Tag Archives: Italy

Floating

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I can’t explain it at all.

I was out with A last night. You know, the ‘eating Mars Bars means your gay’ A. Luckily, he doesn’t get offended with what I write since he knows it’s mainly stuff in my head. Anyway, he wanted to know why I hadn’t bought a house/flat here.

I tried to explain that when I made the ‘life change’ of coming here, I decided that this included having a house/flat that I was buying. My life change was as mental as it was physical. I didn’t want to run my own company and I didn’t want a mortgage.

He said that things were different here. And he’s right, in a way. Job security is very high. So I could get a mortgage and know that I could pay it off without worrying about losing my job or anything. But that’s not really the point. I just didn’t want to be having a house/flat of my own. It’s not only the mortgage. It’s the problem of the permanence of it all. The ‘putting down roots’, etc. I just didn’t want that. I mean to say, I loved living in Herefordshire but, you know, the fixing of life – where you are, what you’re doing, etc? I didn’t want it anymore. I was, kind of, disappointed with it. I think because, by the end of the time in Herefordshire, I realised that none of anything was permanent – however much you think it is. It can all be taken away from you in a moment. And, if you’re ‘attached’ to something (house, place, job), when it all comes to an end, you cling on. And it’s the clinging on that really hurts. The letting it go is easy – or, rather, easier.

So I let go. I jumped off the cliff and found that although I couldn’t fly, exactly, I could sort of float. And floating is good. Floating is pleasant. Floating is gentle. Floating means you have the time and the inclination to look around, to enjoy the things you have without the feeling of pain that they might be taken away.

I like floating. I am grateful for the winds that drove me here and I like being here, in this place, at this time, with the people I like and love. And, if the winds take me somewhere else, then that’s fine too.

My goal is to be content. Like my grandfather. And I am content, most of the time. If I can reach the 100% contentment all the time then that will be perfect. 100% contentment doesn’t come with a house and mortgage, nor with a job (although it can help), nor through a person (although that can help too), nor with any one nor any thing.

Contentment comes from within.

Yes, I like floating.

Soon it will not be safe!

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Well here’s something that annoys me enough to write about. Hurrah! Sort of. If you see what I mean.

Marciapiede. That’s pavement (or sidewalk for Gail) to you. You know, the things on the side of the streets that, in theory, permit people to walk around without dodging cars. Kinda useful in reducing the deaths of people. Of course, a car going 100 mph and mounting a pavement is bound to cause a bit of damage, especially to any warm soft bodies in the way.

However, here, in Milan, that’s less likely to happen. I.e. you’re probably in less danger of getting run over, walking down the pavement here, than, say, in any other city in the UK! Although I have no actual figures to back it up. So I could be wrong. But it seems highly likely to me.

Now, why would that be, you ask. Or should be asking. Because if you’re not asking then this post is pointless. So ask then and I will disclose why.

OK. You’re probably safer from getting run over by a car here because ………………………

…………….. there are already a lot of cars on the pavement. Parked, of course.

I wouldn’t want to be pushing a pram around in Milan though. Then I would spend half my time on the road because, often, there is not enough room between the parked car and the building for me to pass with a push chair.

Not EVERY bit of pavement is taken up with a parked car. Sometimes they have barriers put up – to, erm, stop people parking their car!

But, then, these areas can be full too. Not of people. No, no, no. Full of mopeds and motorbikes. Obviously, a bike can get and park where a car cannot.

Or, if not, then pushbikes.

But, on the positive side, I don’t have a pushchair. I only have two dogs and I secretly pray, every time that we go past one of the ‘parked’ cars, that they will cock their legs. And they do sometimes and I am filled with glee.

Normally (in fact, always, in my experience) if you are walking past and a car wants to park (on the pavement, where you are walking), they will have the decency to wait until you have gone past.

However, my experience is that this is not so with mopeds and motorbikes. And I find that annoying. But it doesn’t happen very often.

What DOES happen, quite often, when I’m walking the dogs, is that a cyclist (pushbike) will be on the pavement and expect you to move out of their way.

Now, in the same way that I must learn some Italian phrases for when I see someone allowing their dog to defaecate on the pavement and then the owner not picking it up – which in English would equate to something like – You disgusting dirty person! Pick up your dog’s shit! – I should learn something like – This is called a marciapiede (meaning something like foot way) because it is for FEET and not WHEELS. The road is for WHEELS so stop dinging your bloody bell at me to get me to move and move yourself to the street, where you should be!

But I haven’t learnt that yet. And so, I was both shocked, outraged and immensely amused by this. It seems someone has been looking at other cities (like London for example, where cycling on the pavement can get you a hefty fine as it illegal) and decided that some of our pavements here are large enough to allow a cycle lane on them.

I snorted.

These people are completely crazy! Do they not realise that the cycle lane would simply become a ‘legitimate’ place for car parking. But then ALL the cyclists will think that, as their lane is taken up by the car park, they will have justified use of the pavement (or foot way) and so things will be worse than before!

(Actually, Pietro tells me that the cyclists on pavements can be fined. It’s just that here, I guess, the police and traffic wardens don’t know that fact).

The end of a rather peculiar week.

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It has been a rather peculiar week, to be honest.

Ask me to put my finger on it and I can’t. There are so many half-written posts about things I found strange (but in reality weren’t that strange) or things that got me a bit miffed (drivers, dog shit, other people’s stupidity, etc.). At times I’ve felt as though I was somewhere else, some other-worldness.

And it’s been cold. Like winter, which, as you know, I hate. And there’s wind, making it seem much, much colder.

I got a bit drunk the other night. I’ve been teaching English, except not nearly as much as was planned but I might have another student, maybe. And then, before M was due to come (but didn’t because he finished work late but he’s going to pay me anyway), S texted asking if I can do lessons over the weekend. Very strange. She hasn’t been for a lesson since Christmas and then, suddenly, last night, ‘Can you do a lesson at the weekend?’. When I suggested either Saturday or Sunday afternoon, she plumped for Sunday afternoon – but then added that maybe she could do Saturday as well! Two lessons in two days after a couple of months of nothing? The only thing that crosses my mind is that she has a new boyfriend and, maybe, he’s English or American or Australian or something? I am, as you may be able to tell, intrigued. She has led a rather strange life.

I got home last night to see that my bedroom had been changed. A little. It seems I have been given a connection to next door by means of two new holes. To be honest, the first thing I noticed was plaster on top of the chest of drawers whereupon my first thought was ‘Shit! I guess the ceiling is coming down'; the plaster work in Italy seeming to be really crap. And, yes, some of the plaster was down but not from the ceiling. From a couple of holes, fairly high up on the wall. This wasn’t some crappy plasterwork but, rather, because someone had been drilling and inserted some sizable bolts from the other side!

My second thought was that I could go and get the hammer and punch the screw/bolt back through. That would mean, of course, that whatever was being held up on the other side might fall down. But I didn’t do that. I’m not quite that mischievous! But the thought made me smile.

Apart from a thought of ‘what the fuck?’ when I first saw the holes, I am, as usual, fairly relaxed about it all. After all, it’s only a wall and someone can come and fix it. It’s not really that big a deal. In fact, it’s quite amusing.

So, apart from the lesson (or lessons) over the weekend, we have no plans. F is going to Germany next week so there will be a lot of preparation that needs to be done and a ‘beauty farm’, as he calls it. This means that, invariably, I won’t see him that much over the weekend. However, I’m hoping that I can convince him to go to the cinema to see The Kings Speech which, now I’ve seen it in English, I really want to see in Italian (see, I told you it was a peculiar week :-D ). Anyway, the weather forecast says it will be a bit brighter than of late and, much more importantly, warmer. Not warm enough, of course, but warmer is better than colder.

And, did I tell you that I have booked our week in the agriturismo for August? The same place as last year. We’ve ‘been going to do it’ since Christmas but then things have happened and we never got round to it. And, then, recently F was so stressed. So I rang them up a couple of days ago and booked it. I was a bit nervous about doing it in case F didn’t really want to go (even if he had been saying that he really wanted to). Anyway, it seems it was the right thing to do and F seemed very happy that I had done it. I know what he’s like when he’s stressed at work and, I suppose, as time goes on, I shall be able to do more of this kind of stuff.

And I must remember to buy a couple of work shirts. There are some at a shop round the corner for €6! Seems a bit of a bargain to me – and they’ll only be for work anyway. And get some soap. And relax a bit as this week, with all the bits and pieces going on, I have been a tad busy.

And you? Are you doing something slightly more exciting than me (which, to be honest, wouldn’t be difficult :-) )?

Chainsaws in Milan.

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As I have probably mentioned before, I am a country lad at heart. OK, so less of the lad these days, unfortunately. Most of my life has been lived in the countryside and I truly adore the country living – although it is completely different from living in a city and you have to have a different mindset, for certain.

Quite often, when living in North-West Herefordshire, you would hear, in the distance, the sound of the chainsaw as they were cutting down some trees. That’s if the grackles weren’t making too much noise, of course. It was, particularly, a spring and autumn sound. It is a reassuring sound (to me).

This morning, I heard it again. In the country it lasts for several minutes. This morning it lasted for a few seconds. And then repeated a few seconds later. Of course, I don’t live in the countryside any more, so it was unlikely at before 7 a.m. I would be hearing this sound in the middle of Milan!

And, of course, it wasn’t a chainsaw at all.

Bless him, I thought, but it is really loud – perhaps it’s because he’s so old. After all, this gets worse as you get older – loosening of muscles (you might even say ‘saggy’, especially round the waist), a general ‘relaxing’ of everything. And then I thought that it was good that I had shut them in the kitchen whilst I carried out my morning ablutions and got dressed. If he had been in the bedroom, he would have woken F!

I moved from the lounge (where I was dressing) to the bathroom to do my tie and became aware that the sound was coming from the wrong place.

It wasn’t Rufus after all but F himself! It made me laugh.

Inconsiderate basterds

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I can go several different ways home. However, almost invariably, at some point, quite near home, there is a part of a road where there are three lanes for the traffic and prominent signs suggesting that your car will be towed away should you park there.

We are in Italy, of course, so these signs are only for guidance. I have, on very rare occasions, seen traffic wardens issuing tickets – but most of the time not. Cars park as if it is a normal road. On one road, they even double park. Meaning that, in effect, there is only one lane open to traffic which, invariably, gets a bit clogged up.

I don’t really understand it. I mean, I understand why they ignore the signs. I mean why, if you are insensitive to others’ needs and if you know that the chances you’ll get caught are remote, would you bother to hunt for a real parking space?

No, what I don’t understand is why Milan doesn’t earn more money from this? I mean, even if they went round once a week, they could issue fines which, I’m sure, would more than cover the cost of deploying the wardens. I have never seen no cars there.

And, am I a little annoyed? Well, yes, actually, I am.

It may be winter outside – there’s no ‘may’ about it.

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It is said, apparently, that the worst day of the year is the second Monday in January. Or somewhere around then. I’m not sure that’s true. Now is the worst time.

The night comes later and it’s almost properly light by the time I go to work, so it should be much better, right?

Yes, it all helps and gives you the hope of spring but ………

it’s still winter outside and I (and many other people, it would seem) have had enough!

Update: Now the sun is shining but don’t be fooled. It’s still too damned cold :-(

Italian or British? Who is which?

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“Have you two had a fight?”

I explained that no, as yet, we’ve never really had a fight (apart from last summer, at the start of our holidays). I explain that he’s just stressed.

We had been there a little while, waiting for him. He had had to wait for his washing machine to finish. It leaks from a hose somewhere and so he has to stay to mop up from time to time. So, it was almost 9.30 before he arrived. And, when he arrived, he was on the phone and seemed angry and didn’t say anything to me and so they thought that we had fought.

But I know him well enough now and know he is not pissed with me. When he comes back to the table he tells me who was on the phone. They were talking about the funeral in the UK that will be held next Friday. He tells me he is not going to go. I have mixed feelings about this and none of them selfish. On the one hand, he should go as I think he may regret it later. This was, at least for 11 years, his father-in-law. On the other hand, he is so busy right now, that even a two-day trip to the UK will throw everything into disarray for him.

He tells me it is because S would feel like he would have to look after F and S will be busy himself, given that it’s his father’s funeral and so he will be unable to look after F as he would like. But it is more complicated than that.

Next week he has several places to go and one is Venice, so a night away. The following week is a full week in Germany. So a trip in the middle of this to the UK would just add to his feeling of stress.

In the lift, on the way back to my flat, he informs me that he is working both on Saturday and Sunday.

I say how sorry I am. Again, there is nothing selfish in this. I am sorry for him. He really needs the rest.

During the meal, last night, for some reason I now forget, it came up about the end of him and S. Apparently it was not a good ending. And it went on for some time. It’s part of the reason that he doesn’t want to ‘go there’ again. And I do ‘get it’ even if I don’t agree with it. And I don’t. But it explains some more things. It explains the way he is.

At one point he tells the colleague we are with that he keeps home and work seperate. He doesn’t talk to me about his work – good or bad. He doesn’t take his personal life into work, he says. Although, of course, he does, he just doesn’t realise it.

But I thought about him and how stressed and uptight he gets about things.

I thought, “but this isn’t what I expected from an Italian.

An Italian should be more relaxed and easy-going. An Italian shouldn’t get this uptight”.

And I wondered if, in fact, this uptightedness was more of a universal thing and not just confined to the British. Or if, with me being more laid back than he is, we hadn’t, somehow, got trapped in the wrong country when we were born. Is he Italian or British? I mean to say, is he more British than Italian? Am I more Italian than British?

As one could say he was a little more anally retentive than your average Italian (unless they are all like this and I just didn’t realise). But, perhaps, the British shouldn’t be portrayed as they are?

He says that “the problem with English people is that they don’t tell you the truth”. I am included in this. It’s not that we lie, it’s just that we don’t say it like it is and nor do we give our true feelings.

I think we call them white lies. These aren’t true lies, of course. These are things said so that you don’t hurt people’s feelings. Like – “you look lovely in that dress”, etc.

Perhaps they don’t have them in Italy? White lies, that is.

Do they?

It just is.

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It happens sometimes and it’s difficult to explain, really.

Last night, following a telephone call on Monday, I went to see the old man with the book. The book that has taken, apparently, nearly 40 years to write.

I did enjoy the time editing it but I don’t like having to visit him to do editing. I’m not sure why. It might be because I think that, if I live that long, that’s how I will be – living alone, in a faceless, tiny flat, in a huge block, rarely going out (because there’s nowhere close to go to), reclusive but not through desire, etc.

I looked at him last night and thought of Rufus. I wonder if he sits and stares at the walls like Rufus does?

Someone asked me about him the other day. I said I hadn’t heard from him for ages. “I guess the book is finally printed and finished”, I said, “Or, he’s dead!”

I had even moved his contact details out of the briefcase and put them ‘somewhere’. He phoned as I was driving. I said I would call back within the hour. After I had disconnected I realised that I might not have his number. Stupid me, I thought, for not adding his details into my phone.

Luckily, I know myself well enough. It was not filed anywhere, just sitting on top of the filing cabinet, under the laptop.

I left work and drove there. I had had such a headache during the day and it was still making my head feel like someone was kicking it soundly and, so, I was not looking forward to spending an hour or more with him, on an uncomfortable chair, in the lighting that he has (which is not good), hunched over a laptop and trying to interpret what he wants. Still, I thought, it’s extra and unexpected money and every little helps.

Plus I had my ‘late night’ English lesson at 9 p.m. following that. No, this was not going to be a great evening and if the bloody headache wasn’t going to go it would make it one of the worst evenings.

As I was driving, M, my late-night student texted to say his daughter was ill and he wasn’t coming. To be honest, I was grateful.

I got to the place where the bookman lived. For me, it has to be one of the most depressing areas of Milan although I am sure that there are far worse. No, I know that, really, it is not that bad. It’s just the thought of ever having to live somewhere like that. I couldn’t do it. I would rather go back to the UK.

He had a new ‘print’ of the book. To be honest, it was much better than the last one. This time the pages weren’t falling out. He seemed pleased to see me. I think he is. After all, I don’t charge him a fortune and he knows that he can trust me now – well, almost.

We start through the changes he wants. He wants to change a table. I do my best. It’s not as he wants, exactly but he knows that these tables are a real pain. He wants to check everything I do on the screen. Except he can’t read it so well, so it takes longer. I really want out of there but I am unable to leave. I cannot do less than my best for him. I am annoyed with myself for trying to make everything right. Why can’t I be like other people? People who really don’t care. Grrrr.

He asks me more often about whether he has used English correctly. Yes, he trusts me much more now. He uses “reception”. He is concerned that the reader will think he means a reception of a hotel or something similar. I explain that it’s fine. After all, the readers of his book will be highly educated people and will understand the correct meaning. Of course, what I would have liked to say was that the only (few) people who will ever read this book are, to be honest, geeky freaks. I didn’t say that. You ain’t going to be seeing this book in the airport, that’s for certain.

Weirdly, I kind of hope that he will tell me when it has been published. Even more weirdly, if he were to ‘give’ me I copy, I would be really pleased. I think of this and decide that I am quite strange myself. For certain, even if I had this book, I would never, never read it.

We finish, just short of two hours. I wish him good luck and hope that I don’t see him again – but in a nice way – in that the book is finally finished now. I don’t really think it is. I have a better understanding of him now. There will be some other ‘small things’ that need to be done. Still, I suppose if you have been writing this book for 40 years, you might as well make it perfect.

And then, on the drive home, it happened. This thing that happens rarely and at strange times and, seemingly, for no reason at all.

I come to a traffic lights and have to stop. I look the other side of the canal (which runs by the side of the road). There is a shop or, maybe a restaurant or a bar. It doesn’t really matter which. I suddenly become aware of the talk on the radio. I look at the sign on the shop.

“I live in a foreign country”, I think.

It’s the feeling that comes with that thought. The feeling of wonder at being here, of pride at having ‘made it’, of fear of knowing that I will never be ‘of this country’. It’s almost like a shock.

“How strange”, I think, “that, after all this time, this feeling can still come to me and at such unexpected times?”

It was the sign that did it. It wasn’t a special sign just a normal sign with an Italian name or word. I see these every day. Many of them. Why now? Why at this particular time? I don’t think there’s an answer to that. It just happens. It just is.

There is no truth in any of this, whatsoever.

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Warning: None of the following may be true, real or ever have happened. If you are incensed, angered or just slightly annoyed by it then STOP READING.

He had mentioned that he would like to go and see it. The problem, for me, was that I too wanted to see it but I didn’t want to spoil my enjoyment of it by watching it in Italian and understand little, to have to watch it again, in English.

So, someone gave me a copy ….. in English. I watched it over a few nights. Now, here, I should give you some background.

I don’t really like them. They are German, after all (with apologies to the Germans at least one of whom is a friend). I think it’s more that they are German and think they run the UK which they don’t, quite obviously. I mean, they even had to change their surname from Saxe-Coberg and Gotha so that people wouldn’t confuse them with Germans (which they were). This was the First World War.

By the second one, they were quite happy to court Hitler. ‘He seemed to have the right idea’!

When the old father died the succession passed to Edward. But Edward was having a not-so-secret affair with a married American woman. He loved her so much he gave up on ‘his duties’ and so his younger brother became George VI. His wife, so it is said, hated both Edward and ‘that woman’, Wallis. Not because they were horrible (although they might have been) but because they were the cause of her husband being put in an impossible position and, eventually, dying rather younger than he might have, ordinarily.

After George’s death, his eldest daughter was next. There was a small snag, however. His daughter would be Queen. His mother, still alive, was the Queen Mother (Mary, wife of George V). So what would the title of George VI’s wife be? You couldn’t really have two Queen Mothers, now could you? OK so officially she died of ‘gastric problems’, being an euphemism for lung cancer. Or, of course, given the scheming of Queen Elizabeth, the Queen Mother, she could have had the old Queen Mary, the Queen Mother, done away with?

I plump for the last option.

So, I go to watch the film with a preconceived idea of QE, the Queen Mother (being played by Helena Bonham-Carter) as a rather wicked old witch who ruled her husband and, when he became King, the household, with quite an iron fist. Of her husband being a bit of a wimp. Of the politicians of the time being rather stupid, etc., etc.

But, this is a film. It is made ‘nice’. Actually, I found it quite heart-warming. HBC was wonderful as the Queen as was Colin Firth as Bertie. For me, Geoffrey Rush as Logue was the best of them all. Actually, it made me almost cry at the end (because I am such a softie and just love happy endings in films).

So now I have told F that I will be very happy to go and see the Italian-dubbed version of The King’s Speech (Il Discorso del Re) at the cinema. In fact, I said we just HAVE to go. The only thing that ‘worries’ me is that I like it so much because it is also a story of Britain (and a Britain we like to think of as ‘Great’) and a man overcoming all odds and a woman who loves him – and will an Italian think of it like this also or will missing the Great out of Britain mean that it is much less of a good story?

And, F replies that we should go this weekend. I am happy.

Not here and not smoking

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I’m not really ‘here’ today.

And I won’t be here tomorrow. Customers, you see.

Just one thing. They have tried to stop people smoking in the way that they used to. So, now, there are different rules.

This was ‘introduced’ because the Production Manager had problems keeping his staff ‘in line’ and they complained that they saw the office staff taking many breaks.

So, I now smoke in the MD’s office. Other people have other rules. Now, us smokers are ‘dispersed’, not that we were a ‘collective huddle’ in the first place. However, now, no one has any idea where people might be. Shop floor workers now appear to go and hide in various places outside.

It is laughable.

I should add that to smoke in the MD’s office I have the window open – which looks on the front (it’s just above reception) – which means that people see me.

I fail to see the difference between this place and the place just outside reception, where I used to go. Meh!

The title was misleading. I’m still smoking, obviously.