Gianna Nannini or, as I thought for ages, Gian Annanini (although why some woman would have a blokes name, God only knows), was truly fantastic. Her name is pronounced Janananini as there is no gap when you say it.
This is helped, no doubt, by the fact that the last concert (and first here, in Italy) that I went to was…wait for it…Robbie Williams!
The café is almost like a bar in a pub. An old-fashioned bar. The fixed, wooden bench with the high back hugs the wall all the way around. The ‘bar’ is wooden too. Nice, old wood. The tables are large and rectangular and, would you believe it, wooden. The floor is wooden without carpet. It’s all well scrubbed – spotlessly clean.
The feeling is warm. The sun shines in through the windows and it is bright inside, in spite of all that wood. The espresso machine, behind the bar, gives a delicious smell to the whole place. The staff are, in the main, dressed in white.
This was going to be a long, rambling post but I decided to cut it short.
Jack would be appalled.
Having had a dreadful time that evening already and being much later than normal, I pay for the supermarket items I have bought with a card. The total cost is €40.02. I hand over my debit card.
‘Have you got the 2 cents?’
More on our trip to the UK.
I have mentioned this before but it was particularly noticeable as I haven’t been back to the UK for a while.
People here, in Milan (and maybe the whole of Italy), walk just like they drive. There is no forward planning and manoeuvres are made at the last minute and only if absolutely necessary. Except that, the difference between people and cars is that, if you bump into another car with your vehicle there will be a lot of time spent sorting out the insurance; shouting and screaming at each other with a lot of gesturing; many years of paying extra for your insurance.
Bumping into people does not cause any of those things. So, as a result, people manoeuvre a lot less when walking and there is a lot of bumping. And, more importantly for the people from the UK – no apologising!
Whilst in the Scottish city, we had spent a couple of hours walking round the shops and dancing in the street – by that, I mean the little two-step dance whilst trying to avoid other people.
I asked V if he had noticed that, in all the time we had been walking, not once had anyone so much as brushed past us. He replied that he hadn’t but that now I had mentioned it, it was true. It was so pleasant. I must admit that, having been here for almost 4 years now, I no longer apologise when bumped into or even when I bump into someone else. It has taken all this time and a great deal of personal resolve to stop saying ‘sorry’. There is a way of walking here that means head up, stare straight ahead, ignore the fact that the person is approaching you without any intention of moving slightly out of your way and, if they are much bigger than you, only move slightly to one side at the very last possible moment. If there is any physical contact, whatever you do, DO NOT say ‘sorry’ – after all, it’s their fault for being in your way.
But it was so nice to stroll around without having bruises at the end!
I did drink a lot of tea whilst there and it was very, very nice. But I did miss the Italian coffee. So, whilst out, we saw a Café Nero and decided to go in and have the ‘real Italian coffee’ that they purported to sell.
Of course, here, a café latte is not taken so often and, certainly, is not as big as the Café Nero ‘regular’ let alone ‘large’. However, we were in the UK so a large café latte seemed in order.
Maybe it’s the water; or the coffee; or the milk – whatever it was, it did not make it particularly nice. And I very much doubt (although I didn’t try it, so I can’t be sure) that their espresso is not the best this side of Milan. After all, we have quite an area of Italy between Milan and the French border and, I can assure you, coffee in any part of Italy is superb.
I do remember that, when we still had the flat in Hay and returned to help out at the festival 3 years ago, we brought our moka back with us along with a supply of coffee so that we could make our morning fix.
Many thanks to J, a colleague of V’s, who, yesterday, gave V 160 Tetley tea bags. Hurrah! Obviously they won’t last forever but at least I should be alright for a bit.
Sunday was the start of Men’s Fashion Week. A rang to say she had been to the Dolce and Gabbana or Versace show (I forget which) where a male model (apparently famous but I have no idea who it was) was signing a pair of men’s underpants should you buy a pair. Apparently, he was acting like Father Christmas and allowing the person having their pants signed, to sit on his knee. A and her Texan friend were tempted. Later when they were about to go they noticed that he was surrounded by gay men. Quell surprise!
For me, Fashion Week is less about fashion and more about traffic. Traffic and parking. The lesser shows are put on in available spaces – and some of the available space is in my area, so the traffic becomes unbearable and the parking non-existent.
I feel dreadful, though, that I missed both Beyonce and the Spice Girls. Well, no, that’s a lie. I don’t feel dreadful at all. And, as I’m rushing from my car to get out of the cold and rain, a nice warm house and a glass of wine seem so much more inviting.
Urgent cry for help! I have finished all my Tetley tea-bags (you know, the round ones that come in a blue packet). I still have a few nice ones which are free-trade ones from the Hay Festival – but only about 5. This means I won’t last the week out. Does anyone know how I can get hold of some in Milan? I’m afraid that tea here is far too weak, whereas Tetley round ones do the trick perfectly.
Well, it is too early, really, to be certain but there’s a possibility that Milan’s Ecopass (the equivalent to London’s Congestion Charge) may work.
You might think it’s a day late, but it did take the BBC a whole day to make it the top Europe story on their website. I’m talking about Milan’s new Congestion Charge – called the Ecopass, here.
It’s how it feels. The traffic is terrible; the urgency of everything is at its height (work, home, etc.); we are out every night this week as so many of our friends leave for extended breaks with their families; the shops are full to bursting (see below); people start to lose their ‘nice’ gene.
And it happens every year. But why? I realise that, if you don’t get presents before Christmas then it makes less sense but it’s not a disaster. And if the client does get the parts on the day before Christmas, what on earth is he going to do with them? And, if you don’t get bread and milk today then the supermarket WILL be open tomorrow, with new supplies.
There’s this thing about Christmas that is a proper milestone in nearly everyone’s mind.
And, considering this is supposed to be the season of goodwill, where the hell is it?
Apart from the story below, I think the best thing to do is to chill-out. Take it easy. Don’t worry. Even if you don’t get the presents/parts/bread, it’s not the end of the world. Honestly.
Anyway, my experience of trying to get that ‘last minute’ something:
I know what I want. I know exactly what it should look like. But finding it is so difficult. A present for some friends. Candlesticks – but it’s got to be glass, got to be square pillars and not round, preferably smoked or some sort of opaque glass.
And, we’re in Milan, the design centre of Europe? But can I find what I want? No. It seems so simple. We traipse up Corso Buenos Aires and into all the probable shops. V has to go on his work’s Christmas outing (I am joining him later) and so I go to the centre of town to try La Rinascente (like Selfridges or Debenhams as it used to be). I get off the metro and walk up the steps to the outside and it is cold. The crowds are tightly packed. Everyone seems to be going to the same place. I join the slow-moving queue to get inside. I enter and then the crowds are more tightly packed. There is no way to side-step the snail-paced human traffic jam.
We shuffle along and, if I am honest, this is exactly why I don’t like Christmas. If I had any other choice (I guess I DO have another choice but …) I would have turned round and joined the shuffling queue out of there.
At the escalator, going up was more difficult. So I went down – as this was one of the places to look. Downstairs is busy but tolerable. I see some very nice examples, not really what I wanted but suitable, except for the price. I would even pay up to €100 but €300 to €3000 are just completely out of range.
I join the queue to catch the escalator up and up and up. They have ‘bouncers’ at the end of each escalator. But it’s not to check that people aren’t stealing things, it’s to keep the flow going. Why do people reach the top of the escalator and think that it’s OK to stop and look about them? So we move on, as fast but no faster, than the escalators themselves.
I reach the floor I want. Ah, here are candlesticks. And reasonable prices. But not glass and not what I want. I look lost. Some very nice assistant asks if I need help? I explain what I want. She guides me, through, over and round the people pointing out a type of candlestick here, another type there. Eventually I say I will look at them and decide and thank her for being so helpful.
There is a glass one, with a brown glass stem. Not really. Some silver type ones from India but totally wrong. And then I see some small, silver, candlesticks that are ideal only they have been out too long and need serious cleaning. But I have seen silver like this before and it doesn’t always clean so well.
I find another assistant (I should have gone back to find the nice one). This one says that it only needs cleaning. I ask if they will clean it. She says they only have cleaner for glass but she will try. She tries. It doesn’t work, making me more nervous. Will you give me my money back if it doesn’t clean up? I ask. As usual here, in Italy, the answer is no. They only give you a replacement article(s) or, if you’re really lucky, a credit note.
I decide against it. I walk up to San Babila and walk along a street I know that may have something. A shop window looks promising and inside I find what is, almost, perfect. How much are these, I ask. €80 is her response, it’s plexiglass. Not exactly what I wanted but pretty close. Do you have two, I add. No, only that one.
I give up at this point. It’s just not to be and I have a trifle to prepare. I go home, thankful that I don’t have a sackload of presents to buy as I couldn’t stand it for much longer. I’m not really a Christmas Shopper!!
It’s not often I name people in this blog. It’s not often that I have no other recourse but I should know better. I have a feeling that it’s a problem that will have serious repercussions in another 20 years or so. Of course it will happen gradually so that we shall hardly notice. Alternatively, it’s always been like this and, somehow, it has no effect. We shall see.
It must be difficult for parents who are both immigrants and quite well-to-do: have a certain respectable status in their society: to bring up their kids to have the same values as they do. I mean, if you have the money and the status, you would want your kids to have everything you didn’t have when you were a kid. I’m only guessing, but I think this is a case in point.
So, we’re looking for someone to rent our spare room. I advertise and this Australian guy by the name of Serge rings up. He’s looking for somewhere desperately because he’s staying in a hotel (first alarm bell should ring but, unfortunately it didn’t) and he’s not keen on it.
He comes round. A gangly, 6-foot-something, kid of about 22/23 who is doing a fashion course at Borgho’s (where V went for his) (second alarm bell didn’t ring either).
He came here the day after Sam left. Paid the deposit and the rent. We laughed at his inability to unlock the front door in less than 10 minutes. He seemed amiable enough. He did tell me he was a bit clumsy (third alarm bell was silent – and, anyway, that was an understatement).
But, to cut to the chase. He asked, for the last half month if, rather than pay the rent, he could pay only the estimation of the expenses as he needed money to travel back to Australia. I worked them out and, against my better judgement (and I should really trust my first thoughts) agreed for him to pay that only.
So, we’re into the last two weeks of his “stay”. I’m at the computer having only just got home from work. He comes out of the bedroom and goes to watch television. After about 5 minutes he switches the television off and walks past me to his bedroom (about the hundredth alarm bell a silent as a mouse). I laugh and say that the television programmes must be really bad. We then have a chat, for about 10 minutes about how Italian television is really not the best in the world, even if you can understand the language. He goes to his room and then comes out and says he’s off to his friends’ house to do his homework. He seems a bit strange but, then, he is a bit strange.
Later, when V arrives, we go to sit in the lounge and find, to my absolute horror that the sofa has a hole in the cushion from a cigarette. We know it is Serge because a) although it’s where I sit too, I smoke with my left hand and this is on the right of where I’m sitting and b) this has happened since the last time we sat there.
Suddenly, I realise that I have no deposit to cover the invisible repair that I now have to get done. What to do? Now I understand the rush with which he left the house. Maybe he had just done it and that’s why he rushed to his friends’ house – rather than face the music.
I go into his bedroom to try and find basic information about him (why didn’t I do this before he came here in the first place – sometimes I am, as V always says, too trusting). I find his address in Australia and various other details about him – this stuff is just chucked on the floor – not hidden away or anything. I don’t have to search at all.
Of course, he doesn’t arrive back before we go to bed. I guess he’s panicking a bit. The next morning I stay in the house a little longer than normal to wait for him to get up as he normally gets up just before I leave for work. But not today. Looking back, maybe he wasn’t even there.
The next time I see him the conversation goes something like this:
Me: Serge, is there something you want to talk to me about?
S: Uh, no, about what?
Me: Well about the sofa, for instance?
S: Uh, um, oh, yes, I was going to talk to you about that.
Me: Really? Well, what do you propose?
S: Well, like what? I don’t know really.
Me: Well, I shall have to have the deposit now.
S: Well, you can just turn the cushion over.
Me: (Incredulously) What? You’ve burnt my sofa and you think I should just turn the cushion over? No, I shall have to get a repair done and, if I can, an invisible repair.
S: Aw, come on, it won’t cost that much.
Me: Well I don’t know. I shall do what I said I shall do. I will send you the money that’s left afterwards.
S: You could buy a whole sofa for that money (we’re talking €270 here).
Me: (more incredulously and now slightly angry) What!?! That suite cost x thousand!
S: OK but can it wait until Monday.
Me: OK.
He went to Florence for the weekend. He came back Sunday night and we chatted for a bit about how he liked Florence and didn’t like Bologna. Later he told me that his parents were transferring the money that night (I guess Monday to them) to his account so he could get the money. I said OK.
Monday morning and his door was closed and we went off to work as normal. He didn’t get up. I felt things were not right but couldn’t put my finger on it.
Monday night. His room was in darkness with the door closed. Not particularly unusual. He often slept from about 7 p.m. for an hour or two, got up for an hour and then was in bed again by about 11. This night he didn’t get up. I nearly went into the room but thought OK, he’s tired after his weekend away.
Tuesday morning. I left for work and double locked the door. I just had a feeling. When I arrived back it was the same. I knew he had not been back. I went into the room and it was clear. He had done a runner.
I’ve checked out many things since then. I was right not to trust him after the time we found the burn. What I should have done, of course, was throw him out that very night.
He’s from a family that obviously has money. They live in Barton which is a posher part of Canberra than most. His family and relations are quite well-to-do. The problem is that, I suspect, he’s a liar, possibly a thief, has little or no respect for others or other people’s property and, so far, has always been bailed out by his parents.
He has no sense of decency, in my opinion. He sneaked out, in the middle of the night on Sunday, I later found out. I also later found out that the clumsy oaf had broken some other things and kept quiet about them too. He left a note saying he was sincerely sorry – but obviously that was a lie too.
Well, I guess I will learn by my mistake. Don’t be so trusting and certainly listen to the alarm bells, even if they don’t ring. Also, never, ever trust kids of nouveau riche, particularly if they are 2nd generation immigrants (they came from Serbia or somewhere like that).
It also makes me wonder. Many people complain about the immigrants from Eastern Europe. That they are thieves, all-round bad people. Perhaps even the rich ones are the same? Perhaps I was always wrong to think that it was unfair to label all the people from Eastern Europe as bastards: perhaps they are all bad people, after all?
Certainly, in my opinion, Serge (or to give him his full name: Sergej Dean Bodulovic) is a very untrustworthy, arrogant, selfish person. I can only hope many bad things happen to him although I expect, in the main, he will be protected from that reality by his parents’ money.
Still, if anyone reads this before they are sucked into dealing with him, then I will feel that I have done my bit to protect someone else from Serge’s lies and deceit. My final advice: don’t trust him and don’t let him come anywhere near you! Certainly, and I’m very sorry for this, I will be careful about trusting anyone who has rich parents: is of Eastern European extraction and who doesn’t pay their dues on time.
Of course, I am a very, very stupid person sometimes.
I now understand that he also goes by the name of Egres Ludob. Just in case you should run into that one instead.