Expat? Immigrant?

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There was a tweet, recently, relating to an old Guardian piece about the fact that an Indian guys didn’t feel he could be considered an expat.

Of course, it depends on your audience.

If, as an immigrant to Italy, I wrote a piece in an Italian newspaper, I could hardly call myself an expat since a) I am NOT Italian and b) I have not moved out of Italy.

For me it’s a matter of simplicity. Here, I am an immigrant – unless and except when I am talking to other English/American/Canadians here. When I talk to them I am an expat. They are expats too.

However, when I’m with Italians, as, in fact, I have done in the past, I point out that I, too, am an immigrant.

This is usually when they are complaining about the numbers of immigrants here.

It’s interesting that when I point out that I am also an immigrant, they usually respond with something like “Ah, but you’re different.”

What they mean, of course, is that, even if I can’t speak the language (whereas many immigrants can); even if I look different from the majority of Italians (with my blue eyes); even if I act differently (like being more courteous), I am OK because I am white and English and their friend.

As opposed to black or brown, non-European and selling roses or trinkets or working in a kitchen in a restaurant.

But I am mindful that I remain and will always be, an immigrant here.

I am from one of the current EU countries and so I have some “right” to be here – but, I guess, I could also be shipped back to the UK should the authorities deem it necessary.

Here, I have no roots; no “original” place to go to. And so it was true of the Indian writing the Guardian article. So, speaking to a British audience, he was always going to be an immigrant and not an expat.

I don’t think it’s that difficult an idea to grasp?

Some things just don’t fit, do they?

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I remember coming to Milan many years ago, probably the second time, staying at the Antica Locanda Solferino,* and walking from there to somewhere and chancing upon a McDonald’s.

Here we were, staying in one of the areas that retains the oldest buildings in Milan, in a city that is in a country where “fast food” – e.g. a slice of pizza – is always available, permitting a company that puts a tasteless piece of cardboard (called a burger by them) between two bits of soggy, over-processed bread buns, with some bits of highly-sugared/salted extras to mask any tastelessness and calls it food, the chance to sell their rubbish (or “poison” as I call it).

Oh, yes, I don’t really like McDonald’s.

I was, frankly, both shocked and saddened. But, I thought to myself, surely Italians don’t actually go for it? I mean, compared to a slice of pizza or foccacia, there is no contest.

But this was in a slightly out-of-the-way area. It closed within a few years. Yay!

Imagine, if you will, one of the prettiest places in Milan – the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II, just across from the Duomo, the place that leads from the Duomo (Cathedral) to the famous opera house, La Scala.

The picture doesn’t do it justice at all. You have to be there to see the beauty of it. Of course, being the main way to get from the Duomo to La Scala it is almost always full of tourists. At Christmas they usually have an installation, e.g. a HUGE Christmas tree, done by Swarovski, so full of glass ornaments that catch the light in such wondrous ways. The glass ceiling is wonderful; the murals, high above the ground, marvellous; the floor itself, beautiful – and it’s full of shops (high-end, of course – Prada, etc.) and elegant, old-time cafés. One can imagine it has hardly changed since 1877, when it was finished.

Of course, the cafés are over-priced. But to sit there, under the glass ceiling, protected from the cold or heat (depending on the season) is one of those ‘must do’ things for a tourist.

So, given my hatred of McDonald’s, I was truly shocked to see a McDonald’s there, right in the centre of the arcade. Worse still, people used it!

OK, so it wasn’t the usual garish McDonald’s with the over-sized M but, still …….

However, it is no more. The other day they were giving away free burgers as they are closing up and moving on. And hurrah for that, I say!

As you can see above, it almost blended in – but to me, in this land that prides itself on its food and flair, McDonald’s is an antithesis. C’mon, you cannot disagree?

Now it will be replaced by Prada. Anyway, there are enough cafés there.

It’s a shame they don’t replace all the other McDonald’s in Italy with something else.

My thanks to the Guardian for the story and the picture of McDonald’s.

* p.s. The Antica Locanda Solferino is quite a wonderful place to stay. A short walk from the centre of town, the rooms (that I’ve stayed in) are very large and comfortable. They do B&B but the breakfast is served in your room as there is (well, was), no dining room. One of the strangest things (a little disconcerting) is (was) that there are (were) no locks on the doors to the bedrooms! But in all the years we stayed there, we never had any problem. It was a wonderful, quirky hotel and I have recommended it to others. Not cheap but if you don’t want the standard hotel with the standard room, this is for you.

p.p.s I even put the tag “Food” against this post – even if it pained me to do so.

At long, long, last!

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F-I-N-A-L-L-Y!

I suppose everyone does this, don’t they?

I look back at the very few photographs I have and think that, actually, I was quite good looking. By which, I mean that, at the time, I didn’t realise it or I thought that, whereas not downright ugly, I was not “all that”.

And, of course, at that moment, what I thought looked really cool, actually may not have looked that good. But looking back at these phtographs, I realise that, actually, I was quite good looking and I wish I had known that then, at that time and, better, had done something with it.

But, physically, my ideas of how I looked are NOT the same as the reality.

For example, for many, many years, in my head, I had a button nose. Even when I looked in the mirror, that’s what I saw. I hated this button nose. I wanted a long one, perhaps more of a Roman one. In fact, I would spend time pulling my nose down and out as I really hated this button nose.

It wasn’t until I mentioned it one time in company that I was put straight about this thing. I didn’t have, and never had had, such a thing as a button nose.

Now, although I realise this to be true, my mind plays tricks on me and, occasionally, I still think of it as a button nose. Which, even as I think about it, I know not to be true – like now, when I’m writing this. Still, in my head (at this moment), I think of it as short, stubby abd turned up.

The other thing that’s important to me, as far as physical looks go, is my hair. This has been so every since I can remember. At 12 I was telling my parents that “everyone has long hair at school, and I want long hair too”. Really! I only “saw” long hair on other kids but now, I realise, this cannot have been true.

My hair has always been ‘important’ to me. When I was about 17 or so was the ‘best time’ (apart from the other best times, of course). In reverse order, I’ve had very short and natural grey, very short and not-natural, almost-black, slightly longer and black, shortish and natural, longish and natural, spikey and long and blonde, normal and natural, long almost to my waist and natural, longish, just past shoulder-length and natural (the ‘best one’), spikey and sometimes blue and before that I don’t remember.

But, since F convinced me to stop dying my hair (and I ended up with the first one in the above list), I haven’t been entirely happy. So, since the summer before last, I grew it.

In my head, it reminds me of the ‘best’ one from when I was 17.

In the mirror, I see a head full of hair, longish flowing locks, nearly as it should be – but not quite.

And then I see photos of myself now. It looks quite dreadful. In the photo. In the mirror (and my head) it looks nothing like that. I picture myself as I was at 17, just back from holiday, brown, with these flowing locks and looking really good.

And, even if I know that the camera doesn’t lie, I still think that it does. Or, at least, it distorts. Maybe it wasn’t a good day? Maybe it was a little windy?

And my hair is thinner now. I know this for if I put a mirror to show me the back of my head, you can see I’m going a bit bald. Except I was thinking that about 20 years ago. It just never really quite happened! But I am certain it’s much thinner than it was and the almost-bald-patch is now almoster bald.

So, where were we?

Ah, yes. So, in my head and when I look at myself in a mirror, I am almost the same as when I was 17. Except I’m not, of course.

And I started growing it because I wanted a style. Some sort of style but I wasn’t sure what. I thought: if I grow it I can choose what to have. Except, after almost a couple of years I’m no closer to making a decision.

And, even if I’ve asked F for his advice, I get nothing from him. And I’ve been wanting him to suggest something or say something but I could solicit nothing.

Until last night.

For our anniversary, as normal, I came with a last-minute idea for a present. The present was one of those digital picture frames. I’ve always thought they were a bit of a waste of time but, you know, when you have little idea of what to buy, it came in a flash that this might be something he would like, being keen on photography and all.

And, it turns out, it was a great choice. He loves it. And so he spent a long time putting over 300 photos on it which he brought over last night to show me. Of course, they are 300+ photos of the dogs!

But in some of them, there is him or me (with the dogs).

One came up of me the summer before last, when we were on holiday in Umbria, just before I started growing my hair.

“You should cut your hair,” he says, when he sees it. “Short hair makes you look younger.” I tell him that I am very happy that he is making some comment. And I AM very happy. It’s just not quite the comment that I want.

Sure, I want to look younger.

I’m not that bothered about looking younger.

Maybe he WANTS me to look younger? Maybe he thinks that I look much older now? I want to do what he wants. I don’t care about being younger or older and, yet, …… I do care on some level.

Later I suggest that I need a style and should he see something, to tell me. His response was “It’s too thin.” He means, of course, go and get it cut, really short, all over – like it was.

In my head, of course, it’s not at all THAT thin. I reply that it’s been like this for years and years.

But he’s right, of course. He suggests that maybe I can keep it like this for the winter and get it cut in the spring. He doesn’t really think that, of course. He’s just saying that. Maybe my face said too much?

Of course, this isn’t really what I want to hear but, in his way, he’s being nice whilst being quite direct. This idea I had that I have hair like I was 17 or, even, that I had almost convinced myself that I look like some old, eccentric, English professor should be banished from my brain. Should be but it’s very difficult to do.

And, although I absolutely HATE the idea of not having a choice any more, he is, of course, quite right. And I am so glad that he’s finally said SOMETHING!

Now all I have to do is to summon up the courage to go and get it done! This is not easy for me and will take me some time and then I have to choose somewhere to have it done. This, too, is quite difficult. I have to pick the right place. I remember when I went from waist-length to quite short, when I first went to work. It was almost the most excruciatingly painful thing I had ever done (not physically but mentally). I can only imagine how Samson must have felt. This will be the same.

I am convinced that no one else has this problem (the pain of having one’s hair cut). For no one else does it seem such a big deal. I don’t even know why it is for me. It’s just weird! It’s the stuff in my head …. again!

Or, maybe I CAN find a style ………..?????

25 Years Ago

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25 years ago tomorrow morning, England was closed. Or, at least it seemed like it was closed to us.

It was during my year-long or so stint in Germany. Every week I would travel there (usually on a Sunday or Monday evening), travelling back three or four days later. It was exhausting.

My job was as a consultant to Ford and we were introducing a new system to one of their suppliers. Sometimes I would be alone but this particular time, I was with some other people from Ford – or at least one person, AA.

When we got into work on the 16th, we, as normal, tried to contact colleagues. The phones rang out but no one answered.

We joked that England was closed.

What we didn’t know was that, for the South East at least, it almost was.

The great storm of 1987 meant that many people didn’t get into work and many had no electricity.

Was it really 25 years ago? Half a lifetime (more or less)!

A change.

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It all feels a bit unreal.

As if I’m in some sort of fuggy dream. As if I’m not really there.

The change seems overnight although, in reality, it’s over a weekend.

And now, for me, it’s a race to the other end; a race to the light – almost literally.

I had promised to take the dogs out this morning as it was probably going to be raining and would probably keep right on raining until later in the morning. Which it has.

Although, when we were out, it didn’t seem too bad; not the heavy rain predicted, more of a lighter rain – the one just after or just before the heavy rain. It was dark, of course, but, then. it had been dark at this time for a few weeks.

As we approach the second traffic lights, they change from flashing amber to the normal red/green. I thought I must be late but, instead, it’s the lights’ change that’s early – by about 5 minutes.

The dogs (even Piero) keep as close to the buildings as possible.

I don’t let them into the dog area. They are wet already and there’s no need to get them really dirty as the puddles testify that the area will be just mud. Anyway, there are no other dogs in there (and probably won’t be, at least this morning), so Piero isn’t missing any play time. But, then, there aren’t usually any dogs in here at this time.

It’s raining, slightly, but not really ‘cold’ as such. About 13 degrees.

We walk back home. We, all three of us, want to get back.

As we wait for the lift, Dino is trying to dry himself on the walls. He looks forward to the towelling he has when he gets wet.

We get in the flat and I get the towels, Dino not taking his eyes off me, knowing what’s coming. Obviously, I do him first, dropping the towel on his head and starting to rub him down vigorously. He throws himself into this ritual and I think he would like it if I didn’t stop – but the other one has to be done.

The other one, on the other hand, does not really like it and tries to escape. But he’s still small enough to be able to keep in check without too much effort and he gets ‘done’ anyway.

I get ready and have coffee and leave to go to work.

It’s still raining – in much the same way – not too hard.

The car is close and, since it’s service, starts first time, which is great.

But it’s the drive to work that’s different. It’s still dark. It’s miserable. And different to Friday morning when it was light.

Of course, it’s made darker by the rain clouds.

But, as I drive, I don’t feel altogether “there” and it’s unnerving.

The traffic is, for the most part, quite light. Soon it won’t be like this.

It starts to get light on my way but I see the 50-shades-of-grey clouds, patchy and bleak, in the sky.

The race is on to February or March when it will (hopefully) get warmer and brighter.

On the plus side, F noticed that the heating was on last night (at home, obviously. At work the place is close to fridge conditions – especially as these fucking crazy Italians feel the need to change the air – or let the bloody cold in, as I like to say) and I am VERY happy about that.

The end of the world?

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Imagine a different world.

A world where everyone considers everything they do and say as to what impact it has on other people – and then they censor what they do/say based on whether there is someone, anyone, out there who will find it distatseful or, God forbid, offensive.

It’s a kind of utopia. Everyone will be nice and courteous. Nothing will be said that will ‘hurt our feelings’. Nothing, quite obviously, will be said in rage and, as a consequence, there will be no anger.

Without anger, there will be no need to defend anything and without the need for defence, there will be no war.

And everyone will live happily ever after.

Won’t they?

I mean, surely, that’s what we all want, sin’t it?

The problem with this, of course, is that the term ‘free speech’ becomes redundant. If you are only free to say nice things, what’s the point?

I try to be nice to people, espcially people I know. A friend I haven’t seen for two years or so was told by me that she ‘looked fabulous’. She did – but that’s not really the point. I am, of course, able to say ‘You look tired’ but a) it wasn’t true and b) I don’t think it’s very nice to say that. So I don’t. She’s changed her hair. It’s now short and blonde. I could have said a) your hair looks awful or b) you look like a prostitute. But I didn’t because it wouldn’t have been true and, anyway, it’s not a nice thing to say. Instead, I said ‘Your hair looks lovely’, which it did.

So, was I using ‘free speech’ and saying what I felt? Well, yes but, equally, even if they hadn’t been true, I may have said something like that anyway. And, at that point, I am no longer using ‘free speech’.

But, why not? Didn’t people fight for this right? And if people laid their lives down for this right, why the hell ain’t I using it?

But what if I DID? What then?

Well, most probably, old friends would, suddenly, be a little unfriendly. Now, if I didn’t care, that wouldn’t really be a problem, I guess.

And, at what point would something I said become genuinely offensive? And how do you measure offensive in the first place?

Does the feeling of ‘That’s not very nice’ constitute offence? What if something said makes you feel like bursting into tears? Does that make it offensive?

What if I made some joke about a person who had recently died? A sick joke? I mean, a really sick joke about someone who died very recently that I didn’t know? Well, the dead person wouldn’t be offended. But their family? There again, how would their family know if I just told this very sick joke to my friends who live thousands of miles away from the family?

But, what if one of MY firends was offended by it? There again, how can they really be offended. Are they just saying they’re offended because they think my joke is really sick and not something one should say?

And what is the difference between telling a really sick joke to my friends from saying, for example, that I’m going to blow an airport up should my flight be cancelled for the fourth time, when I’m really angry. I mean, we all say things in the heat of the moment. Things said in anger aren’t really meant.

How many times have you said, ‘Oh I could kill so-and-so’ but, in reality, and, even given a weapon and anonimity, you would NEVER do such a thing. It’s an expression to mean you are REALLY pissed off with a person.

‘They should just bomb the place’ – another expression which I’ve heard said because someone doesn’t like what they’ve heard of about or seen at a place. It doesn NOT mean that they would actually do it. And, if the murder or bombing were to actually take place, most normal people would be horrified that they had said it.

After all, these are just words, however tasteless and disgusting they may be.

And, if we go back to our utopian idea of having a world where no one says anthing that will offend anyone else – what kind of monstrous world have we created?

And yet, this is what ‘they’ seem to be trying to achieve.

And it would be as boring as hell or worse. Even if I don’t agree, or even like, what people say and even if I am outraged by some of the stuff that’s said or done in this world – at least it is premitted to be said or done.

Anyway, for more of the same, read this little article.

Let’s just say that mob rule is the real offensive thing here. And even without the prison sentence, I think that, maybe, Matthew Woods has learnt a valuable lesson – as we all do when we are young and say things that may be considered offensive or crass. Most of us, nearly all of us, don’t go to jail for it, though!

The IMF – just a bunch of know-nothing bankers

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Austerity. You must do this to protect the future and get yourself out of the sh1t.

Oh sh1t. Well, we thought it would be OK but now we see that, in fact, Growth is important. Except for some of the poorer countries. For them it’s still all about austerity.

No, wait a minute. It’s Europe’s fault. They should help the poorer countries.

Austerity. Growth.

Whoops! We were slightly wrong.

_______________________________________________________________________________________

Once upon a time, I thought that people who had the necessary training and qualifications were to be respected. After all, they know what they’re talking about.

Now, maybe because I am much older, I know that this is an utter load of bollocks.

Most people, even those supposedly in charge and who should know what they are doing or saying, don’t.

And, this article sums that all up quite nicely.

To save you the bother of reading it, here are some really ‘choice’ bits:

Christine Lagarde warned that only with greater co-operation and courage could governments hope to prevent a repeat of the financial crisis.

She is the head of the IMF. so she must know what to do, right?

Apparently.

Lagarde said banking regulators had told her that reforms of the financial system were incomplete and in many cases banks were as unsafe as before the collapse of Lehman Brothers in 2008.

So, the regulators of the banks (who are ex-bankers) have told her (the head of the ‘International Bank’) that the banks are unsafe, still, after one of the banks (in the USA) was ‘allowed’ to go bust because the regulators had failed to ensure it was safe.

Europe has come under fire for its failure to end the debt crisis

Because, of course, everyone else has been really brilliant and solved their crisis.

Lagarde said: “We expect action and we expect courageous and co-operative action on the part of our members.”

Ha! So what action do they expect to see?

The IMF has expressed frustration with Europe’s piecemeal response to its debt crisis and warned that a recent respite in borrowing costs for debt-laden countries such as Spain may prove short-lived unless eurozone leaders come up with a comprehensive and credible plan.

Now, to remind ourselves, the IMF said, at the beginning of the crisis, that we should immediately impose austerity and cut borrowing. But, it seems they made a bit of mistake in their calculations:

[The IMF] admitted in its World Economic Outlook report that officials underestimated the effects of austerity measures on economic growth.

The report found that previous estimates that for every £1 of spending cuts the economy shrank by 50p were wrong and the economy shrank by around £1.30 instead.

The IMF was a strong supporter of austerity measures adopted by Western countries, including the UK, in the aftermath of the financial crisis.

As a result:

Most countries that adopted austerity programmes have missed their deficit reduction targets after a sharp slowdown in economic growth hit tax revenues and private sector activity.

So, let’s just get this right – they thought that austerity was good because we would cut debt but they forgot to factor in the fact that, as soon as we have austerity, people stop buying (and borrowing) and so the effect on the economy was a LOT worse than they expected.

I’m sure the head of the IMF will make a full and swift apology and shut her mouth in future.

The IMF has U-turned in recent months and urged government to allow their austerity reforms to be planned over a longer period to lessen the impact on growth.

But I see no apology. Nor do I see everyone ignoring her and the rest of the IMF – which is what they should be doing and should have done.

A three-year-old child would have a better grasp of the situation than they had and, not only do they earn vast sums, tax free (WTF?) but, with their qualifications and experience, they should be able to do much, much better.

Of course, what should be done is to scrap the model we have now – where debt is seen as an asset rather than a liability and the banks should be under control and should be stopped from gambling, which is what they do and which is what led us to this, now.

In fact, now, every time I see something that the IMF head has said, it just makes my blood boil.

It’s outrageous and, should I ever meet her, I just want to tell her to fuck right off.

A Makem and a Geordie go for a job

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Had to give you this joke:

A makem (man from Sunderland) applied for a job at a factory in his home town. A geordie (man from Newcastle) applied for the same job and since both applicants had similar qualifications, the manager asked them to take a test. When the results were in, both men had scored 19 out of 20.

The manager went to the makem and said, “Thank you for coming to the interview, but we’ve decided to give the geordie the job.”

The Makem said, “Why? We both got 19 questions correct. This being Sunderland and me being from Sunderland surely I should get the job.”

The manager replied, “We have made our decision not on the correct answers, but on the question you got wrong.”

The makem said, “And just how would one incorrect answer be better than another?”

The manager said, “Simple. On question number 7 the geordie wrote down, ‘I don’t know.’

“You put down, ‘Neither do I ‘”

Lifted from Of course, I could be wrong…..

It’s here!

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And, it’s not necessarily a good thing, just inevitable.

I’m talking Autumn (or ‘Fall’ to Americans because, I guess, Autumn is too difficult to spell).

Last night, on our way back from the restaurant, I looked up the street and you could see a light mist – an obvious sign of Autumn, if ever there was one, even if, last night, it was not cold enough for a jacket (at least for me).

This morning, the same mist hung around. But this morning was a bit chillier.

And, as the mist hasn’t really lifeted much but, rather, made everything grey and miserable, the temperature has stayed lower and there is a chill in the air. Not really a ‘nip’ – yet. So, not winter (as everyone here has been predicting) but definitely Autumn.

The trees still have their green leaves though, although maybe there’s a tinge of change.

But, since the heating should (officially) go on in the middle of October, this year we’re quite late getting to Autumn. Normally, by now, I’m wishing for the heating to be turned on (because I’m bloody freezing) – this year, so far, it’s not been necessary – even for me.

One only hopes that Spring won’t be late coming (well, at least I only hope).

One out.

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I said 4 instead of 3.

To be honest, I couldn’t be sure. Was it 2009 or 2008?

I know I should know but, well, I don’t.

So I said 4.

In fact it’s 3. I had to check this blog to be sure.

Well, it WILL be 3 – at 9.45 this evening. When we shall be at our favourite restaurant for a quiet, lovely dinner. To celebrate. To celebrate 3 (and not 4).

But I was only one out, after all. And it does feel like longer (and shorter).

That’s just the way it is.