Tag Archives: Milan

Primark in Milan? Why not?

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From my glance at the stats every day, I’ve noticed that quite a few people come looking to see if there is a Primark in Milan. The short, easy answer is no, there isn’t. At least, as yet. Although I don’t quite see why Primark haven’t expanded their exposure abroad. Surely, at this time of economic crisis, Primarks would be welcomed all over the world, including Italy?

Alright, as I’ve said before, the quality is not brilliant but, for the price of things, you wouldn’t really expect them to be, would you?

So the material is a little thinner than one would expect, the finishing is not really so good, the amount of time you can wear them is less than for other things – but, hey, they look OK and do a job!

The pair of jeans I bought a couple of years ago will be coming out of the wardrobe very soon (they are summer jeans for work), which means they will be paying for themselves for the third year running! Not bad, really.

As soon as I find that there is a Primark in Milan, I shall, of course, let you all know.  It’s only a matter of time…….

Still not holding my breath; Time Out Pizzeria; Having a wife!

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Apparently, after an ‘interesting’ conversation she had with her friend, as we’re walking to the pizzeria, I won’t be holding my breath until Saturday or Sunday! Hmm.

This morning, coming to work, the temperature sensor was recoding 16.5 degrees. The sun is shining and, for the first time this year, I did not wear a jumper to work! Yay! Although, obviously, I was wearing a coat.

Still, if only this would hold for the weekend and, even better, if Best Mate still comes, next week! Blue skies, no wind, and, again, last night, we were able to sit outside for our meal without jackets. Oh yes, this makes it all worthwhile.

So, back to last night. The plan was that FfI was going to make dinner at home. She bought all the stuff. She also bought a clothes drying rack; a standing lamp; a basket to hold washing and cleaning stuff; a mirror for the bathroom. She also cleaned the kitchen and the bathroom. It’s like having a wife!

The problem is that the clothes drying rack is for hanging outside on the balcony. She likes her clothes to dry outside. Given the pollution in this city and the film of dirt that is on the car every morning, I prefer to dry everything inside. Ah well, there are worse things.

The lamp, however, is really great. It is now standing in the kitchen. The Art Deco lamp that was in the kitchen is now shedding light in the hall (which was the only place without light or windows and was, therefore, very dark). It’s good. It cost €5 but looks like it should be worth about €100!

The mirror (a cheap one from one of the Chinese shops that is full of tat) is serviceable and now I can shave without having to squat down!

Instead of her making dinner, she suggested that we go for a pizza. We walk up to Via Eustachi which is a very elegant street in Milan. It is also full of restaurants and bars. We select a pizzeria that she says is part of a small chain and, supposedly, very good. It’s called Time Out, or something like that. The chain is run by Chinese, apparently. The pizzas were good, the house red wine was fizzy and cold and perfectly acceptable and the conversation flowed. The evening was warm and very pleasant. And all for €13 per head! Very good value and one I can see myself going to much more often.

It was marred only by the phone conversation she had with her friend on the way there and a subsequent one when we got there.

She had told me, before, that she had texted her friend, twice, asking what was going on and could she still come tomorrow (now today, obviously) to stay. Her friend was not responding. I knew what this meant and told her.

A few minutes after we started walking to the restaurant her friend rang her (she had just sent another text) and there followed a rather heated argument. It was embarrassing and unnecessary, in my view. After all, I knew from the day before yesterday that this ‘move’ wasn’t going to happen.

Anyway, the upshot is that her friend didn’t have room because some other friends are down from the mountains. FfI wasn’t happy. I wasn’t exactly ecstatic but had to offer that she could stay – what else could I do? So, now it will be until Saturday or Sunday or, perhaps, even Monday). An offer to go to the Friend with the Second Home on the Lake for the weekend was rejected. I understand but, still, a break would be nice (for me, really).

Here I am in my new flat and unable, really to stretch out and enjoy it; continue putting stuff away and sorting things out, etc. Hmmph! And, even with V, I need my personal ‘downtime’ or space.

I really hope that Best Mate can make it after all as that IS something to look forward to and the weather is predicted to be pretty good – plenty of sunshine and warmish weather. And I want to explore the area with her, above all others.

Not holding my breath – and for good reason; Living with someone; a new restaurant

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Remember? I’m still not holding my breath. Last night FfI mentioned that the friend, to whom she was going to move, may not be able to put her up until the weekend. I read between the lines and know what that means. Certainly, she will be there tonight. Tomorrow?

However, it changed again this morning, probably because she insists on getting up after I have taken the dogs for a walk and I don’t think she normally got up anywhere near that time in the past. At that time it’s only just getting light. She gets up for coffee with me. We have conversation. Now, I’m not really a morning person; I don’t like having conversation. I prefer to be quiet and not to do much (except drink coffee and have some cigarettes).

I really don’t mind having her stay. Except that, whereas she’s lovely, she may be considered harder work than someone, say, like Best Mate. With Best Mate I can, certainly, be totally myself and completely relaxed. With FfI, it’s not really the same at all.

But she’s trying to be sweet and I am trying to be accommodating. It’s difficult, this living with someone else, especially if you’re in a three-room flat!

Anyway, as a sort of payment for using my flat over these two (or three or four) days, she took me out last night. Please bear in mind, it’s always ladies first, ladies have a seat, ladies are treated, well, like ladies. But I have no problem when they pay for things. For me they are equal in all things but should be treated with the courtesy of being a lady. This does not mean they shouldn’t pay their way – after all, some of them I know earn so much more than I do.

She had asked me where and, since I’ve never been there but passed it the other night whilst taking the dogs out, I suggested Aladino. She had mentioned it several times in the past as a great restaurant and that we should go and now, as it’s a two minute walk from my house, it seemed the perfect time.

Aladino (not pronounced the English way – I.e. like Aladin with an ‘o’ on the end and the stress on the ‘la’ – but rather as in Allah + Dino (deenoh) with the stress on the ‘di’) is a Lebanese (and, as I look at the website, Syrian) restaurant.

As FfI had been there before, many times, and, I was on the telephone to another friend, she went and ordered for both of us.  Which was fine by me!

What we had decries description. To start with was cold ‘mesa’ (may not be spelt correctly) which was about 25 small dishes with ‘stuff’. Different sauces, vegetables done in different sauces, etc. Served with warm pitta bread.

Each dish allowed four small but adequate portions of whatever the ‘stuff’ was. This you put on pitta bread and eat. Most of it was very tasty but very different tastes for most of them which meant you felt as if you were getting a whole meal. And, to be honest, I had to check at one point, what was coming next, so as not to over-do it at the start.

Next came three different hot ‘mesa’. Again, very nice and, thankfully not so much as I was already a little full from the cold dishes.

Then came the kebabs – lamb and beef. Served with salad and rice. By now there was far too much to eat! Still, to follow, was the sweet – two types but not over-sweet and one of which was a little like blancmange (which was always one of favourite deserts). Then there was tea and, for me, a limoncello.

Very, very nice meal although not cheap at €40 per head! However, as an alternative to Chinese or Indian, very welcome.

The Ties That Bind – Restrictive or Welcome?

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Since moving to the Perfect Flat, when taking Rufus and Dino out late at night, for their last walk, I walk to the area that I always used which has two dog areas, fenced, where they can be let off the lead

In doing so, I walk up the Perfect Street and every time I pass the Indian restaurant, the Rajput. This is the one that was closest to our old flat and is, more or less, the same distance from the Perfect Flat.

The meal is quite nice, if a little less spicy than it would be in the UK. Normally, of course, I would not have walked past it at all, were it not for the move. And, in passing it late in the evening, I had such a hankering for going there.

Now, there are three people that either know that place or would be very happy going there for a meal. One is a friend who used to live with us but is now living in London and has just had a baby; the other is our friend who spends most of her time in Rome; and then there is V.

So, my craving became an obsession within two evenings and I knew I just HAD to go. So I texted V and suggested it. He was all for it and, Friday night, we went. It was a strange thing. He seemed a bit ‘off’ at the beginning but we had a nice meal and a nice evening, talking about crap and this and that. Nothing heavy, of course. We finished the meal with Sambuca (I really must stop drinking that poison) and I said that I had a bottle at home. He said he’d rather not come over. We walked out of the restaurant and walked down the road. He didn’t turn off as expected and then said he had changed his mind about the Sambuca!

He was very complimentary about the flat, even if it did seem a real mess (to me, anyway). The strange thing was that I didn’t have the urge to have him stay. I mean, this was my place and not his nor shared and so, when he left it seemed so right and natural. Not really what I expected (from myself).

I promised to go round the next day, later, to bring back some stuff that I had but he wanted; to help with the cleaning of the old place, to take some of my stuff away.

After I had taken the dogs out a couple of times, unpacked and tried to place things, etc. it got quite late. By the time I got there he had, more or less, done everything. And, I have to say he had, as he always had in the past, made a good job of it. It looked lovely in spite of missing some furniture.

We chatted, drank some wine and then I left. I realised, whilst I was there, that I had not taken pans and said that I quite fancied having pasta on Sunday so would come back on Sunday to collect some.

Sunday and, because I had to try and get most things unpacked as FfI was returning to Milan and, for various reasons, was going to stay at mine, I didn’t go round as early as I had hoped.

In the meantime, I got a text from V asking that, if I wanted, he would cook some pasta for dinner. I agreed. It sounded nice.

So, later, in the early evening, I went round (again taking some more bits that were, really, V’s). He had made an experimental pasta dish and then chicken with roasted potatoes. We drank the bottle of Barolo that he had been saving. We listened to Maria Callas. All in all a very nice evening, except that both of us (me for all the unpacking and he for all the cleaning and moving stuff around) were so shattered that it was not a late evening.

He promised me a proper meal when he was paid. He asked (again) about my birthday as Best Mate will be here and he thinks that she hates him (which she does not). He seems to have forgotten that we already had a conversation about this. He seems reluctant to meet with Best Mate and I. I do understand and I am sure I would feel the same. Indeed, for different reasons, I would be very reluctant to go out to a place where his work colleagues were.

When I left it did not seem so strange, leaving the place we shared for over four years although, as I was getting in the lift, him leaning against the door post, there seemed a little sadness in his face, which made me feel sad, for a moment, for him and for us. But, maybe I was just imagining it.?

Anyway, there are no words that can really describe this whole thing. We have had, since I moved out, more conversation between us than we did in the last four months! And, to be honest, I enjoy his company; he’s a nice guy; funny, witty, always something to say. It was, at the same time, slightly strange and not strange at all, sitting at the table (our table?), eating the food he had prepared (food I had bought?), drinking the wine, talking and laughing – again, nothing heavy.

He’s much thinner of course. He looks more like his father now – slightly hollowed cheeks and almost with an anorexic look – it makes him look older, somehow, but no less attractive, of course.

I expect the heavy conversations are yet to come but, for now, it’s really nice. The ties are still strong but, maybe a little thinner than before – or maybe we’re using different rope now?  More importantly, will it change once he has moved?

On holiday in a different city.

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The street is long and straight. I pass the local café, the sun is shining and it’s quite warm. I pass the small supermarket – the same as the one I used to use a lot, but tiny. I pass a Tuscan restaurant that must be new. I stop to look at the menu. Maybe I’ll try it some time. As usual, Tuscan restaurants are more expensive than most Italian restaurants.

A store owner/manager is in the doorway of his shop, having a cigarette and comments on how pretty the dogs are. He talks to a woman that he obviously knows, about how nice they are. Of course, it is the first time they have seen them. I walk on, past the dry cleaners, the card shop (which, as usual, sells children’s toys and tat).

I look at everything with a different view. This is like a small community. It seems that many people know each other. It seems like a small town.

I am, in fact, in the street that is parallel to the street on which I used to live. I know this street (or, rather, I thought I knew this street). It is the Perfect Street. Except, I never used to stroll down here on a daily basis. And now it is different. It is The Perfect Street – but it is completely different from how it was. I am on a street that is one street away from where I lived (one block for my American readers) and, yet, it feels as if I am in a completely different city. It is all new; the people are new; no one has seen the dogs before; the shops are small and the whole thing has this “village” feel. How could I not know this before?

But, not only am I in a different city, I am also on holiday.

n the past, you would go on holiday to a small cottage or caravan. Everything would be as it was in your house, except smaller. The fridge was smaller: the cooker had two or three rings and was tiny: even the sink was cute. Of course, you couldn’t live there for long and it was always great to get back home with the “full-sized” stuff.

Well, it’s not quite like that but, compared to the last place, it is kinda small – cute, one might say – and so, with it feeling like a different city when I step out of the door and the feeling of being in some sort of holiday cottage, it does feel a bit like actually being on holiday somewhere.

My only concern is – once the holiday feeling has worn off in a few weeks, will I still like living here?

The flat is like a tardis; A strange thing about moving into a new place (in Italy).

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Of course, it’s not all over yet. I mean, it’s not like the ‘moving out’ is the final thing and today is the first day of the rest of my life (although it is, of course).

No, in the end, there were many things that I forgot, left behind, etc. Was this a subconscious decision on my part to ensure I had to keep going back? Or was this, as I suspect, just plain laziness/running out of time?

So, I took the modem/router but, with my new, not-working, Alice system, I don’t need it (the Telecom guy said that, in fact, I can’t use it! I think he’s lying). So, tonight, after a I go and pick up some shoes and other stuff, I shall be returning the modem and setting it up for V in the half-empty flat that, even as I was leaving it, felt too large for a family of four, let alone two. Or, maybe, I have become (a little) Italian?

Or, maybe, my new flat is just like a tardis? After all, empty, it seemed tiny. Before, with her stuff in it it seemed quite big. Now, with my stuff in it seems even bigger. How on earth can that be?

And there’s a strange thing about Italians and flats for rent. I have mentioned this before but it is quite common for people, on leaving a rented flat, to take the kitchen they have installed. In this case the kitchen is not all that great but, at least, it’s there. Together with (not brilliant but not bad) fridge; good, but small washing machine and adequate cooker – and sink and drainer (which most of you, outside Italy, would take for granted anyway). Certainly all the light fittings are taken – even the bulbs. This means that, until I find all my lamps (major hunt going on tonight) and then buy some light fittings (and get someone to fit them), I am walking around with one lamp and my mobile phone. The mobile phone being used instead of a torch to find the socket into which I may plug my lamp!

I did think that there were not that many light fittings available anyway. In fact, I could not remember any. However, I now find there is at least one in all rooms except the bedroom where there is none. However, none of the ‘fittings’ have anything except wire – I mean no actual light/bulb/fitting – just bare wire. This means that I need light fittings AND someone to fit them, me never being happy with messing about with electricity, especially if on my own. V always did this stuff.

And, therefore, I may take the wall lights from the lounge that we fitted and one or two other ceiling lights. V had offered. I had thought about asking him to come and fit them but I think that may be a bit much and would, but maybe only in my mind, mean he has a ‘hold’ on the place – just because he was ‘involved’ in setting it up. Crazy? Maybe, but I do want this to be my place.

So, at least for the next few days, I shall be returning to ‘collect’ some things and to ‘return’ some things that the removal men packed because I couldn’t watch them all the time.

As you see, it is not ‘over’. However, maybe things will change when he’s moved out? Or, maybe, they will be the same or similar?

My own private jet….and airport…..and security……. aka the joys of travelling these days.

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I remember, 10 or 15 years ago, travelling, for me, was still exciting and pleasurable. There was the thrill of the flight as I really love flying; the fun of having an expense account and being able to eat and drink, more or less, as I wanted; the prestige of being one of those ‘business travellers’ that you see or hear about.

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The weekend and other things

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This weekend was spent, mostly, working. My other job that is. To be honest the whole thing should have taken about 2 hours. It took most of Saturday because my websites’ hosters had to do things – but, obviously, only after I’d tried to fix it myself!

And still I can’t make it do what the customer really wants but on this one, other than a fiddly work-around, which really isn’t practical, it looks like there is no way to do it. Damn.

And then there were the accounts to do as Year End has just finished. I found that, in spite of thinking I had been keeping it pretty much up-to-date, I hadn’t. So it took me a little while. Damn again.

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When a town is not a town

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It was last weekend when I went. It has the word ‘town’ in its name so, I thought, it must actually be a town. Seems reasonable to me. Being an ‘outlet’ town, I was expecting something similar to Bicester Village, Vicolungo or Serravalle.

I don’t really like them, as you may remember but this was one of the first in this area and is in Switzerland and, travelling by road, to and from the UK, I have passed it many times.

In fact, it’s only just past Como, so immediately, one thinks of beauty with the backdrop of the Alps.

And, as it was so famous, I did want to see it. It’s less than an hour from Milan and easy to get to (Motorway all the way unless you don’t want to pay the annual motorway fee in Switzerland.

Apart from the fact that it rained all day; we weren’t high enough to see snow-capped mountains; and the place itself – it was wonderful.

So, why didn’t I like it? Well, it’s not a town. It’s called Fox Town but, really, it’s a shopping centre (or mall, to you Americans). And a very ugly one at that. Everything seems Italian (the language, the people) except the currency which is Swiss Francs. The prices are not so cheap for the fact that it’s stuff that’s already out of fashion – certainly no cheaper than Vicolungo or Serravalle, although on the plus side, the guy assistant in Iceberg was rather cute.

Overall, much more of a disappointment than I thought would be possible. And then, back in Milan and my umbrella was ‘borrowed’.

To be honest, if it’s a nice day, I would prefer one of the other outlet centres, should you be visiting here and insist on doing outlet shopping.

Meeting up with Helena Christensen

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We get invited to some charity auction thing at Tommy Hilfiger’s. The shop is quite close to our house and we shall be meeting friends, so it will be nice.

We are late, of course. V has decided to wear his kilt. I no longer care if he wears a kilt with me around as I am no longer responsible and he can look as ridiculous as he wants. It’s impossible to tell him that he does not look good, especially when the Italian women just want to feel him up! But, I’m sorry, he just looks like a prat. His legs look shorter and stubby. It’s not a good look.

We arrive and wait for our friend with a second home on the lake (FfC). She arrives by taxi and we go in. Unfortunately, the apero part has, to all intents and purpose, finished and they are on to the charity auction. The room is filled with Italians who are there to be seen and would-be models walking around expecting something (probably attention). They spend most of their time looking around the room to see who is there that might be important. V tells me that ‘there is the guy from MTV’. This is lost on me since I rarely watch MTV and care less about someone who presents on MTV.

Luckily, there are waiters who are serving drinks. The trick is to grab a drink as they go past or, since these are free and this is Italy, beating your way through the throng to grab a glass.

The same for the bite-sized food that they are serving although by the time we are in they are on to deserts. One I had was two raspberries sandwiched with the tiniest amount of whipped cream. You get the idea.

FfC goes somewhere. V and I are alone for a moment. V says, excitedly, ‘There’s Helena Christensen’. I know the name. I knew she was going to be there.

‘Where?’ I ask.

She is standing with her back to us about 6 inches away. V is exasperated that I fail to recognise someone I am not interested in. However, she is dressed in an off-white (magnolia) dress that does look rather nice. She is not as tall as I would have thought. She’s older than I thought. I’m not really sure what I was expecting.

FfC arrives back and V excitedly tells her, having failed to make any real impression on me. FfC is suitably awed.

‘I want to have my photograph taken with her’, V exclaims!

She is standing next to a shortish guy who is, probably, someone very important. Maybe Tommy Hilfiger or someone? I don’t know. They are talking and I’m thinking that V, acting like a little super fan, is just going to be a pain in the arse for her.

‘I don’t have a phone that takes photos, can you use yours?’ he asks me.

So, he asks Helena for a photo and, graciously, she says yes. I am holding drinks so FfC tries to take the photo but cannot seem to do it so I handed her the glasses and I took it. I’m afraid it is not a good photo – we were outside, the lighting was not good and it’s only a phone camera – but it will have to do.

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V and some woman, who is famous or something.

[Update:  After downloading it, it really is a dreadful photo but the only one I have, so there!]

After that, of course, the floodgates opened and everyone wanted their photo taken with her.

Anyway, she seemed really sweet and waved to us after several more photos had been taken and she was escaping with the little man! Oh, yes, and she also thanked us for coming. Hey, Helena, it was free booze and, had we got there earlier, free food as well! And, of course, we met you! What more could one ask?

After we went for an Indian with FfC and, once again, V explained about the ‘retreat’ weekend and more of that later in another post, probably.