I remember, 10 or 15 years ago, travelling, for me, was still exciting and pleasurable. There was the thrill of the flight as I really love flying; the fun of having an expense account and being able to eat and drink, more or less, as I wanted; the prestige of being one of those ‘business travellers’ that you see or hear about.
Apparently, recently, I am the subject of nightmares. Worse, the nightmares seem to reflect real life pretty well.
This weekend was spent, mostly, working. My other job that is. To be honest the whole thing should have taken about 2 hours. It took most of Saturday because my websites’ hosters had to do things – but, obviously, only after I’d tried to fix it myself!
And still I can’t make it do what the customer really wants but on this one, other than a fiddly work-around, which really isn’t practical, it looks like there is no way to do it. Damn.
And then there were the accounts to do as Year End has just finished. I found that, in spite of thinking I had been keeping it pretty much up-to-date, I hadn’t. So it took me a little while. Damn again.
It was last weekend when I went. It has the word ‘town’ in its name so, I thought, it must actually be a town. Seems reasonable to me. Being an ‘outlet’ town, I was expecting something similar to Bicester Village, Vicolungo or Serravalle.
I don’t really like them, as you may remember but this was one of the first in this area and is in Switzerland and, travelling by road, to and from the UK, I have passed it many times.
In fact, it’s only just past Como, so immediately, one thinks of beauty with the backdrop of the Alps.
And, as it was so famous, I did want to see it. It’s less than an hour from Milan and easy to get to (Motorway all the way unless you don’t want to pay the annual motorway fee in Switzerland.
Apart from the fact that it rained all day; we weren’t high enough to see snow-capped mountains; and the place itself – it was wonderful.
So, why didn’t I like it? Well, it’s not a town. It’s called Fox Town but, really, it’s a shopping centre (or mall, to you Americans). And a very ugly one at that. Everything seems Italian (the language, the people) except the currency which is Swiss Francs. The prices are not so cheap for the fact that it’s stuff that’s already out of fashion – certainly no cheaper than Vicolungo or Serravalle, although on the plus side, the guy assistant in Iceberg was rather cute.
Overall, much more of a disappointment than I thought would be possible. And then, back in Milan and my umbrella was ‘borrowed’.
To be honest, if it’s a nice day, I would prefer one of the other outlet centres, should you be visiting here and insist on doing outlet shopping.
There have been some great, well-respected leaders in the world. Clinton, whatever the Americans thought of him and, in spite of his infamous non-sex episode, was well respected. Bush, unfortunately, was seen as a bit of an ass. I can’t speak for British leaders as I am British and, therefore, have a biased view, although, from what I can tell and from conversations I have had here, Margaret Thatcher was also well-respected (in spite of the damage she did to the country).
When we are in meetings, it is quite common for the meeting to be interrupted by a phone call to someone, whether it be personal or work, people here answer it as if, whatever they are doing, is completely unimportant and the phone call is a matter of life and death.
If you visit someone at their desk and a call comes to their desk phone, even in the middle of their conversation with you, the phone call will take precedence.
At first, it was frustrating but now, I guess I am used to it. It is, therefore, no surprise to pick this up from the BBC site.
And, whereas it is no surprise, I cannot believe that an Italian, at the highest level can be so bloody rude. It doesn’t matter what the call was about. It would have been easy, as the car stopped, to say he would call back in five minutes and, once inside, out of the glare of the cameras, he could have continued the conversation. The only good reason for continuing it and keeping Merkel waiting was if his wife was about to give birth or someone was dying.
And for me, if a British leader did that I would be embarrassed for Britons and my country as a whole.
And the whole incident comes almost straight after acting like a hooligan at a football match, shouting Obama’s name at a reception held by the Queen.
Hmm. I thank goodness I am not Italian for I would certainly, after the phone call thing, be hanging my head in shame. I don’t care who you are, you don’t keep a head of state waiting and, certainly, head of state or not, a lady.
We get invited to some charity auction thing at Tommy Hilfiger’s. The shop is quite close to our house and we shall be meeting friends, so it will be nice.
We are late, of course. V has decided to wear his kilt. I no longer care if he wears a kilt with me around as I am no longer responsible and he can look as ridiculous as he wants. It’s impossible to tell him that he does not look good, especially when the Italian women just want to feel him up! But, I’m sorry, he just looks like a prat. His legs look shorter and stubby. It’s not a good look.
We arrive and wait for our friend with a second home on the lake (FfC). She arrives by taxi and we go in. Unfortunately, the apero part has, to all intents and purpose, finished and they are on to the charity auction. The room is filled with Italians who are there to be seen and would-be models walking around expecting something (probably attention). They spend most of their time looking around the room to see who is there that might be important. V tells me that ‘there is the guy from MTV’. This is lost on me since I rarely watch MTV and care less about someone who presents on MTV.
Luckily, there are waiters who are serving drinks. The trick is to grab a drink as they go past or, since these are free and this is Italy, beating your way through the throng to grab a glass.
The same for the bite-sized food that they are serving although by the time we are in they are on to deserts. One I had was two raspberries sandwiched with the tiniest amount of whipped cream. You get the idea.
FfC goes somewhere. V and I are alone for a moment. V says, excitedly, ‘There’s Helena Christensen’. I know the name. I knew she was going to be there.
‘Where?’ I ask.
She is standing with her back to us about 6 inches away. V is exasperated that I fail to recognise someone I am not interested in. However, she is dressed in an off-white (magnolia) dress that does look rather nice. She is not as tall as I would have thought. She’s older than I thought. I’m not really sure what I was expecting.
FfC arrives back and V excitedly tells her, having failed to make any real impression on me. FfC is suitably awed.
‘I want to have my photograph taken with her’, V exclaims!
She is standing next to a shortish guy who is, probably, someone very important. Maybe Tommy Hilfiger or someone? I don’t know. They are talking and I’m thinking that V, acting like a little super fan, is just going to be a pain in the arse for her.
‘I don’t have a phone that takes photos, can you use yours?’ he asks me.
So, he asks Helena for a photo and, graciously, she says yes. I am holding drinks so FfC tries to take the photo but cannot seem to do it so I handed her the glasses and I took it. I’m afraid it is not a good photo – we were outside, the lighting was not good and it’s only a phone camera – but it will have to do.
V and some woman, who is famous or something.
[Update: After downloading it, it really is a dreadful photo but the only one I have, so there!]
After that, of course, the floodgates opened and everyone wanted their photo taken with her.
Anyway, she seemed really sweet and waved to us after several more photos had been taken and she was escaping with the little man! Oh, yes, and she also thanked us for coming. Hey, Helena, it was free booze and, had we got there earlier, free food as well! And, of course, we met you! What more could one ask?
After we went for an Indian with FfC and, once again, V explained about the ‘retreat’ weekend and more of that later in another post, probably.
I am too early to see my FfI. We agree that I should go to the café opposite which is really a cross between a café and a restaurant/trattoria. It is a vegetarian place and you don’t get so many of them in Italy.
OK, so, to be honest, even we, in the UK, will say something like – “Can I borrow some sugar?” or “Could I borrow some paper to write on, please?” – when we really will not be borrowing it at all but taking it, using it and, probably, not replacing it.
However, here, there is an element of “borrowing” that one could say was stealing.
The alarm goes off. The door to the bedroom has been left open. I get up, dress and go to greet the dogs. There is no need to be quiet although I like the sound of the silence that surrounds us, even if the dogs are making noise with their excitement, knowing the walk is due.
Well, I know why. But isn’t it just bloody annoying? In theory, I should be, more or less, on Cloud 9. Bugger!
I have signed for the flat. It was all a little strange in the usual Italian way in that things said did not quite tie up with actual fact and vice versa. But, hey, siamo in Italia and that is life here.
She gave me back the money, in an envelope. I didn’t open the envelope. After one minute I returned the envelope to her. She didn’t open it either. It could have been stuffed with worthless bits of paper, who knows? Sometimes, I think, this is a seriously screwed-up country! Definitely, in the UK, that (the game of passing the envelope) would not have happened. But, then, it’s less likely we would have been passing an envelope around with cash in it (unless you lived in the underworld of crime, drugs, etc.).
Now, there are a million and one things to do, for which I still need help. I wish I could do it on my own! It’s the problem of being in a foreign country and not knowing enough of the language. Damn!
p.s. One of my very favourite songs was in the video originally posted on this page but, unfortunately, it no longer works and, as I didn’t write here what it was, I don’t remember!