Today, I learnt a new Italian phrase. This phrase is one that we would replace with ‘It’s not a game’ or ‘We’re not playing’ – often followed by ‘you know?’ to indicate that we are doing/have done something serious and that we did a good job because we take it all seriously.
In Italy, it is ‘We’re not brushing the doll’s hair’.
I just love it.
I’ve been a long time out of the UK. I am sure my English suffers. Certainly I don’t know, nor how to use, the new slang; the current popular words (I can’t tell you what they are as I don’t know them, obviously – but I know they will exist).
But it came to me this morning that, here, at least, I have noticed a change in my use of some words. When I was a kid, we had, as kids do from time to time, stomach ache.
After I had left home and, eventually became (or thought I became) ‘grown up’ the things changed from ache to pain. No longer would one have such a thing as ‘stomach ache’ but rather ‘stomach pain’.
Recently (and perhaps this is because I mix with Canadians, Americans and the like), the term has changed, yet again. Stomach Cramps are the thing to have.
Is this the same in the UK or has this latest change come about because of my mixing with the ‘wrong people’? 
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?
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?
Apparently, recently, I am the subject of nightmares. Worse, the nightmares seem to reflect real life pretty well.
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.
There have been some great, well-respected leaders in the world. Clinton, whatever the Americans thought of him and, in spite of his infamous non-sex episode, was well respected. Bush, unfortunately, was seen as a bit of an ass. I can’t speak for British leaders as I am British and, therefore, have a biased view, although, from what I can tell and from conversations I have had here, Margaret Thatcher was also well-respected (in spite of the damage she did to the country).
When we are in meetings, it is quite common for the meeting to be interrupted by a phone call to someone, whether it be personal or work, people here answer it as if, whatever they are doing, is completely unimportant and the phone call is a matter of life and death.
If you visit someone at their desk and a call comes to their desk phone, even in the middle of their conversation with you, the phone call will take precedence.
At first, it was frustrating but now, I guess I am used to it. It is, therefore, no surprise to pick this up from the BBC site.
And, whereas it is no surprise, I cannot believe that an Italian, at the highest level can be so bloody rude. It doesn’t matter what the call was about. It would have been easy, as the car stopped, to say he would call back in five minutes and, once inside, out of the glare of the cameras, he could have continued the conversation. The only good reason for continuing it and keeping Merkel waiting was if his wife was about to give birth or someone was dying.
And for me, if a British leader did that I would be embarrassed for Britons and my country as a whole.
And the whole incident comes almost straight after acting like a hooligan at a football match, shouting Obama’s name at a reception held by the Queen.
Hmm. I thank goodness I am not Italian for I would certainly, after the phone call thing, be hanging my head in shame. I don’t care who you are, you don’t keep a head of state waiting and, certainly, head of state or not, a lady.
I am too early to see my FfI. We agree that I should go to the café opposite which is really a cross between a café and a restaurant/trattoria. It is a vegetarian place and you don’t get so many of them in Italy.
OK, so, to be honest, even we, in the UK, will say something like – “Can I borrow some sugar?” or “Could I borrow some paper to write on, please?” – when we really will not be borrowing it at all but taking it, using it and, probably, not replacing it.
However, here, there is an element of “borrowing” that one could say was stealing.
Well, I know why. But isn’t it just bloody annoying? In theory, I should be, more or less, on Cloud 9. Bugger!
I have signed for the flat. It was all a little strange in the usual Italian way in that things said did not quite tie up with actual fact and vice versa. But, hey, siamo in Italia and that is life here.
She gave me back the money, in an envelope. I didn’t open the envelope. After one minute I returned the envelope to her. She didn’t open it either. It could have been stuffed with worthless bits of paper, who knows? Sometimes, I think, this is a seriously screwed-up country! Definitely, in the UK, that (the game of passing the envelope) would not have happened. But, then, it’s less likely we would have been passing an envelope around with cash in it (unless you lived in the underworld of crime, drugs, etc.).
Now, there are a million and one things to do, for which I still need help. I wish I could do it on my own! It’s the problem of being in a foreign country and not knowing enough of the language. Damn!
p.s. One of my very favourite songs was in the video originally posted on this page but, unfortunately, it no longer works and, as I didn’t write here what it was, I don’t remember!