Tag Archives: Italy

And it continues…..

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No. of times out and about today – 1
No. of checkouts/flirts made at me – 2
No. of flirts by me in return – 1

The exhibition was, quite frankly almost nothing – and that nothing was crap.  However, I met with lots of friends and had a really nice time.  Martin was there.  He’s nice enough but he is far too camp for me and tends to ‘paw’, which makes me want to move away from him.  However, he introduced me to Robert.

Robert was really nice, a photographer, with, what he called a magazine but was, in fact, more like a book.  He called it ‘serious and boring’ which I found amusing as it was hardly a big sell on his part.

However, I did recognise he was gay, even if he wasn’t camp – greying hair, pretty, probably mid forties.

I flirted with him and he with me.  It was cool.  Nothing happened but, who knows for the future.  Cool job, cool guy.

Dennis has booked some restaurant for tonight; he is sweet and it’s all very touching – at least this is how the dating thing is supposed to go.  My problem is that I feel, somewhat, guilty about the fact that, on my part, this may be going nowhere.  But let’s see what tonight brings.

Gordon, whom I text to ask if Thursday is still on, suggests that it probably is but that, as it’s Fashion Week (one can tell, if only by the amount of bloody traffic and the difficulty with parking), he can’t be certain.  My heart sinks a bit.  I’m kind of fed up with everyone being ‘something’ in fashion – even though I know that being one of the fashion cities of the world and fashion seemingly having a larger ‘gay population’ than most industries, this is almost inevitable.  Still I text him back to say that good things are always worth waiting for, which he obviously likes – but then being charming I can do, when I want.

I don’t want you to get the wrong impression about this whole thing.  I am seriously looking for the ‘Mr Right’ and I know that only by getting out there will I find him.  This all may seem rather cold to you but this is the way I work and the way that I can focus on it all.  However, I suppose it does seem more like I’m looking for a new apartment rather than looking for a human being.  Still, logic and method is me and I can’t change that.  In fact, for me, this is far better than trying to go to some club and much less haphazard.

Oh, yes, and I keep coming across foot-fetish people.  It seems there are a lot of them about………who would have known? :-)

The difference between the idea and the reality

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No. of times out and about today – 1
No. of passes made at me – 1
No. of times ‘checked out’ by some guy – 1 (on the train on the way back)

We meet.  If we meet in a city or area that I don’t know, he will ask me what I would like to do but will have some suggestions.  There had better be food in a nice restaurant on offer (I mean, we should go dutch, of course) as well as, maybe, a visit to some things he has picked out as being noteworthy (a museum, a gallery, even a park!).

OK, so if not at a mealtime, then, a suggestion to stop at a café, maybe grab a beer (or, in the case of Dennis, a coffee) and then do something, even go for a walk.

We talk.  He is interesting, interested in me and we have a lot in common or, at least, he makes me think we have a lot in common.  He indicates (I’m not sure how) that he finds me very attractive but doesn’t push it, both of us exploring the boundaries.  The time passes quickly.

He might suggest dinner at his place but there will be candles, good wine, the food will be expertly cooked but made to look as if it was easy, without effort.  He is accomplished at all things; he puts me at ease immediately.

I want to be wooed; I want to be wined and dined; I want to be seen to be loved; I want it to be romantic or, if we are to be friends then interesting; have something in common; chat easily and freely.

If we are to be more than friends, then, maybe, later, if we both feel the same it may lead to something more……

Then, of course, there are the other sort of dates.  Not ones I know but am aware of.  For those, let’s not waste any time.  He will, of course, be considerably younger than me and have a great body.  That is an absolute must otherwise what’s the point.  But the other type of date will be obvious before we’ve even met.  We will ‘know’ something about what the other wants/is looking for.  Here I still want to be wooed but in a different way; here it’s all about looks and superficiality and that’s fine.

Then, there is, what I can only politely describe as the mix up.  This is where it’s not clear to one side or the other and so, as a result, it makes it awkward and difficult.

Making it more difficult, of course, would be the fact that neither of you were able to speak the other’s language and then there’s that feeling that one of you is out of their depth a little (or a lot) and just wishing to go home.

I meant to take a notebook yesterday but forgot.  The train was not crowded.  About halfway through, Fred phoned.  Could I meet him at the station stop before the one planned (i.e. not in the centre (more or less) of the city?  I knew what this meant and so texted FfI to call me during the day.  Just in case.

I came out of the station and Dennis texted.  We had a text conversation as he was going back to Milan after a weekend away.  We texted about next week and a pizza and so on.  I walked to the car that was waiting – some sporty black little BMW number.  The problem is that cars really don’t impress me that much (although I can say all the right words to make the owner feel good – but a car is just a car, after all – it gets you from A to B in greater or lesser comfort).

I get in.  True, when FfI and I had looked at his profile (with new pictures) the previous night, I did think, wow, I’ve made a mistake here – he looks so much older than the original photos suggested and, as I may have mentioned before, it’s a younger person that I really want.  I know I’ve been spoiled by V but I want someone equally as good.  Now, he looks a little better – in the flesh.  He has no style but, hey, not everyone can be perfect.  I notice his elbows (he’s wearing a T-shirt) – they are the elbows of someone who is 60, not 44 (as he is supposed to be) – but then he looks older than me anyway.

I see we’re not driving to the city but to his town, just outside.  I’m disappointed.  I wanted to go back to the city.  It would have been nice to have the offer so this was not as it should be.

Several times he puts his hand on my leg.  For sure there is no electricity, no spark.  I want to get the next train back but, I made my bed and I should lie in it – actually what I’m thinking is that I need to make it clearer in future and that, anyway, being only my second ‘date’ I should use this as practice both for the date thing and for the Italian as he speaks no English.

We make conversation.  The drive is uneventful (apart from the touching).

We arrive at his flat.  It’s not that nice – OK but not so good.  The style of furniture looks as if it is rented even though he says it isn’t.  There are no books and a lot can be derived from the books on show.  It is a faceless flat; no character; not a home.

He offers me coffee.  We sit in the kitchen to have the coffee.  He gets up and take the cups away and then makes the pass.  I tell him no, that I am looking for friendship and, maybe, that special someone.

He does back off but I am ready for anything to ensure that nothing happens.

We talk.  I keep making the conversation, asking questions, making observations.  I didn’t think my Italian (although dreadful, especially in the conjugation of verbs and the grammar in general) was this good.  Well, I suppose, needs must.

We move back to the lounge.  We talk some more.  Or, rather, I ask more questions, make more observations.

He offers lunch – what we would call stew – with pollenta.  It’s OK.  I say it’s lovely, of course.  We talk about English, the English, the Italians, politics, hobbies, what he does in his spare time, etc.

He is boring.  I mean to say, his life is boring.  I don’t want to be partying all the time and like to put my feet up at home but…..

Again, I think how spoiled I have been spending 20 years with V.  We wanted the same things, both the stay-at-home bit AND the going out and having fun – although latterly, not clubbing for me.

I’m not looking for a V replacement, I know that much, but I want someone that is equally as fun; that will stretch me as much as I would stretch him. Fred is not this nor even close.  I dread to think I would end up with someone like this.

We have another coffee.  We had wine with the meal but he doesn’t know wine.  Nor do I but I want someone who, at least, tries to impress me, just a bit.  There is no effort being made here.  He just thought I would buy a train ticket and come all this way for sex.  He is much mistaken.  As I pointed out above, for this kind of date he would have to look 10 years younger than me (in his case 20 years younger).

I can see that we’re going to be sitting in the house forever.  I suggest we take a walk, by the canal.  He agrees but it’s soon obvious that he never does this.  I suppose that’s the beauty of having dogs – as you have to walk them you find the nicest places to do so.

The town we are in are having their end-of-summer festival.  It is the usual crap with the usual crap stalls and the usual crap local dancers, singers, etc.  I feign interest because that’s what you do.  He’s lived here all his life and never been!  Enough said.

We walk by the canal but he obviously doesn’t know a good route nor are we actually going anywhere.

We turn back and end up back at his house.  The conversation falters now, me exhausted by the lack of interest or interests that this guy has.

He takes me back to the train station – I will catch a much earlier train.  I am grateful to be going and still disappointed that I’m not seeing the beautiful city that is 10 minutes away by train but, at least, I will be back in Milan at a reasonable time.

I think of Dennis and, suddenly, Dennis seems so much nicer – he’s interesting and, more important, interested in me as a person, as a lover, as a friend and as a would-be partner.  I know he’s not right but he’s a million times better than what I have just experienced.

I arrive home and go online on the new site I’ve found.  This is the other type of site for, in the main, even if the people say otherwise, is for the other type of date.  I only put pictures up on Saturday.  I have decided that, after 20 years, I need the practice.  It’s been busy (people viewing my profile, etc. – I am wanted, apparently) but, through this I’ve ‘met’ Gordon. Gordon is about 10 years younger than I am with a great body and is quite beautiful.  We had arranged that we should ‘meet’ later this week.  We shall see; no rush.

Gordon has sent me messages and we spend the next couple of hours chatting.  He is sweet and is wooing me, not for a long-term relationship even if that is on his profile, but for short term satisfaction.  He knows this and I know this.  There is some flirting and that will, with any luck lead to sex and that is fine because we are working within the rules.

I send an email to Norman, who is sweet and is wooing me for either friendship or long-term.  He is going on holiday for this week.  I like him a lot although he is not so beautiful but, then, for a long-term relationship, that is not crucial – we have already both agreed that, when we meet there will either be the electricity between us (mutual) or we shall just be friends.  Either way we will be happy with that.

I go to sleep and dream of Gordon.

And, as if to prove my ineptitude at all this…….

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No. of times out and about today – 1
No. of times ‘checked out’ by some guy – 1 (apparently, as I didn’t actually see it)

We go to the Monet exhibition in Pallazo Reale in the centre of Milan, near the Duomo.  It is late and we get there about 9.15 p.m.  There is a queue.  The bossy little lady is not happy about the queue.  She keeps muttering to herself and then calling out (to colleagues or just in general) that it’s almost 9.30 and there are more people and what are those idiots doing downstairs letting these people come up.  We don’t really understand.  It is only later that we realise that, although the exhibition is open until 10.30, the ticket office closes at 9.30.

The lighting was good, which is not something I can say about most of the permanent art galleries here.  However, the rooms are too small, there are too many people and so, it takes me about half an hour to get through, so pissed off am I that people continue to stand in front of me when I’m trying to view a painting.

I go out and sit on some plinth base to have some cigarettes and wait for A&F.  I see two gay guys.  One looks my age but is probably late 30s and the other is a kid – no more than 25 – they are together, the kid is quite camp, the older one less so.  I had noticed the older one being the ‘teacher’ and decide I don’t want that for the future either.  Nor do I want the campness or, quite, the youth of the kid.

The evening is warm (the rain has stopped, finally and the sun was out during the day, making the air warmer in consequence).  I sit in shirtsleeves without a jacket on, although I am carrying one for certain.

The Duomo (cathedral) either has some service on or someone is practising on the organ – the music faint but audible if only the people around would shut up.  But there are quiet moments and I stare at the Piazza Duomo thinking how beautiful this city is and how much is missed by the people who live here; staring up at the (now nearly clean) Duomo, the spires, the elaborate decoration, the wedding cake look, all white/light marble; the entrance to the Galleria, the buildings around.

I had told A&F about the date situation.  A is amazed and says things like ‘It’s like choosing from a supermarket’ or ‘It seems very risky’.  I try to explain that it’s more or less the same as going to the clubs/pubs, that, sure there is a risk (he means in terms of finding someone that you can be with, given that you would know nothing about them, really) but that was no different from the time I met V and that it had lasted 20 years, so it was a risk that I was willing to take.

F wonders why I’m not frightened of meeting these guys.  I can’t really explain to her – she is a woman and, as the song might have gone, it’s different for girls (this being based on my memory that the song was, in fact, about it being different for boys).

Anyway, I digress.  There we are, walking back to the car up Via Vittorio Emmanuelle, and A says to me:

‘I saw you exchange glances’.

‘What?’ I question.

‘You and that guy’

‘Which guy?’  ‘Where is he?’

‘Just passed us.  It was only a moment but I saw him look at you’.

There you go.  I explain that, although it may appear that I am looking and ‘get it’, really I don’t.  Of course, he could have looked for a variety of reasons.  But trust A, of all people, to realise when I didn’t.  This is getting to be incredibly frustrating.  Grrr.

Dennis has texted me and it looks like the pizza meet, next week is still on.  We are to speak/text on Monday.  I see Fred on Sunday, just for the day – and, anyway, Venice is truly a beautiful city.  Nicholas now says he wants to meet up sometime next week (in Milan).  Neil, a guy who lives near Varese, also will want to meet up soon, I guess.  And then there are the others which haven’t got that far.  Neil is from the site where they match your personalities.  Apparently he is about 70% perfect for me.  He seems a really nice guy but, from the pictures I’m not sure it can be other than friends but I have to meet him first.

As I write this, I get called by Dennis for no other reason than he’s buying the new Madonna CD.  He calls me ‘honey’. It leaves me with a funny feeling that I wouldn’t exactly describe as ‘good’.

And, last night I went to see V, who is in hospital.  I didn’t get told until yesterday morning even though he was carted off, in an ambulance, from work, the day before.  It wasn’t an easy meeting, what with his new arm tattoo that looks like it was done by a kid in Nursery school.  Still, it allowed me to rant about an old ex-friend of ours who has turned out to be something of a stupid jerk.

And I go and see him again tonight, if no one else is there.  I can’t be there if there are some of his colleagues from work there.

And now I really have to do some real work…..

Restaurants in Milan

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No. of times out and about today – 0 (I don’t count walking the dogs as I’m too busy watching what they’re doing to be looking to see if people are staring)

For a country that prides itself on its culinary expertise, I am sometimes amazed by the crap food that the Italians will put up with.  OK, so not completely crap, but, in my opinion, far less than the best.

Take, for instance, Japanese and Chinese restaurants.  Many of them will do both Japanese and Chinese with, often, a pizza oven thrown in.

It is my opinion that, unless you’re doing fusion food (where, anyway, the idea is to mix flavours from different cuisines), you cannot be good at more than one type and Japanese and Chinese aren’t really similar.

So, most of the time, going to one of these restaurants leaves me disappointed with the end result.  Sure, you can get one or two really good dishes, maybe, but the rest are just mediocre at best.

I mean to say, one wouldn’t go to an Indian restaurant and expect to be provided with, say, pizza – that would just be bizarre, so why do it with Japanese and Chinese?

Anyway, and apologies to A, should he read this, but Taiyo, Via Plinio 72, although above average, wasn’t that good a restaurant.  The one, really good dish was the seared tuna with sesame seeds – the rest was more mediocre.  Its big advantage was that it wasn’t so expensive but then, as I always say, you do get what you pay for with food, generally.

Still, it was a nice evening and I enjoyed the company, which is the most important part.

Anyway, let me not limit this to Chinese/Japanese – it also applies to Italian regional restaurants.  There are a couple of Tuscan restaurants near me, for example, one of which is less than mediocre (A & I went there a week or two back) and another that is OK but, if you compared it to a good restaurant in Tuscany itself, well……..there is really no comparison.  Although a friend who I was with on Sunday morning (taking coffee at a bar before walking the dogs) suggested one called (I think) il Bimbo in Viale Abruzzi as a true and very good Tuscan restaurant with excellent service to boot.  Bet it’s expensive though but I’ll have to try it.

By the way, the weather turned during the night.  It is now cold (I have socks and shoes on – which would have pleased the online guy I mentioned before) and it has been raining on and off all day.  It’s down to the low 20s and I am thinking of putting a jumper on.  On the plus side, the electrician came today and put up my four wall/ceiling lights.  The one in the lounge which is an old Art Deco one looks so beautiful – I wish we had put it up when we were in the UK, we just never got around to it.

…..the post in which I explain how I am becoming paranoid (oh, yes, and some other things)…..

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No. of times out and about today – 1
No. of stares noticed – 1
No. of long/strange stares – 1

So, I’m now ‘on’ several sites.  I’ve actually only paid money for 2 of them so the others have very limited access – i.e. I can look and people can look at me but it’s a little like being in a soundproof glass box, it doesn’t matter if I were to scream, no one could hear me.

On some of them, I have my picture.  There is a very good reason for this.  I don’t look my age and, unfortunately, my age is against me in that, most people seem to be looking for someone who is a couple/five/ten years younger than me – so I need them to ‘see’ that I don’t look my age.

Also, and I can assure you this may seem very shallow but it isn’t, people pick people on looks.  It’s a good job we all like different sorts of people but absolutely, one of our major deciding factors in who we will consider, is their look.

So, I am looking for someone like me, more or less.  Not too fat, not too much muscle, not too camp.

Now, on the one site which is, mainly, for people looking for other than sex (well, I think that’s true) and one of the ones I have actually paid for, I’ve made an observation which I will share.

The Spanish, in spite of they’re being a Catholic country, have the most profiles that include pictures.  I reckon about 90% have pictures.  The French would be next at, probably, about 70-80%.  The British next with about 50-60% and, finally, the Italians.  The Italians boast about 30% of profiles with pictures.  My profile has a picture, of course.

Some of my friends have a theory about why this is – according to them it is because so many of them are married men who haven’t quite come to terms with being gay.  Admittedly, many here, in Italy, say they are bi rather than gay, which is, to me, a little disconcerting.

I have now added to my profile that I won’t contact people who don’t have photos.

But there has been a side effect of this.  I have become paranoid.

t seems (although I do realise it is probably all in my head) that men have been staring at me much more than before.  And I mean to say really staring.

So, the other night, at a restaurant, a guy coming out from the toilets, smiled (maybe at me) or (it being all in my head) at someone at the table he was sitting at (which was behind me).  He looked familiar, sort of.  Me, being me, just couldn’t smile back, which I must improve upon.

Then, this morning, at the supermarket, this guy couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off me.  Not that he was looking at me in a particularly pleasant way but he did make a point, at one stage, of looking over the top of his sunglasses to get a better look at me.  There have been many more occasions than just these two but I can’t remember the details.

Now, for those of you not in Italy, this would be almost a certainty – especially if you live in the UK.  However, here, as I have blogged before, staring is a thing that Italians do.  They will not look away, as they would in the UK, in embarrassment, the moment you look at them but will hold the stare and will even be quite open about looking you up and down, checking what you’re wearing, etc.

However, it seems, to me, that this is happening on a daily basis now.  And, as I can’t see pictures on most profiles, I have no idea whether that’s because a) they’ve seen me on one of the sites, b) because I look strange and foreign, c) because they just fancy me or d) because they’re just Italian.

In any event, I now keep thinking it must be a or b (and I mention b because now that V isn’t here to tell me I look OK I don’t know that I do – perhaps I am dressed strangely or have my flies open or my hair looks weird or I am odd in some other way).  Either way, it is starting to get to me and make me feel nervous and less sure of myself (sometimes) and this is not good.

Yesterday, I went to Mantova for the Festivaletteratura (Book/Writers Festival).  The basic story goes like this:

  1. Every year for the past 6 years or so, V & I have been guests of the Festival – free accommodation; free entry to events; mostly free food, etc.
  2. This year V & I said we would go.
  3. Unfortunately, they could not provide free accommodation.
  4. Because I would have had to put the dogs in kennels (which is expensive) and pay for a hotel room and because V has just moved house, we said we wouldn’t go but would come for the day on Friday.
  5. M asked if we could do last minute and I said ‘yes’ (V confirmed with me later that this was true for him too).
  6. Wednesday/Thursday I get email from M to say they have room for Friday and Saturday night.
  7. V said he couldn’t come (no surprise really – he seems to be totally unreliable now and I’m still waiting for the sofa swap!)
  8. I couldn’t find anyone to look after the dogs.
  9. I go yesterday for the day only.

Although, I really did have a nice day.  Got back about midnight.

Saw FfI and Friend with Shop in Isola (FwSiI) the other night for a pizza.  It was lovely, except FwSiI is not doing really great right now (problems with marriage, shop not doing so well in these crisis days).  So she was a bit down and now thinking of packing everything in and moving back to London (which would be a great shame as I, for one, would miss her).

Picked Rufus up from his vacation a few nights ago.  Need to cut his fringe as he’s now bumping into things left, right and centre (that was when we went for meal and cute guy smiled at me (maybe)).  However, as Dino and Rufus had been apart for more than a week, after a couple of hours back home I was ready to send Rufus back or kill them both.  Obviously we had to go through the bit where they had to re-establish who was top dog.  Much bothering by Dino and much growling by Rufus.  Much ignoring of me when I shouted at them.  However, all is now back to normal, even if Rufus is not so good right now.

Agreed with S the computer set-up that I need and his suggestion for my new mobile phone (cell).  Need to go and sort that and was going to do it this afternoon but now I have to Skype someone at 4 so it may be Monday now, damn!

That’s all really.

What I will do though, going back to my new paranoia, is document how many times I get stared at by strange men.  Of course, I’ll tell you when/if one of those turns out to be the real deal…..

Meat Markets

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Meat_Markets

I was never really a fan of gay bars, discos or clubs.  When I was younger I was (now that I look back) quite a ‘pretty’ boy.  Unfortunately, I never fully appreciated the significance of this, struggling as I was to a) fully come to terms with who I was and b) being fairly crap at meeting people and forming some sort of lasting relationship (I have been very, very fortunate in my life, I do know this).

The problem with the ‘gay scene’ is that it is, more or less, like a meat market.  The young(er) guys waltz around showing off their wares’ whilst the older guys stand to the side and eye them up.  Then, if they are really attracted, they may make a move – but, let’s be honest, it’s nearly always purely for the sex; the good looking guys, generally, airheads (as it is in the straight world, I guess) and the more intelligent guys looking, well, more geeky and, certainly less attractive.

Since I had a little intelligence, I always thought of myself as one of the geeky ones.

I know, I know, this is all generalisation.  Not everyone is like that.  But it did ‘put me off’ the scene quite a lot and, apart from a few years at the start with M and then at the end of M and I, I didn’t really do the scene.

And, now that I am exactly one of the older guys, I certainly do not want to be doing it again.

And so, given that there must be other guys my age who think the same (although that may not be true, of course), I thought I might try the on line stuff.

So far, I’ve signed up to two sites.  I have a small problem here.  I don’t actually have any ‘gay’ friends (here, anyway) and, therefore, don’t know the etiquette involved.

On one of the sites, there are opportunities to ‘wink’ at one another.  Now, for me, this means that you think the other guy is attractive (in a variety of senses since my photo hasn’t been ‘approved’ yet so no one can ‘see’ me – only what I like, am like, etc.).

But does this, on the gay on line dating scene, mean something else?  If so, why the hell is someone from New York winking at me?  What possible purpose could it serve?  Should I wink back or not?  I mean to say, I am not going to be travelling there to see if we ‘get on’, stuff that for a lark!  So what was the point?  I am certainly NOT looking for pen friends (I have enough problems keeping in touch with people that I know well, as some of you may know – what with me being a typical English bloke and all).  So I don’t really get it at all.

As a result of the ‘winking’ thing, I’m now a little concerned that, given the sexual promiscuity on the scene in general, that, should I meet someone, they will expect sex that moment, which is certainly not what I want (hell, for that I can just go down the road)

So, do I make that plain from the start?  If we get on and I am sexually attracted to them then maybe but not immediately I clap eyes on them!

My worry is that this is just another facet of the same scene – another meat market.  One of the sites I purposely did not go on is, more or less, used for one-night stands (so to speak), apart from other reasons which I won’t go into here.

So, here I am, already invited down to the southern(ish) part of Italy; being winked at every five seconds; emailed; looked at; scrutinized – I’m not at all sure that I like this much.  However, there’s a life to get on with so it has to be.  At least, on these sites, I can be certain that they are men looking for men, which is a huge step forward, I suppose.

And, who knows, maybe I’ll meet some really nice people (they can’t all be camp, screaming, psychotic, axe-murdering, weirdos, can they?) and make some friends?  And, maybe it’ll be fun finding out.

I have to be honest and say that my limited experience indicates that the French and Spanish seem more into this on line thing and, looking at the photos, maybe I should be moving to one of those countries for they are hot’ – see there’s my gay superficiality coming out again.  Damn.

Spit Roasting and Irrationality

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The spit roasts are everywhere, turning, slowly, occasionally to ensure even cooking – but the smell is all wrong.  The sight of so much flesh being burnt makes me take my glasses off so that I can’t see all this so well.  It’s ugly and I fail to understand it all.

The day was full of irrationality – irrational fears, irrational thoughts but not, thank God, irrational actions.  It was a promise made some time ago and that was a long time ago in terms of the feelings. Oh, true, I didn’t want to say ‘yes’ but did as I thought when the day came, it wouldn’t really happen but the day came and a promise is a promise.

Irrational fear 1.  I had got the name of a place from N.  I looked it up. I have no printer so could not print the directions but it looked straight forward enough.  In the UK I would have had no problems.  The signs would be easy to follow, the road numbers always marked, the names of the places logical and in order.  Here, that is not so.  And so I must memorise the way and what I very much hope are the correct things to look for.

I always thought that, as I got older, these things would go away.  It seems not.

So, I am nervous which, in itself, is so stupid but I force myself to do these things in the hope that, at some point, the irrational fear will go away.

As soon as we set off, I wish I were at home, in safety.

Irrational thoughts.  I eagerly await communication and get none.  Even making excuses for it to a dear friend, even when I know the excuse isn’t valid.  Don’t get me wrong here – I know there will be no communication but there’s always hope and, in my irrationality, I also know that if there was communication, it would change everything.  Well, maybe.  So I wait, with and without patience, it doesn’t matter which.

I am not looking forward to reaching our destination because at the destination there is Irrational fear 2.  It waits for me like a huge monster with gaping jaws, ready to swallow me.

I always thought that, as I got older, these things would go away.  It seems not.

I toy with the idea of getting lost, on purpose so that the destination would never be reached.  But that’s stupid too as anywhere in the vicinity of the destination would be good enough, so I might as well get there and get this bloody day over with – it has to be done, after all, a promise is a promise.

The journey is taking longer than I thought.  We set off too late but in my fears, I wasn’t as fast as I should be.

I nearly miss a sign and wonder at how, in all the time I have been here, I rarely miss a sign even if it is small and insignificant and, in this case, above normal ‘seeing’ height.

We arrive at the destination.  We got straight there with no mistakes, of course.  I wonder if it would be plausible to say we should leave immediately to go home, thereby alleviating Irrational fear 2 completely.  We go for lunch.  I can’t eat.  I mean, I eat but I’m just not so hungry, playing with my food, eating slowly.  I think the beer may help, although 3 or 4 would be better.

Irrational fear 2.  Lunch is over.  I have coffee, just to make it last longer.  But I know this is not going away

Irrational thoughts.  Every song that plays seems to have a personal message for me; every book or word I read seems to be saying something.  I know it’s not true – I’m just looking for stuff.  But, even if I tell myself that, it doesn’t make it better; even if other people tell me that, I can’t quite believe it isn’t true.

The heat is intense although, with a breeze, not like Milan.  I say that we should have been here yesterday when Milan was 40° and decidedly stuffy.

Irrational fear 2.  N had told me there were some free areas but these were a long way out and, anyway, it would be worth paying for it.  We pass a free place immediately.  We go to the next ‘not-free’ place.  The nice lady explains it will be €15 each plus extra for the things we want.  She then adds that, in any event, there is no place.

“I wouldn’t have paid that price anyway”, I was told.  That’s the English for you – but then, I am English and of the same opinion.  Plus, since I don’t really see the point of this at all, the whole thing doesn’t make sense to me.  To be honest, nothing makes sense to me these days.

We go back to the free place.  The spit roasting is marching on apace.

Everything glistens in the sun.  I don’t glisten.  I sweat.  I inherited this from my maternal Grandfather.  It all pools down into my belly button – an insect could have a swim.  I must look, within moments, like I have just come out of the shower, my hair wet, sweat running down my back, my neck, my forehead – getting in my eyes and making me curse.

Stones stick into my back, my arms, my legs.  I look around (with glasses) and wonder why these people do this.  The sight of bare flesh not an attractive sight – people always (well, normally) look better clothed.  Even me, now, with my flesh that has gone a little bit wrinkly and saggy.  But, at least I’m not as bad as some.  I take my glasses off anyway and everyone looks decidedly better

Irrational thoughts.  I lie back and close my eyes to the glare, feeling so uncomfortable because of the sweat, the stones, the heat.  I wonder if he has the same thoughts as me and, knowing that he doesn’t, hope for it anyway, playing out all the scenarios in my head (except, as I told someone the other day, the one where the answer is ‘no’ since that is over in two minutes and has only a future that I would settle for (and be happy to settle for) but is not the one I desire).

After some time I slip off my shorts.  After some more time I go into the water.  It is dirty and horrible but cooling, even though I know that within minutes of being out I will be the same as before.

After some time, we dress and go back to the same café for a drink.  We only have the ride home now.  I am tired, not having slept well with the Irrational everythings.

We arrive back, sleep for a bit, then go for a beer at the Belgian café, then a Chinese at my favourite place.  I am happy now since the day is over and can joke about going there again tomorrow, knowing that we won’t.

Irrational thoughts continue though.  The waiting continues.

The other day, someone said that, previously, I had been completely irrational at times.  It made me smile since, I am sure, I was completely irrational all the time – but it was a kind thing to say that all the same.

I always thought that, as I got older, these things would go away.  It seems not.

Incurably romantic

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Incurably_romantic

Best Mate and I are friends for unknown reasons.  This is what we decided when we were chatting.  We have nothing in common, really, except, perhaps, some slightly strange sense of humour.

We also decided I was an incurable romantic whereas she is, most certainly, not.  And I am incurable because, quite simply, I do not want to be cured!

We would do opposite things when it comes to men and what to do with them; how to react to their actions (or non-actions); what to expect from them.

Of course, these differences are based on our experiences which are not even remotely similar.  She was led down a long, windy, garden path a few years ago by some asshole; I have only been down that path by making it up in my head and not through the antics of some bloke.

So, still, I expect a bloke to be, more or less, honourable, true and reliable which is, for most of the time, what I get.  I expect a bloke to fall in love with me easily and quickly and forsake all others.

Of course, with the exception of V, I have had close relationships with these men before we actually got to the ‘being together’ bit and V has, somewhat, spoilt my expectations, which I fully appreciate.

However, when it comes down to it, Best Mate doesn’t want to go through all the shit of having a bloke and I do (I mean, I’d rather not, but needs must, as they say).

And so, I have decided to do something about it.  After all (and certainly in this country, as I can never spot them in spite of what Ico might say – unless they’re the type I don’t like), they ain’t gonna be picking me out as I walk down the street and instantly falling in love with me, so I guess I have to do something to show I am available.  Given that I really can’t be one of those blokes over 25, standing on the edge of the dance floor, looking only at those who are under 25 and wishing (and, anyway, I don’t want someone who is so young, even if they were interested in me) or in some pub on my own, it will have to be some other way.

I’ll let you know how it works out (if anything does work out) but I have, at least, started one thing so we’ll see.  I can’t just sit around in the flat, however nice it is, as they certainly won’t be finding me here!

The Tiber; Via Appia; Roman eating

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The_Tiber_Via_Appia_Roman_eating

On the banks of the Tiber, as a temporary thing (but every summer), they have bars.  There was a ‘literary’ bar, where, apparently authors come to read some work and take questions from the audience – except that it is a bar and in the open air but, apparently, no talking between patrons is allowed.

We selected a bar that did not have the piped music, the music from the other bars being at the right level for background music.

We ordered our drinks, mine an Americano, as always.  The weir nearby was loud enough so that we had to speak clearly but it was not strained, the noise of the water being a pleasant accompaniment to the conversation and the sound giving one the feeling of ‘cool’ even if it was not.  This was warmer than Milan but not quite as stuffy as Milan can get – maybe the water, maybe the breeze that was more in evidence here.

The waitress appeared with the drinks and we paid.

As she came back with the change, they decided to put on their music and the music emitted from a speaker which, unfortunately, was just behind us and which we had missed.  It meant that conversation was closer to the sort that one has in a disco or club.  Still, it was a very nice place, this island in the Tiber.

After, FfR had booked a restaurant on the edge of the Jewish Quarter in Rome (I didn’t even know they had one, although, thinking about it, of course, they would have it).

The restaurant was Hostaria Giggetto Al Portico D’Ottavia.  The meal was really lovely (the company unbeatable, of course), the main thing that was a specialty, was the deep-fried globe artichoke as an antipasto.  Absolutely delicious.  I also had pasta with cheese and something else that I forget now and a kind of lamb stew.  It had been a toss up between that and the oxtail, which I haven’t had for years.

The whole thing was delicious and not over-expensive at all (€35 per head including wine, coffee, etc.).

The following night with FfR’s sister and brother-in-law, we had some super pizzas at Baffetto2, near the Campo de’ Fiori during which time I found I had so much more in common with FfR’s sister than I could have imagined – apart from the amount we both smoke, that is!

I passed both the Vatican and the Forum as we were driving but that was about as touristy as it got, and for which I was really pleased as I’ve done the tourist thing there every time and it was really nice to not be doing that this time.

Although, we did do a four-hour stint along the Via Appia, lined as it is with the tombs, in nearly 40°C heat and not nearly as much shade as FfR thought, nor the breeze that she had pictured.  We stopped at this café where they were kind enough to come out with bowls for the dogs and a jug of iced water.  It’s one thing I’ve noticed about Italy – stop at any café with dogs when its warm and they invariably offer water for them.

Hopefully I will be able to get back there soon as Rome took on a completely different and very pleasant flavour.

An interesting revelation

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An_interesting_revelation

[Written 16th August, in Rome – no Internet access]

I guess, after non-stop talking (on my part) for the last two days, that, being gay (and all that that means) has had an enormous and incalculable effect on my life and its course.

For some strange reason, this has only become clear to me now and I remain somewhat shocked by this revelation.

If someone had asked me, even a few hours ago, if being gay had been really important, I would have replied in the negative in that, yes, obviously it was important as to who I chose as my partner but that, in reality, no, since my life includes so much more that the gay ‘thing’.

However, that ‘reality’ I saw was very flawed and the real reality is that, almost without exception, decisions in my life have been made, in some part, solely because I am gay and my attempt to reconcile that to the world I inhabit – which is not the ‘gay world’. I have always seen things, biased towards being both gay and wanting to fit in (or not fit in).

And I am not a strong person, needing ‘someone’ probably much more than they have ever needed me. Now, without anyone, without someone to love and focus on, I am finding it difficult to fit into this world and past decisions (though they remain, I am convinced, the right decisions), may seem foolish now, in light of the real reasons that they were made. All in retrospect, of course.

I remain, as one would expect of any man, emotionally immature and helpless.

I may berate Italian men for their lack of commitment (which I, on finding that ‘someone’, definitely do not suffer from) but at least they are, in some way, honest about it.

Friend from Rome (FfR) has been so kind – listening to my crap and being interested and I have no way to thank her.

And this has been such a lovely few days – Roman without the touristy bits. I am truly blessed by having some great friends.