Tag Archives: Italy

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.

A conundrum

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It’s close to midnight. I hear the dog barking. Not continuously but a couple of barks every five minutes or so. Her shutters are open but, I think, her windows are shut.

She had two dogs. One was very old. About 14, I think. It meant that you had to hold your breath every time you got into the lift if they had been in it. It was truly dreadful and my sense of smell is atrocious! The dog died. It was then that we started exchanging pleasantries. I had asked about the old dog and she told me it had died. So now, when we meet we say hello. She’s about 70 or late 60s at least. She doesn’t walk so brilliantly but she looks healthy enough, if a bit overweight.

Her dogs never make any noise. But the one is dead now. The (living) dog has been barking all evening. It’s not really annoying since it’s not that easy to hear.

I take mine for a walk. I meet P, my neighbour, the one we spent New Year’s Eve with. We talk. It’s quite funny really. She talks in Italian and I talk in English. I understand everything she says and she me. I think it’s more strange that I DO understand everything. In other situations I understand nothing and yet, here she is talking about her work, life in general, the crisis and ……….. the neighbour with the now-barking dog.

She’s worried. The dog never barks (which I confirm). And yet it’s been barking all evening. She’s been to the woman’s flat and rung the bell but there is no one there. Or, rather, no one answers. Or, rather, no one CAN answer. She’s wondering if she could call the Police or something. She (we, together, in our Italian/English mix) decide she will speak to the door lady tomorrow morning.

I go back upstairs and tell F. He becomes worried (Note to self: Do NOT tell him things which he can worry about. Keep it to yourself). I explain that I’m a bit worried. I think of FfC who had some brain attack and was paralysed. She tried to get out of bed and fell on the floor. She was unable to move. She was unable to reach her telephone to call anyone. She stayed like that for three days! Then she was in hospital for about 5 months!!

I tell F about that. (Note to self: Do NOT tell him things that makes him even more worried). He is more worried. We go to bed. I say that P will talk to the door lady tomorrow. We both think ‘But what if she really is ill and doesn’t last until tomorrow?’.

F can’t sleep. He is too worried. I tell him to call the Police. He doesn’t. What if she’s just out late? It’s unusual for her. She’s always home. But you never know.

So, what to do, what to do?

Answers on a postcard or in the comments, please.

Two birds …………… one Sunday

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It’s trashy really.

Just so you understand. I was going to post the one thing and then I remembered the other. And then I thought of ‘killing two birds with one stone’. Even as I thought it I thought how trashy and tasteless it was. Ah well, one can’t be perfect all the time, even if I am bloody close.

So, there I am, Sunday, walking to the car to get it ready for our departure. The sun is hot, especially on my shirt which, in turn touches my T-shirt which, in turn touches my skin which is burnt and, therefore, slightly sore. It comes of going to the beach and staying in the sun for about 3 hours without sun-cream (because F had forgotten to bring any and I’ve never bought any for about 35 years and I find it slightly daunting given that there is factor this and factor that and oil and cream and so much choice that I really don’t know what I want (or need) and, anyway, it’s all in Italian).

So we both got burnt a bit – even if the sun was behind cloud some of the time. So we bought sun-cream that evening – but it was already too late.

So, as I say, I’m walking to the car and on the high wall above the car I see a bird I’ve never seen before (that is, I’ve seen pictures in books, so I knew what it was, I’ve just never seen one in real life, so to speak), half hopping, half flying along the top of the wall, its beak full of something, moving away from me but not so fast as if the nest is very nearby but not wanting me to know where it is.

I’m still a country boy at heart, I guess. I still get pleasure from seeing wild birds and animals. So I introduce you to the Hoopoe:

Hoopoe

That evening we are eating at Liù and in walked some ‘famous’ people. I say famous meaning that F told me they were famous TV stars. Famous meaning they had been on Isola di Famosa which is a lot like I’m a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here – i.e. full of ‘D’-list celebrities who need all the fame they can get to boost a new or failed career. I half-recognised the one. Then he said that the other woman was Victoria. Now Victoria I do know. She’s a London-born TV presenter. She speaks (so I am told) perfect Italian. I thought she had a Mancunian accent but perhaps I am mistaken.

She’s quite funny. I quite like her. And, F then told me that she lives round the corner from me. Who knew? I’m sure, given another few encounters, we would become firm friends ;-)

And so, here she is:

Very or Victor Victoria

It’s his way of showing me.

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“You go and get them”, he says, “because you’ve got to go and do it when I’m not here”.

I don’t say anything at the time. He makes me laugh. I tell him when I get back, as we’re eating the two sandwiches I’ve just bought. I can do things but he seems to feel that I must be ‘trained’ as to ‘how’ to do things. Of course, he’s just making sure I will be OK. I want to say ‘I’ve been here for 6 years. I think I can get by, now. Otherwise I would have died from starvation!” I don’t, of course. It’s quite sweet, really. Bless him.

It felt more than 2 days and 2 nights.

It felt like a week or something.

He had worked hard on the house. I said all the right things. It’s amazingly light. All walls are white, of course. It’s not perfect in that the sink in the bathroom only has cold water; the toilet doesn’t flush properley but you can’t have everything. There were new toothbrushes, soap for me, food for the dogs and many other things. A new telly was bought, rubbish bins, etc. The dogs love it although they are exhausted within a day.

His friend, R, had cut all the grass so the dogs could use the garden.

He’s happy even if it’s not perfect.

Someone asked him how long we had been together. “Almost 2 years”, he replied. It seems longer than that. Like the weekend.

I was shown our place on the beach. I bookmarked his Mum’s place, the house, the beach and the dog walking area on my navigator, as he needed to be certain I would be OK finding everything. He arranged that, when he’s not able to go, I will be able to meet R, have dinner with his Mum and Dad, etc. He wants to make sure that I’ll be OK. It’s like ordering the sandwiches at the beach. He wants to make sure I will do it.

Of course, that also puts pressure on me. a) to go down and b) to go to his Mum’s, go out with R, etc.

So now I will have to go down, even if he’s not there. But all this is his way of showing that he loves me, I guess.

In spite of the terrible weather ……………..

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Well, this is supposed to be this weekend. The weekend I take us down and admire the hard work by saying something like:

“Wow! It looks totally different”, or

“Thank you so much for doing this for us”, or

“I can see how much you’ve done. I can’t believe you did all this in a week”.

Or, all of the above. Or variations on them, anyway.

The weather is crap. This feels like it’s Wimbledon fortnight in the UK. Every day is rain. sometimes torrential rain. Like yesterday when it absolutely tipped down for a couple of hours and when, on my way home, not far from work, part of the road had errupted in a way not dissimilar to a small volcano just about shut all air traffic in Southern Europe.

And the weather will remain crap, according to the forecast, until Sunday at least. But F is quite determined we should go down. I think it’s mainly for the comments above. Or, maybe, to make sure I’m happy to go down afterwards. Since he’s not a man of words or explanation, I can only guess.

But I do want to go down. I want to see it, I want to see where our beach place is, I want to ensure it will be easy to go to his Mum’s place, etc.

His Mum is, he says, very happy that the place has been done up and we are to go down often. She was always unhappy about the place being left ‘to rot’, I know that. The by-product of us going down is that she will, of course, see her son more.

All round a good thing.

One just hopes that the weather forecast is wrong and the good weather starts on Saturday instead.

Dinner with B

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There’s just never enough time.

Or, at least, that’s how it seems. It’s how it seems with some people, anyway.

And then, I talk too much. And too fast. Like there’s not enough time to get everything in. Which there isn’t.

The talking too much is not entirely my fault. B seems to bring that out in me. How different I am with different people!

The Orange Pasta was scrummy too.

Or, maybe that should read Pasta with orange otherwise it makes it sound as if the pasta were the colour of orange (which it was, sort of, but it’s not really the point).

And I never, ever say ‘thank you’ properly. I never seem to with B.

Actually, I was thinking, she would be a reason that I would live in Rome.

Some people you just love to bits for no obvious reason, if you see what I mean.

Here and there.

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He was happier last night, which was good.

I’m not so happy, though.

He’s not here. I’m not there. There’s the two or three hours distance.

It’s difficult to find interest. There’s many things I could do. You know, keep busy. Stop thinking. Stop being without or alone. Stop feeling.

A said it was stupid. I could have punched him in the face. Then, I thought, perhaps he never feels like that? That would explain a lot. In fact, it would explain everything. To never have that feeling would be much worse than having it.

He says it is looking good. There. Where he is and I am not. I look at the weather forecast for there and here. It’s not particularly good at either place. I try to tell myself that it would be dreadful being there, with the rain. And the decoration ‘in progress’. I would be in the way. We would be in the way, which is true. And we wouldn’t be able to do anything. Them for sure and me because I am, quite frankly, worse than crap at this sort of stuff. Not that anyone believes me. ‘How difficult can it be?’, they think. I know they think that. In theory it should be straight forward. But, even when I try so very hard, paint doesn’t seem to get onto the walls as much as me and the floor and other places where it should not be. And the stuff on the walls is streaked or globular or thick in places it should not be, running down. No, it doesn’t work for me.

He said, “You can come down if you want”, adding without a pause for breath, “but it will be a complete mess”. He doesn’t want me there whilst he is doing it. I will be a distraction. So will they. They, maybe, more than I. They, who demand attention from him without even demanding it. Because they are the ‘poverini’, of course. Unable to demand and by being unable to demand, demanding more and with greater urgency. At least for him.

I don’t let on that I’m not happy. After all, that would be unfair. It would be selfish. He is doing this for us. For me, he says but in reality, for the four of us. Or, maybe, mainly for him? Or, maybe, for me too. It is ‘More than Words’. And he had to have an injection for his back, last night. He ‘couldn’t move’, he said. I told him he should stop but he said that he wouldn’t. He’s very stubborn like that. It’s no good arguing with him. He won’t listen anyway or, rather, he will listen but then do what he wants. I don’t demand, I’m far too old for that!

I told him I was on holiday. He knew, of course. I just wanted him to know. So, I was being a bit selfish after all! He told me to relax and enjoy it. I said I would, even if I knew that I can’t as much since he’s there and I’m here.

So I sit here and write this. Rather than there and not. In a moment I will do something. Something else. Washing, cleaning, the dogs, sorting out English stuff, a box, some editing. Something. Or not. Not here nor there.

Damn!

Things change. Things happen.

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Of course, things change.

I feel sorry for him more than anything. He’s putting in so much effort, spending all this money, working so hard to get it nice for us.

But it’s shared with his brother. His brother, apparently, may want to come and live there. F is angry that he didn’t say anything before. He told his brother that he would have to go and live at their parents’. His brother doesn’t want to. He told his brother that he would have to leave when we were coming down and that we had got an umbrella and everything. He also told him that he was cleaning the place and expected the place to be just as clean when we arrived down here. He said his brother is not like him but, then, no one is like him!

I just feel so bad for him. He was looking forward to this summer as much as me, even if we didn’t tell each other. He is very angry, I can tell. He is continuing to do it but I can only imagine how disappointing it must be for him.

So now we don’t know. Or, rather, I don’t know. We can’t go and stay at his parents with the dogs, for certain. Especially with Rufus as old as he is and the occasional bouts of incontinence.

And, talking of Rufus. Poor thing has an abscess. It’s one of the anal glands which has become infected. It, maybe, explains some other things. He’s on antibiotics. He’s managed to lick all the hair from his back end. That’s how I noticed it. It looks sore and I expect it is. Poverino. Still, when we went to the vet’s last night, the vet was amazed at how well, in general, he is doing. Me too.

So, back to the summer, maybe things will change. Maybe not. We’ll see.

It does make me want to hug F and tell him it will all be OK. For it will all be OK. It’s just a matter of time. And a matter of acceptance when we really can’t change things. And these things do happen.

Summer Sunday Lunch; The House at the Sea Update; Please stop asking, I don’t really know.

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It is summer, after all. Summer requires salads and fruit and freshness.

I invited A & Fr over for Sunday lunch. I did some antipasto stuff (I seem to be coming almost Italian :-)) and then the Special Salad. Of course, Special Salad is not really so ‘special’ any more since, now, there is a dazzling array of salads that are different. But, ‘special’ is what this salad was known as, at least by our family, in the days that salad in the UK comprised of limp lettuce, tomatoes and salad cream. You see? This was in the days when there was no such thing as mayonnaise.

And, anyway, salad cream works best with this. I thought I had done it for them before but it seems not.

The ‘special’ ingredient is oranges but now that I’m in Italy, it also includes cheddar cheese and salad cream since you can’t get them here.

They said they liked it and I think they did.

Then I served up something that, I think, I’ve only ever made one time before, a long, long time ago. Summer Pudding. I made individual ones which was more of a risk in its own right. Still, I’m a little more adventurous these days, not bothering with trying stuff out first but just doing it. Maybe it’s a little more ‘couldn’t care less’ rather than ‘adventurous’. Oh well, whatever. the result is the same.

As it turned out they weren’t bad. But I need to find different bread than the stuff I used. And make more of the syrup. I’ll try it again soon and if I can make it as good as it should be then I’ll post it as a recipe.

Anyway, they seemed to like it.

And we drank. And then had cheddar cheese and port. And then went for a walk.

_____________________________________________________________

F did the bathroom, apparently. R, his friend, wasn’t there, yesterday. The ceiling didn’t go well. He suggested that he may not finish by next Sunday. This means we (the dogs and I) won’t go down at the end of this week. He said that he would ask R to finish things off (mainly the cleaning) so we could all go down the weekend after.

I’m still hopeful for this weekend and I am pretty certain that he will want us to come down if it is possible. Obviously, it is possible – it’s just not possible for him if it isn’t in a perfect state. Oh well, we will see.

I wonder what his Mum and Dad think of his sudden interest in his house and decorating it and so on? I mean, I’m certain they are fully aware of the situation but as it is never discussed, it must be slightly bemusing for them. The last time he showed such interest in the house was when he was with S.

________________________________________________________________________

Sometimes, I wish people would stop asking me about V.

It doesn’t seem to matter that I say that we are not in touch any more and that I don’t really know.

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.