was going to be something like ‘salve’ which is a two-syllable word but comes out as a one syllable word that almost doesn’t come out at all, it is so quiet. In part this is because no one, up to this point, has spoken to me.

He walks off somewhere.

About five minutes later he comes past me again. He asks me something in Italian. By now my mind is numb and even if he had said ‘Good Day’ in Italian, I wouldn’t have understood it. I feel like I have died whilst I’ve been waiting.

I give him the contents of the envelope and crank my mind into some sort of gear. I think I am somewhere between zero and first gear. He understands my comment that I just want to pay. He calls a woman from the room behind me – her with the ‘Closed’ desk. He tells her to serve me.

She is, obviously, less than happy with this. But, then again, I am less than happy with being here amongst all these totally ignorant Italians. I mean in this office not in Italy, of course.

She serves me. She is useless. But, in spite of her uselessness, five minutes later I am out of there. It will be the last time I use them and so, next year, I will do something about it. In time. I.e. a month before I need to do this again.

Or else I will be too lazy and go there again this time next year and be unhappy all over again.

Let’s see.

Superstitions

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Superstitions are strange things, really, aren’t they?

Take the one of spilled salt. I think (but I’m not really well up on these things), in the UK, if you spill some salt, you’re supposed to pick up some of the spilled salt with your right hand and throw it over your left shoulder. Or the other way round. They have a similar thing here, in Italy.

Then there’s the black cat. In the UK, if a black cat crosses your path, it’s considered lucky. Here, it’s unlucky. Does anyone know why (either is though)?

And then there’s the new car. I’m not sure it’s an Italian thing. It might just be a superstition within my company.

Anyway, to avoid having an accident in your new car, don’t worry about your driving. Instead you should bring in cakes and drink to share with your colleagues. This, apparently, will ensure that you don’t have accidents.

Who knew? I always thought it was careful driving and a bit of luck (that there aren’t any crazy drivers on the road – which is quite difficult to ensure here) that meant you didn’t have an accident. Stupid me.

I guess it’s official now.

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I guess I have reached the ‘I am an old codger’ stage of my life.

It’s not really my age, as such, it’s my attitude.

Saturday night was the ‘Notte Bianca’.  This is an Italian thing.  Once a year, roads are closed to traffic and the shops and bars stay open until late.  By late, I mean 2 or 3 or later.

There are often ‘discos in the street’, stalls and street traders selling tourist-type crap.  There are food and drink stalls.  And people wander about.

I suppose the reason it can be done here is the weather.  It’s warm and it lends itself to staying up till the early hours of the morning.

F apologised a number of times and checked I wasn’t bored.  St, an old friend of his, has been having problems with her 30+-year-old marriage.  Or rather her husband has been having problems, if you see what I mean.  She has lived in the town all her life and feels she cannot confide in anyone who lives there – so F was an obvious choice.  It seems a lot of people are having problems right now.

Anyway, obviously they were talking in Italian.  I suppose I could have tried to follow the conversation but it seemed rude to do so, me not being an old friend.  So, I didn’t.

We went to a bar and found a seat (which was lucky).  And they talked whilst I looked around.  And I catch myself wondering why the young people (especially the girls) think that wearing a pair of shorts or skirt that barely covers your bum when you have tree trunks for legs, think that it can possibly be attractive?

I suppose it is the same as when I was a teenager and I suppose the older generation thought much the same about us as I think about the youngsters of today.

But, that’s not entirely fair.  There are women of F’s age wearing the same sort of thing although it’s noticeable that the women of that age generally wear something that suits their figure.  Not always, of course, but mostly.

We left about midnight as F didn’t like a friend of R (his best friend who had joined us with his entourage later) who announced to everyone, and in front of her 10-year-old daughter, how she really needed a fuck tonight.  I only learnt later that was why we had left as I hadn’t understood.

Possibly it’s as well that I don’t understand sometimes but F and I do agree on stuff like that.  As we used to say in the UK – it’s not big and it’s not clever.

However, I did enjoy the evening.  Watching the people.  And St seems very nice.  Bless her, she’s still in love with her husband after almost 40 years of knowing him.  Shame he’s such a barsteward really.

Nothing to fear except a lack of self-confidence itself!

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I am disappointed that I didn’t bring one of the others; that I didn’t fully-charge my phone; that I didn’t bring something to write with and on. I think, “I’ll write this down when I get back.” But, even as I think this, I know that I won’t. There’s too much ‘worry’. It is, of course, all made-up worry and, therefore, not real. It’s just in my head.

Later, as I’m walking out, I think that, if it wasn’t for my ‘worries’, my indecisiveness, my (and let me honest here) fears, I could be great. Maybe. It holds me back. It stops me from doing things or, rather, sometimes it stops me and I am annoyed with myself for being such a wuss.

My fears are my greatest obstacle. But they are not fears of normal people. Or, maybe they are? Maybe everyone has these fears? I just don’t think they do.

I think they come from my childhood. Or, perhaps, this is the way I am and so those ‘happenings’ that reinforce and prove my fears are correct are the only things that stick in my mind. They were huge happenings. I wanted the earth to open up and swallow me or that I should die. They have a reoccurring theme, of course. It is not a fear of failure or a fear of disaster or a fear of danger or risk. No, it is a fear of embarrassment. I mean, FFS, just embarrassment!

These were things from as young as 5. They are the only things I remember from that age. Not good things but terrible things. Or, rather, terrible things for me. Things that make me squirm even as I think about them.

Every thing I do is a challenge. There is a fear attached which has to be overcome. Well, not every thing but a lot of things.

There was the drive. Less of a challenge now than it was, say, even a couple of years ago. Now I know the route and I’ve been driving enough to recognise the driving and the road signs. Once I was in the house though, I was ‘safe’. Then, the next day there was the beach. Again, not like it was last year and this year we have our own (shared) umbrella. Still, there’s all the other people. Too many people. And, yet, on Saturday, it wasn’t too bad as it was quite cloudy and there was a strong wind. But then there’s the water. But I decided not to do the water yet. That will have to wait until F is with me. Then there was (in random order) the ‘leaving’, the ‘smoking too many cigarettes’, the ‘getting a sandwich’, the ‘running out of things to immerse myself in’, the ‘putting on of sunscreen’. It’s almost comic – as long as you’re not me.

I look at the people around. All shapes, sizes and ages. No one looks at me, I tell myself. I have to believe that. As if I should be just see-through.

I think about the sunshine and wonder if I am burning. I can’t tell yet. It will come later, after I am away from the beach. I’ve rubbed suncream where I can – even over the lower part of my back and my shoulders. I notice that my left arm is peeling slightly. Well, I think, I can’t stop it now.

I think about the fact that sunbathing is so dangerous now. It’s not that it wasn’t dangerous before, it’s just that we didn’t know. I think about the fact that it’s unlikely to ‘get me’ since there are many other things that will, probably, ‘get me’ first. Like the smoking. It’s OK. It’s not like I was ever destined to live forever. It’s not that I ever wanted to live forever in the first place. And, in any case, what’s the point if you just live within safety. Safety is for wusses. I spot some brown moles on my arm and think “were they here before?” I worry that I would be a hypochondriac. Maybe that’s too much of my Father’s side in me? I would be a hypochondriac but I never voice the fears of that and say the opposite thing since people don’t really know what I’m thinking and so I can say anything I like. But I’m sure I would be a hypochondriac if I let it take control. Which I mustn’t. Which I won’t. Damn my head!

The book was ‘The Blind Assassin’. And not because they were discussing it on Twitter (#1book140) but because I hadn’t finished it from last year’s holiday. And, really, apart from being my favourite book of all time, I can read bits of it and leave it for ages. Well, obviously, almost a year, before finishing it. I toy with starting it again but I don’t. That will mean I won’t read the new one that I bought also by Margaret Attwood (Year of the Flood) or my other, 2nd favourite one – ‘We Need to Talk About Kevin’.

I order a cheese and lettuce sandwich because that’s a summer sandwich. They don’t have any black pepper though. Damn Italians with their limited taste buds! Maybe I should buy some and put some on myself. Also the cheese is not cheddar so not so tasty. But it’s OK.

I have promised to go to F’s Mum and Dad’s for dinner. He ‘set it up’ as a means (I am sure) of making me go down there without him. I leave the beach about 4 since I have to take the dogs out and, anyway, it feels like it might rain soon.

My Navigator is worth its weight in gold. Especially as the things were programmed in last time. F insisted so that I wouldn’t ‘lose my way’. I have the casina, the dog walk, the beach and F’s Mum. The man’s voice says the names in an English fashion, which is funny.

There’s no one at the dog area, the same as this morning. I play with Dino a bit but he gets a dirty beard and he will insist on shaking near me, spotting my shorts with mud from said beard. Bloody dog.

F has telephoned already. “Are you going to my Mum and Dad’s?”, he asks. But even I’m not stupid enough to think this is actually a question

I go back. I take a bath. Timing is everything. I had noticed on the beach that my nails were just a little long. I cut them. After all, I am going round to the parents-in-all-but-law’s place.

As I am cleaning the bath, I hear a voice outside. I grab the towel and go to see the uncle from upstairs. The uncle is in his eighties and doing very well, even for a man years younger than him. I go to the door, excusing myself for being dressed (undressed?) like this. He speaks to me. I understand some of it but he lacks some teeth and so it is more difficult for me. F’s Mum. Bicycle. Move. Somewhere at his house. The rain.

But, am I supposed to take it round? He repeats everything. It’s doesn’t make more sense than the last time. He is slightly frustrated. However, finally, I think that it must be him going to take it round and not me. He was just being polite. Later I learn that he didn’t even know I was there and didn’t see the dogs. Of course, that would be because, even if I went outside, the dogs tended to stay in the house. They are strange sometimes.

I get ready. I take many deep breaths. This will be difficult. There will be no English. The conversation will be limited. Or, worse still, non-existant.

I drive there with trepidation. On the way, I stop in the centre of the town. Well, not the town in which I am residing but the next one. The Marina. Where the dog walk and the beach are. I go to the tobacco shop to buy a certain type of cigar for his Dad. Then, next door for a tub of ice-cream for his Mum. I would feel guilty not taking anything now that, this time, I’m not taking them the best present of all – their son! F understands my need for wanting to take something and doesn’t tell me that it’s not necessary.

I arrive at the house and they welcome me as normal. They are sweet, as always, with me. We sit down for dinner. This is early. 7.30 p.m. but since his operation, F’s father has to eat earlier than they used to.

I give the ice-cream to his Mum. She makes all the things like ‘You shouldn’t have’ as all people do, even the English. But I think she is pleased. I give the packet of cigars to his Dad who is definitely surprised and pleased. Bless him.

Of course, they have made too much. They have bought some bresaola for me. None of them eat it but they must have asked F. There is a whole plate full. F’s Dad got up at 6 a.m. that morning to make frittata – for me, since neither of them eat any. There is tuna, tomato and potato salad. There is bread. There are the prawns that they did last time – cooked and in oil with parsley. There is a beer for me but I request wine (don’t forget my wine diet even if, as I suspected, ‘diet’ is not possible with F’s parents). It’s a ‘local’ ‘known’ wine without a label. And it’s red (my favourite) which is cold. I like the Italians approach to wine. No snobby breathing or room temperature crap. This is summer. Keep your red wine in the fridge!

Then there is some cheese. Soft pecorino. It’s very good. Again, not something bought in the supermarket. Then there’s fruit salad with an over-ripe banana. Then, of course, the ice-cream. His Dad doesn’t want any but she forces him to have a small cone (the cone being the size of a thumb and came with the ice-cream). He takes it because he is polite. But afterwards, he has another – this is not for politeness. I have some and his Mum has some. She gets out some special plastic dishes made to look like fat, squat, ice-cream cones. They came from S. I have realised that they loved S. I only hope I’m not compared. S is mentioned several times. “S bought us these”. “S, even if he was thin, used to have such heavy footsteps”. It’s OK. I am English. He is English. I am F’s boyfriend. S was F’s boyfriend. Obviously, we have a lot in common.

I text F during the meal saying there is a lot of stuff. He phones his Mum. She hands the phone to me. We talk. We say we’ll speak later. I miss him but it’s not been so bad. Not nearly as bad as it could have been. I say that everything is ‘buono’, which it is. She says ‘Mangia, mangia’ and I say no, stop, rubbing my full belly. She laughs.

His Dad goes off to smoke a cigar. Outside because it’s too smelly in the house. Conspiratorially, his Mum, whilst making me a coffee, tells me that she is going to bingo but that I should stay for a bit to be with F’s Dad. I say I have to go soon to be with the dogs. I have texted R (according to my instructions for what to do at the weekend) to ask if he is at the bar-for-this-season but he has not replied. F’s Dad and I watch a bit of telly. His Mum has gone. I know that B, F’s sister, is worried that this bingo lark is like some sort of drug for his Mum. But I know it’s a social event for her. I’m sure she isn’t spending a lot of money.

I go. R has not texted back. I drive past the bar but go home. I settle down with the new MA book. R texts me. ‘Yes I am here. Come’ it says. I briefly toy with saying that I am already at home with the dogs. But this is another fear. I don’t know these people. They’re not my friends. But I am under instruction. And like a good boy, I must do as I’m told. I go.

R speaks English. He is sitting with the couple that, last week, had brought their new puppy to the bar. This time they haven’t got the puppy. I’m asked if I understand Italian. I say it depends. Which it does. Then someone talks about me or asks me something and I say something back in Italian. After a few minutes the woman of the couple realise that I am speaking Italian and exclaims that I speak Italian perfectly. Of course, this is not true but it is, kind of, nice of her to say.

Eventually I leave and go back home, citing the dogs. I speak to F at home. He asks if I have been out with R. He would have been disappointed if I hadn’t gone, I think.

The next day I get up about half an hour later so miss the two lesbians with their dog. I am also later at the beach. F’s Dad said, the night before, that I should not park in the usual place as there was some fly-past or sir show happening and the roads would be closed. I briefly thought about not going to the beach at all. But now I’m getting the hang of the place so found somewhere to park, nearby. I go to the beach.

The place is heaving although nearly all the umbrellas immediately next to ours are empty. I half-expect B to come but she doesn’t. Or, rather, doesn’t before I leave.

I leave early. I have to have lunch at F’s Mum (because I can’t say no – saying no involves explanation – in Italian. It’s easier to say ‘yes’). Most of the stuff is as last night. She has also done some eggs. Kind of like egg and cheese on toast but without the toast. And with the cheese under the eggs. I have one. It’s nice but with runny yolks it would be nicer. I do like my runny yolks. The eggs are not supermarket eggs either. I’m beginning to understand where F gets some of his strangeness from. Whilst it’s not strange if you live there and have lived there all your life and know lots of people, etc., it’s more strange when you live in Milan and don’t. His Mum pulls a face when she compares these eggs to supermarket eggs. I can see F.

I leave soon after. I don’t have wine or beer, saying I have to drive.

Of course, I have another worry that evening. I get home quite reasonably. I check the address of the dinner. I wish F were coming with me but he’s working.

In the end it was lovely. New (or nearly new) people all. Wine, good food and all only ten minutes from my house. Very enjoyable.

And I realised on my second walk back from the beach that although it is a fear, it’s more a thing of self-confidence. And, it seems, I have none!

Doing an Hawaiian in Milan

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Sometimes I have a hankering for British food. And by British, I don’t mean just British but British-style Indian, Chinese or, dare I whisper it here, Italian.

For a couple of weeks now, I have had a yearning for an Hawaiian pizza. I know one place where I can (or could) get them – but I’d never find it. I only know the rough area of Milan.

Here, at work, our canteen, on a Friday, cooks fish. But for those who don’t like fish, you can order, the day before, something else. The something else includes meat or pizza. It’s not a pizza done in a wood oven but it’s quite passable. Now they have a list of the often-asked-for pizzas. There is even one named after me which, in most Pizzerias, is called a Bismark (that is boiled ham with a fried egg in the centre).

So, yesterday I asked if they had the ingredients for an Hawaiian pizza. They said they did. So I ordered one for today.

Of course, when I sat down, I got many “Is that pineapple?” questions in a kind uggh, how could you manner. As I expected. But it was delicious. The pineapple, being fresh, was sweet and juicy. Mmmmmm.

However, I noticed that there were a few differences that made it taste different from one in the UK. Obviously, the fresh pineapple. This is much sweeter than the tinned pineapple we usually use in the UK. Secondly, the boiled ham is very nice here but they do it in a thin layer, covering the whole of the pizza rather than cubes. Then there is the fact that there is no grated cheddar cheese on top. So, it’s different. In some ways, much, much nicer.

And fresh.

It’s OK though, it all adds to my ‘strangeness’ as far as my colleagues are concerned. And that never hurts.

The clothes maketh the man (so to speak)

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“I’m not racist!”

I’ve heard this often. It goes with the “I’m not a bigot”, “I’m not sexist”, “I’m not something bad”. But it’s not really true for we are all, even if it is only a tiny bit, every one of those things.

Of course, the problem is that we like to pigeon-hole people. We put them into categories in the same way that we put everything into categories. Food we like – food we don’t like; people we like – people we don’t like; books we like – books we don’t like. If I read a bad book, it goes into a category. If it is bad because I didn’t like the story (that’s one category) or bad because the writing was dismal or even atrocious (that would be the Honeymoon-by-Amy-Jenkins category).

What makes us a bad person is that we take some action on the categories or we expect that our version of the items or people in that category is the right and only view. Honeymoon was a terrible book – in my opinion. It may be that some people think it’s great. I wouldn’t buy a book by Amy Jenkins ever again. That doesn’t mean that, since Honeymoon, she hasn’t written some great books. I’ll just never know.

It’s the same with people. I see someone wearing a dirty jacket with layers of other dirty clothes and dragging an over-laden shopping trolley behind him, sporting a thick and out-of-control white beard – I assume he is one of the homeless people wandering around Milan. I could be wrong, of course. Maybe he’s the CEO of one of the fashion businesses here?

I see a lady waiting on the street corner, short (but I mean short, short) mini skirt, fishnet stockings, high heels, tight white top, checking every car as it goes past, occasionally speaking to the driver through the window when one of the cars stops, most probably the driver only asking for directions somewhere – in my head I immediately put her in a category. I know, it’s wrong.

There’s the old woman. Always waiting at the same bus stop. I used to pass her every evening when I used to go to F’s place. She was old. Sixty plus. She had a honey-blonde wig, had her face plastered with make-up, always wore this big fur coat and underneath (‘cos I saw once or twice) a short skirt, skimpy top, etc. It didn’t matter what time I went past, she was always there. Early evening, late evening. It didn’t matter when. Always the same fur coat. Always the same make-up. Always the same bus stop. Always not getting on the bus if the bus happened to be stopping. She went in the same category too. Perhaps she was a cleaning lady? Or maybe a care worker?

I remember when we first came here, years ago. We didn’t understand, coming from the UK, that the shop assistants dressed the same as ordinary people entering the shop – i.e. the customers. In the UK, most shops had the shop assistants wearing the same clothes as each other. Often an actual uniform. It was easy to spot them. To categorise them as ‘someone that can help me should I be in need of help’. Coming here, it was harder. Some woman, once, came up to me as I was waiting for V in a shop, asking me if ‘we had this in a different size or a different colour’ or something. I remember it pleased me at the time, being mistaken for an Italian.

However, just because I do categorise everything doesn’t mean I do anything about it. I even try to be just as nice (and smile at the lady at the bus stop) as I would with anyone else. Why not?

However, some people, I guess don’t think like me. Or don’t try to think like me. Or can’t think like me. If they put people into a category (which we all do) they seem to think that these people ARE in that category. Telling them that they are wrong, just won’t fix the problem in their heads. This article says all of the above but in a much more eloquent way, I think. And, no, I don’t condone rape as I don’t condone anything that hurts someone else. However, telling an assassin not to murder people for money doesn’t stop them doing it, does it?

Probably the best summer.

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We have mentioned it before but this time it was a bit different.

As he knows we both like the peppers filled with (usually) cod, he decided to buy some and bring them back. He bought 8 tins!

Last night we had two of those tins for dinner. I love them. We talked about how good Spanish food was. We both like Spanish food. And then we talked about him getting a job there. He said that he thought the future was the model used by a well known Spanish fashion brand. He said he could try to get a job with them. I said I would teach English or something. I would do something. I said I would be happy to go.

We looked it up online. We talked about some of the Spanish food we liked. Now, I wouldn’t mind moving. Why not? My dream was to come and live here. My dream before that was to live in the countryside in Herefordshire. I’ve done these things. I can do something else now. I never thought I would want to move to Spain but now I really don’t mind. In fact, I think I might enjoy it. Of course, it’s another bloody language to try and learn although I shall, probably, learn it in the same way as Italian – so never, then! And we wouldn’t go to the British enclave areas, so that would be perfect. And the weather would be better. Yes, I could do this.

Interestingly, we were talking about it together. About moving together. It was different than before.

He says that the Spanish people are nicer. Not so stuck up as the Italians. Of course, for me, the Italians are fine. I like them and they seem to have a more relaxed attitude to life, even in Milan. To F, they seem restricted. It must be the same for everyone when they think of the people of their own country, I guess. The grass is always greener, etc., etc. He thinks the Spanish are happier. Given my last few posts, you will know that I think the Italians are happier than the English. I guess everyone from a different country seems happier than your own people. You know too much about your own people. They are part of you, I suppose.

This morning we woke up early. He has caught the train to go down and decorate and clean the house. He’s now talking about me coming down with the dogs on Thursday or Friday. Maybe. If the weather is going to be good. He says that he’s doing it for me. But that’s not really true. He’s doing it for us. He’s already talked to R, his best friend, about R picking up the dogs from the house and meeting us in the dog area in the pinetta (I don’t know if I’ve spelt it right. It’s the area under the pine trees. The cool areas, near the beach) about 6 so that we can come from the beach and collect the dogs from R, saving us the need of leaving the beach early, going to pick the dogs up and then going back near the beach to walk them. He’s going to give R some money for doing this, justifying it by the fact that it will ‘cost us that in petrol anyway and we don’t have to leave the beach so early’. I think many of the things he says are so he doesn’t have to say he’s doing it for both of us, together. He can justify it by logic even if, sometimes, his logic is not the same logic as mine.

Still, either way, we have our beach umbrella sorted and, by the end of this week, if not before, the house fixed up for us to go to.

Boy, I am really looking forward to this summer. It’s going to be glorious. Probably the best summer I’ve ever had.

British Food – not really all it’s cracked up to be (or, Maybe the Italians are right?)

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Well, apart from trying to fix my blog for almost a month, now, I have also been doing other things.

Take last weekend, for example.

I went to Hay-on-Wye to see Best Mate. She wasn’t able to come here this year so asked if I would go over. F and I arranged it so that he could look after the dogs (and, finally, ‘do’ the bedroom – but that’s another post).

The travel there and back was one thing, again, maybe, another post. And the weather! So cold it was like being back in winter. In fact, the weather alone would be enough for me to never go back there, certainly to live – and that’s without the other things.

However, it was lovely to see BM who was considerably better than last time.

But I came to the realisation, whilst I was there, why it is that Italians have such a fixation about English=bad food (also see Lola’s blog post).

I used to relish going back to the UK. A Kentucky Burger was high on my list, if not essential. This time, however, it was very different. The real thing I absolutely love is Roast Lamb. The British do it so well. It is now, really the only thing on my list. But let’s look at the food I did have.

I arrive at Birmingham Airport at about 9.30 a.m. BM is there to pick me up and we drive back to Hay. This is about two and a half hours or so. By the time we arrive in Hay, I am ready for lunch, having had nothing but a biscuit and a couple of small croissants on the planes (it was Air France).

We go to Kilverts. The first thing is the beer. I’m afraid I forgot the ‘wine-non-diet’. The beer is great. The UK does great beer and, in particular, the real ale. I had some mild. It was nice and smooth. We looked at the blackboard for food. There was no lamb but I could choose something else. However, they were preparing the kitchen for the Festival (which is happening as I write this). We both agreed that was a bit strange. However, we had ham sandwiches with mustard. It was OK but not really as good as it was in my mind. Still, I had more beer, so it was fine.

That night we went to Red Indigo, billed as the best Indian restaurant in Hay, which makes me laugh because it’s the only one! The food was wonderful. I had a lamb balti. And beer – although Cobra beer. Indian food has come a long way from the time I was at University when it was, really, very hot or slightly less hot muck. Now it is fresh and so tasty. As normal I had Naan bread with my balti. In the UK they do nice large, thick Naan breads. Unfortunately, here, they do rather small and much too thin Naan breads.

Saturday, I needed to go shopping. I had things to buy – things I had come for. We got into Hereford and went straight to the cafe in the centre of High Town. It’s in the open air – so we can smoke. Aside from the cold, the coffee was a ‘Starbucks’ type cappuccino. I used to love these. Now they are too hot and too big. I am used to cappuccino Italian style. Tepid, small but lovely. As we are at the ‘bar’ ordering (of course, I noticed, for the first time really, how I am used to having a waiter serve me), I saw delicious-looking Almond croissants and decided to have one.

It was the first time I realised why the Italians think English food is so bad. It is bad. At least, if you’re not in the right places it is. The croissant (brioche, here) was filled with custard (crema, here). It had flakes of almond on top. Without the flakes of almond it would have been the same as the brioche I normally have for breakfast (when we go to a cafe on the weekends), except – the crema was not soft but more of a gel and it didn’t ooze out since there was so little of it. However, the worst thing was that, being used to having brioche that has been baked that very morning – this must have been baked several days ago. It was, quite frankly, stale. If they served this kind of stuff in Italy, the café would go out of business.

And then I thought: that’s how it has always been. The British tolerate this being given very little alternative or just because we don’t complain. I would have complained but I knew that this was perfectly acceptable here, so what was the point?

Later we got some cakes from Greggs. I had a Belgian Bun. It was OK. Actually, it was quite nice – but mainly because here, in Italy, they don’t do them. At least it was fresh, unlike the croissant.

Later still we went for lunch to the The Imperial. The beer (I don’t remember what it was) was fine. I ordered Gammon with Egg. It should have been good but it wasn’t. To be honest, G, here, in our canteen, does a much better job of making it and I had to explain how to make it to her! Also there were just too many chips. Don’t get me wrong, it was OK – it just wasn’t nice enough.

That evening we weren’t able to book a table at the Black Lion and so went to the Three Tuns. This was divine. Good beer (Butty Bach, I think) and rack of lamb. This is how British food should be. Fresh vegetables, good gravy and the lamb was perfectly cooked and juicy.

Sunday, we were in Hay for reasons I cannot disclose. We did go to Shepherds for a morning cappuccino (which wasn’t bad and much more like real Italian coffee) and, more importantly, I had a Toasted Tea Cake. Oozing with butter it is one of the things from my childhood. I adore Toasted Tea Cakes and this one was as good as any I have had.

We skipped lunch and I really wasn’t hungry anyway. That evening we went to the Old Black Lion. I do like the Black Lion. The beer isn’t so special but it’s OK. The food is very good, though. Again it was lamb. Again it was fantastic. I had some meringue thing for sweet. BM chose the summer pudding which I tasted and it was far, far better than my choice!

Before the Black Lion we were back in Kilverts where we met up with T, a friend of BM’s. I had a few pints of Butty Bach and I had really forgotten how good that beer is!

The next day I was back to the airport. I was there about 2 p.m. I had over an hour to ‘kill’. I went through to departures (after stocking up on nicotine) and went to the Weatherspoons pub in the departure lounge. The choice wasn’t brilliant but I chose a cheeseburger. It arrived. It was tepid which was a shame because if it had been hot, it would have been quite nice. Of course, they can do this as there’s no time to fix it, what with departing flights and all.

But it got me to thinking that, really, in the UK, if you don’t know the places, food is quite a hit and miss affair – in fact, mainly miss.

So, Italians are right, in a way, in that British food is not that good, unless you go to a place that does good food. Elsewhere it is liable to be fairly crap.

And, for the first time, I really didn’t want a Kentucky Burger. Too much salt and fat and sugar and crap. It seems I’ve moved on a bit!