Tag Archives: Italians

Milk/cream/mascarpone – all based on, erm ……. MILK!

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“It tastes a bit like custard”, I say.

There are some important words there.  ‘Bit’.  ‘Like’.  They mean it’s not exactly the same but it reminds me of custard.  After all, custard is made with beaten egg yolks, caster sugar mixed with milk and a touch of vanilla.

Unlike the cream used in tiramisù.  Instead, this is made with beaten egg yolks (check), caster sugar (check), mixed with mascarpone (a light cream/yoghurt-like cheese made from, erm …… milk) (sort of check) and the beaten egg whites.

OK so one is missing vanilla and is not cooked and the other is missing egg whites.  Overall, almost the same ingredients.  It not only tastes a ‘bit like’ custard but is, in fact, a ‘bit like’ custard!

However, the look on the face says everything.  Apparently, even if it wasn’t said, the cream for tiramisù IS NOT, IN ANY WAY, ‘like’ custard, even if, of course, it is, actually, quite a lot like custard.

Hmmmmph!  Bloody Italians and their ‘our food only tastes like our food and has no similarities’!

Eating babies

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“I can eat the baby”.

Their equivalent of “I could eat a horse”.

Except, of course, here, they do eat horse, so I suppose it’s not quite the same.

S was hungry so went to lunch a little earlier than usual.  It was her explanation why she went early. Still there are strange things here :-D

This isn’t right, I know, but what can I do?

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He cut the eyebrows by using a comb to pull them out and then slicing them off. Oh, so that’s how it’s done, I thought. I was so close to my grandfather and his face was in profile to me. There was something about carrying bags – to the car – which had a suitcase or bag in it. I thought, briefly about taking the bags back to the ‘place’ and then going to get the bag from the car afterwards and then, as I was already halfway back to the car, decided to carry on.

V was there – somewhere. Next I knew I was in the car; he was driving; we were going down Broad Street, in Hereford, the magnificent Cathedral ahead. It was dark but not black – like it was early evening. An old couple were crossing the road, some lady with a stick or one of those walking frames, crossing slowly. V didn’t slow down. I almost curled up as we passed her at some ridiculous speed. “Oh, don’t be so stupid”, V said – or something like that.

I woke up. The dream left me with some uneasy feeling which I couldn’t (and still can’t) put my finger on. The first city wasn’t Hereford but somewhere else I know or knew or, maybe, a mix of places. It had steep streets. I realised I had slept really deeply. I checked my phone which had been lying on the bed next to me. I had missed a call – I mean, the phone had rung about half an hour before and I had not woken up. It was a deep, deep sleep.

I must have needed that, I thought. I’ll just have another 5 minutes, I thought, setting my alarm for half an hour later. But I couldn’t get back to sleep because of the dream and so got up anyway, had a cup of tea and got ready to go to A’s place.

I had only gone to lie down for 5 minutes in the first place, almost 2 hours ago.

It had been quite a busy day. It had been quite a successful day, all in all. But that was only stage 1. Stage 2 is today, with me sitting here, writing this, instead of getting on with the things I should do, procrastinating about doing some things because there are other things to be done which are less unpleasant but, still, I write this instead of doing anything. I don’t know why I do that. I wish I didn’t. Yesterday was an example.

It’s so hard to explain. There’s a fear that I have. It’s a fear of people or something. It’s a fear of situations. Situations that might be a little bit difficult; people that I don’t understand. And, yet, when I actually do the things, it usually is OK and, although I know that, it doesn’t stop me feeling this fear. It’s stupid. I tell myself it’s stupid and I know that it’s stupid but it doesn’t stop me.

Even yesterday.

I had intended to get up by 8 and walk the dogs and start doing the things I needed to do.

I got up at 8.30 and decided to have coffee before I took the dogs out. I had two coffees, doing not much except surfing the net and playing games and reading the news. I had set reminders on my phone. I reset the reminders as they came up. Just another half an hour, I thought – the real reason being that I didn’t want to go out. I’m sure that, without the dogs, who MUST be walked, I would spend most of my time like a hermit. It’s like addictive things (smoking) – I know what I’m like.

I’m sure I’m only a step away from becoming crazy.

Eventually, I set my ‘final’ deadline to leave. I must go. I have no choice but there are things that worry me about the whole day. There are four things to do for today. A chatted to me on Facebook, yesterday, meaning that there’s a fifth – but I may lie to him about that and say it wasn’t on the way. I reset my deadline. I reset it again. But, I must be at the first place before 12.30. And so, at one point I do make the effort.

It’s a bit of a drive. I know the way except, at one point, I realise that I have taken the wrong road. Damn! But my sense of direction is good and so I end up on the right road in the end. I drive to the place and park the car. I had toyed with the idea that I wouldn’t question anything – having to do it in Italian (or, rather, Italian and a mix of hand signals and miming). It would be easier to say nothing. I berate myself for thinking this. We shall see.

There’s no one in reception. I walk round to where it says ‘Office’. There’s a couple of guys there. One asks me what I want – or rather – ‘Tell me’ or ‘Speak to me’ – “Dimi”. I explain, in my really crap Italian, that I’ve brought the car in for a check and to pick up the car ownership documents. We go to the office. He tries to find someone from reception. He suggests they are having coffee and, this being Italy, I resign myself to the fact that the coffee break, being so important, I shall not see anyone for another 10 minutes. It’s OK, siamo in Italia.

The lady comes. I, kind of, explain what I want. Another guy takes my keys. I go through the explaining of the two problems. It’s a mix of Italian, English, miming and gesticulating. However, he seems to understand. The lady searches to find my documents, which she does. I ask her about the MoT Test (revisione, here). In the UK this is done when a car is three years old and then every year. She explains that, here, it is after four years and then every two years. I am quite pleased with that. It won’t be due until the end of next year.

The guy explains that the braking ‘problem’ is normal. He explains that the ‘pinking’ problem is because of some cheap fuel that contains water. I don’t believe him but say nothing. He suggests using different garages. We shall see. I never believe mechanics. But I can’t argue because I don’t really understand. It’s a bit like doctors. Still, I am quite pleased with myself. I asked about everything and got an answer on everything and I understood, which is always an achievement.

My next stop is equally ‘harrowing’. But it has to be done. And I have checked and double-checked what I am going for. I also checked the way since, to go directly from the garage would incur some stupid couple of euros in tolls and for the sake of a few kilometers, I have found an alternative route.

The alternative route takes me past the ‘fifth’ place. I decide that I will stop, after all. Looking costs nothing. I walk towards the back of the ‘store’. I know where they will be, more or less. I see ones that are done in the old style but are actually reproductions. €1000 or more – and that’s with the discount. No way! Anyway, they don’t look that good. I walk on to the second-hand stuff. There’s nothing like the one I found and that, after procrastinating for so long, missed it – it being scrapped as it had been there too long. But, wait! There is one that doesn’t look so bad. Nice size but covered with other stuff. I look underneath and can’t work out how it works although it is obviously extendible. I look at the price. I can’t work out the discount price. It looks like €200. It has four chairs around it. The chairs are not necessarily with the table but they do go with it, sort of. I wish I had someone else with me. I don’t like doing this stuff on my own.

Still, I remember the last time I was here and missing out on one which was, probably, Art Noveau and, so, I decide to bite the bullet.

I go the the front cash desk and ask the lady for help. My Italian is crap but, somehow, I manage. I amaze myself sometimes. She finds a guy for me and we walk to the table. He struggles with it but suggests that it is €200 as I suspected. I ask if I could see how the table was extended as it’s not possible to see without taking all the stuff off.

He gets someone to take the stuff off and pull it out so as to extend it. It is badly scratched in the centre – but nothing that can’t be fixed or, rather, nothing that can’t be fixed eventually. It’s a solid table. I’m not sure what period. Maybe fifties or, even, sixties but it’s solid and a good table. Not quite what I wanted but better than this bloody horrible IKEA desk that I’m sitting at now and making the lounge look so terrible (in my eyes). I think about waiting until F gets back from London and getting him to come with me and look but decide that, in doing that, I am just procrastinating and, who knows, maybe it will be gone in a week – just like the other one.

I ask about the chairs since I can’t find a price on them. The guy finds the price. They are €80. They are good, solid chairs. The seats are soft. The colour of their wood is almost that of the table. If I don’t get these then I would have to get some less comfortable ones that are new and cost €35 each. I phone A to ask if he can help me. I need a van to get them all to my place. I will have to hire one – but it will be cheaper than paying €200 for delivery by the people here (which is a crazy price and would mean taking a day off work, etc.). I explain about the €200 and the fact that it will be cheaper to hire a van for a day and do it that way. He agrees and says we can look later, when I go round for dinner. He asks if I want him to negotiate a discount. I say that I’m OK and I can do it myself (to be honest I hadn’t even thought about it). We discuss about doing it tomorrow and I ask them if they are open – which they are. We finish the conversation. I ask the guy for a discount. He says he has to go and find someone else. The first guy comes back and I suggest a price of €250 all in – making a point of the scratches on the top. He thinks about it and then goes away. He comes back and the deal is done.

So I pay the deposit and, feeling even more pleased with myself, get in the car for the next place which was, in fact, place 2. As I said before, I had selected the route to avoid the toll on the motorway. I picture the ‘map’ in my head. I go to the place. I hate this place with passion. It is full of cheap crap – but it’s cheap crap that does the job even if most of it won’t last like my new ‘old’ table. It is full of people that, I am sure, spend their whole weekend just walking around it, they are so slow and seemingly admiring the ‘set rooms’ that are there to show you how wonderful your home could be – if only you bought all your furniture from them. But they do cupboards and I want cupboards for the bathroom. I want to move towels out of the bedroom and I want my huge pack of toilet rolls to be not on show and not on the floor. Perhaps F is rubbing off on me?

I walk round the store, since I need to find the cupboards I want and note the code number and place to find them in the warehouse section. I also need to check which doors I want.

There is one saving grace about this place (other than it’s cheapness for cupboards) and that is the meatballs. Swedish meatballs with gravy and redcurrant sauce and chips. But, I am on my own and it’s another thing to fear (the mass of people, the sitting on one’s own, the having no one to talk to, the mass of people (yes, I know I mentioned it twice but I really do dislike being around all these people – these kind of people)). I find the cupboards and the doors and make notes with the conveniently supplied pencil on the conveniently supplied checklist. It’s all very convenient – except for the mass of people who, quite obviously, are here to wander and, generally, get in my way. Of course, I am much later here than I had originally intended to be – but only through my own fault.

I go, as fast as I can, dodging the fat people who, walking as fast as snails and three abreast or more, block the pathways. I am irritated but not so much as usual because I have, after all, already accomplished a lot (in my head, anyway). I reach the end of the ‘showroom’ and I see the restaurant. It is mid-day. I decide that I will treat myself to the meatballs. The queue is long. There are so many children. The man in front of me, when we reach the place to pick up the trays, is on the telephone. Obviously he has ‘gone ahead’ to get the stuff whilst his family or friends (or both) trail behind. Now he is here, having to make selections and the others are not. He is reading out what is available. The person on the other end is obviously passing it to the other people and then relaying it back to him. I find this annoying since it means he is taking too long to decide. But I cannot be angry – I am too fearful. I concentrate on anything other than him. The children are, in general, bored. I can’t say I blame them. Me too!

I decide on 15 meatballs. You have the choice of 10, 15 or 20 – all conveniently priced. 15 seems the right choice. Not greedy but enough. It seems that I don’t get my proper portion of chips but I’m not complaining. It will be enough. I grab a beer and a glass and queue up to pay. It’s less than 10 Euro so reasonable value for money. The place is bursting. People have ‘bagged’ their table by dumping coats and bags on seats. I toy with picking a table with a ‘spare’ seat, knowing that it will probably annoy them but decide not to. Who needs the hassle? I find a woman sitting on her own at a table of four. I ask if the seat diagonally opposite is free. It is. I sit and eat and enjoy my meatballs. Perhaps I shouldn’t eat them as I’m going to dinner later but, what the heck!

I go down to the warehouse part, through the kitchen stuff and the storage boxes, etc. I go to the warehouse. People now have big trolleys which they can’t steer and there’s even less consideration of others. I steer mine to the place I want. I pick up the flat-pack boxes containing the cupboards. I move on and pick up the boxes containing the doors. I worry that I haven’t picked up the right stuff so check the codes again and the colours again, marked on the edge of the shelves. It should be OK but I have no one with me to confirm – like everything today. I go to the check out. They have the ‘do-it-yourself’ ones. I’m happier with those. After all, It means speaking to less people. There is one free and the helpful assistant sees me hesitate before waving me through. I check out. It’s all the price it is supposed to be.

I load it into the car. There is someone waiting to have my place and the man has got out to safeguard the place. I unload my stuff but then have to take the trolley to one of the trolley areas. Instead of saying that he will do it for me or do it after they have parked he just stands there. I decide to make my own little protest. Having got in the car I spend a few moments organising myself and not rushing as I would have done if he had offered to take the trolley. There! That’ll show ‘em!

I drive home, more pleased with myself at having done everything I meant to (and more – now that I have the table) and it is still only about 1 o’clock. I unload everything and get it home.

But, still I haven’t finished. I have to go out again to the ‘3rd’ place. Again, not only venturing out of the flat but also having to put up with lots of people. I make myself tea. But I have to go and do this thing. Well, I don’t HAVE to but I want to. It’s for F. Of course, this has the added ‘fear’ in that, this is the first time I will do this and is it the right thing to do? I mean to say, it’s a risk. If it had been V there would be no risk but F is different and I don’t know him that well or, rather, not well enough. Still, as we walked past the shop the other night, he said that he really liked them.

I go. I have to get on the tube. Every move I make is hard. I just want to go home and do …. nothing but at least I wouldn’t be here, with all these people around. I get on the tube train. I feel self-conscious. I stare straight ahead, seeing myself in the reflection of the window. I am an old man. Do other people see that too? I am slightly shocked when I look. The wrinkles, the sagging face, the flappy neck. I don’t feel like this but know I am like this. But what do others see? It’s like the liver spots. They have appeared, on my hands and arms, in the last year or so. Mostly faint and only a few. It’s not really a problem, just a reminder. And, yet, I’m not ready for it. It’s not like I really care it’s just that, it seems to creep up on me and I can’t see myself in the way that I see others and, so, I am curious as to what others see.

I get out of the tube and walk up the road. The streets are thronged with people. Too many people. Strolling around on this Saturday afternoon. But not many bags. That’s the thing to look for. How many people have bags. There’s a crisis. The shops are full but not enough people buying; not enough consumers to pay of the debts or, rather, increase the debts to put more money in the system. I go to the shop. OK. I’ve picked the blue one. That’s the one I like most. I go in. First you have to find where they are. There are three or four floors. I go to each one. Eventually I find it – the blue one. They are on a shelf above me. I get them down. The sizes are L or XL – I want medium or small. I could ask. If only I knew, for certain, who were the assistants since, these days, people don’t wear uniforms. It’s to give everyone the feeling that we are all equal or something. It’s all casual. As if the assistants are supposed to be like your friends rather than someone there to assist you. I guess. I prefer not to speak to anyone. I decide that I won’t ask. Normally, these days, they’ll just say they only have what’s on the shelf anyway. I think I’ll go to the one on Corso Buenos Aires. I get back on the tube and go to Lima. I get out and walk up to the shop. I realise that I haven’t actually spoken to anyone in hours. Even if I am surrounded by so many people. In fact, I haven’t spoken to anyone since I did the deal with the table!

I go into the shop. They don’t have quite the same things as the other store. I wander round. I can’t see the blue one. But I find a grey one that seems similar. Grey and red. I try it on. It fits me so it should be OK. I take it and go to pay. I hand over the item. My credit card doesn’t work. The cashier explains. I ask him to try it again since I know that the card is OK – I used it in IKEA, after all. It still doesn’t work so I use the debit card. I leave. Now I worry about the purchase. What if it is too large? What if it isn’t one that he likes? I shall leave the price tags on in case he doesn’t like it. I have to try this the once, at least. If he doesn’t like it then I can always use it. It would be OK for work, if nothing else.

I realise that, as I am going to dinner tonight, I should go and get some wine from my ‘wine shop’. Now this is fine. For this I have no fear. I don’t know why this is. After all, this is another case of me having to rely on someone else. However, I quite like the guy and he always says ‘hello’ to me if I’m passing the shop and he’s outside. Also, I can trust him. I say what type of thing I want and he will tell me the different ones I can choose – and he’s never let me down yet! I tell him I want a white wine, not sparkling or fizzy and dry. He points me to some. Telling me how each one is good. I select one. I love his shop. On the counter are some bottles of beer and cider. One group is for Bulmer’s Original cider. I smile to myself. This is from home, after all and it’s funny to see that whilst being in a foreign country, there is a little bit of Herefordshire, even here. And no one knows – like it’s a secret between myself and, well, myself.

I need to go to the supermarket. I could go to Unes, round the corner, or go home, drop off these bags and then go to the local Carrefour. I don’t like Unes, really. Or, rather, I don’t like the assistants. And, more particularly, I prefer the milk from Carrefour. I walk home, down my street, which is long. I am struck (again, after all this time) how my street is like it’s own special place; it’s like a village in the centre of town. I love my street.

I get home and drop off the bags and go straight out to get the shopping I need. I have decided to get some DVDs and CDs – to copy some of the stuff I have on the computer to play in the car and stuff. The tills are almost empty. I pick the one with the woman that reminds me of the woman that used to work for my grandmother when she had the post office. She always seems so miserable though but she’s OK. I ask her about the CDs and DVDs. She says I have to get them from the desk (where the expensive or easily-stealable stuff is kept). I don’t fully understand at first and ask if I have to pay for them over there. She explains that I have to get them and then bring them to her. I do so and as I return she says “give me”. Smiling as she does so. I laugh and tell that she speaks perfect English. I say that in Italian, of course. It pleases me because I know she is another of the cashiers that I will like and will be OK in the future.

>I go home. I am so tired. I will just go and have a lie down for a bit.

I think of the day and know that making the effort was worth it. I did many things. I know that my fear isn’t right, nor logical but what can I do about it? Every step outside, on my own is such a big deal in my head. I worry that, one day, it will become too much. I worry that Best Mate and I have too much in common – have this in common and, one of these days, it will become a hurdle I can’t get over. For sure, it isn’t right, I know, but what can I do?

I am a sex god!

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Whoops! Of course, although the title may have got your attention (and, as a result I’ll probably get even more spam comments), I forgot to add a ‘y’!

Yes, the title should have read I am a sexy god ……… apparently. :-)

People have said, in the past, that I have a nice voice. I have been called upon to read things in groups, etc., as a result. When I did my certificate for TEFL (Teaching English as a Foreign Language), the group asked me to read a poem out loud to the class. Well, to be precise, N asked me to read it but the others agreed. When we were at the Hay Festival, one time, I was asked to read the English translation for an Italian guy.

As an aside, that leads to a story that I used to give to my English classes about pronunciation. Italians find it so hard to pronounce our words correctly. In Italian, apart from the stress (which I find very difficult) and the single and double consonants (where I hear no difference but the Italians do), you pronounce the word according to the way it is spelt. In English, of course, this is not so. Take bough, cough, tough and hiccough as examples. And so, having never seen the text of this passage before, I came across a word, in English that I had never seen before. The word was gelid. If I had thought only in Italian, I would have pronounced it like jellied but I was in the UK and for me it could also have been with a hard ‘g’ as in gelding.

Since I had no way of being able to tell how to pronounce it and no time to look it up, I went with the hard g. When I came back to the audience, Flo, the wife of the man who started the festival, whispered to me how well I had read and said how glad she was that she wasn’t reading it because she would never have known how to pronounce the word and how on earth did I know? I explained that I didn’t. Looking it up afterwards, since I was already teaching English, I found, of course, that it should have been pronounced as jellied – but how does one really know in English?

But, back to the headline story.

I had to ring the garage about my car. The guy only speaks about two words of English and so I had to speak in my (bad) Italian. After I had finished, S, my colleague was laughing. She explained it like this:

‘I’m sorry that I laugh but it’s so strange to hear you speak in Italian. You don’t sound the same. When you speak English you speak very well (sic) – your voice is ….. umm …. sexy. When you speak in Italian it is different and it seems like a child’.

This is not the first time. Apparently I have a sexy voice :-)

OK, but why ‘god’ you may well ask?

Last night we went round to F’s place. I know he has lots of things to do so it is much easier for him and no real bother for me. Anyway, the dogs get their walk and so it’s fine.

It’s now a little chilly but because he had been working round the flat he was warm. Still, as he was closing the windows, the shoes which were out on the balcony, airing, needed to be moved.

‘Is it going to rain?’, he asked.

No, it was not, I assured him.

Yesterday, I was asked by two people in the office about the weather tonight and the weather at the weekend. I feel like a god! Actually, I use a site called Meteo Blue. It is a forecast so not always perfect, particularly more than a day or two in advance and it does change every few hours (if the forecast changes) but it is the most reliable weather forecast site I have found. You select your country and start typing your city – it will list all the possible options. I cannot say what it is like for other countries but for Italy it is pretty damned good.

And so, I am a god (apparently) who has a sexy voice. Not quite the same as being a sex god but you get my drift, yes? (as they say in Italy).

I go to the bank…………and again…………and again.

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Being our holiday, and F having given me a money box (a Shaun the Sheep one, in case you were wondering), we decided to save all our loose change at the end of each day. We’ve been dong it for about two months.

Surprisingly, it was quite heavy.

And, on Saturday, we decided to count it all. It was surprisingly good and came to much more than we had thought it would. I had also been putting €5 notes in there too, so the haul was nice.

In coins, we had just short of €300. Now, although this is nice, paying for a €50 meal with 50 cent coins may not be welcome by the restaurant owner. So it seemed quite reasonable to get it all changed for notes.

In the UK, this would have been a bit of a pain. First I would have gone to the bank to get some special bags, then I would have had to bag it up, and then take it to the bank. Any bank, of course – although they might insist on their bags. Here it isn’t like that.

It’s worse.

I suggested to F that I would go today (this was written yesterday – or most of it). He said to try the tobacconist first. I mentioned it to them (one of my regular tobacconists) – and they would have been interested but they were shutting up for two weeks. F seemed to think that this might be a problem – but didn’t explain why.

Yesterday, as I didn’t have bags, I put the coins into rolls of paper – similar to the ones that are given to shops. Obviously this was my own, made-up, paper rolls – not nearly so neat as those used by the banks but, at least, I could write the amount and the type of coins on the outside, once they had been rolled up. It took forever! The coins kept slipping sideways until I got the knack of doing it.

But now they were all rolled up in blue paper (it was the paper I had to hand) and each one marked with the coins contained and the total amount inside. What more could the bank want?

And so, this morning, I went to the bank. As there is one just across the road from me I thought I would try there. It is Banca Intesa or Intesa San Paolo or something. anyway, one of the bigger banks in Italy, with branches everywhere. In fact, there is another branch on the opposite side of the piazza that I (almost) live on! So, opposite the one I first went to.

First I had to get into the bank. All banks here have a series of doors to get it. This is to prevent robberies by a mass of people I suppose. You have to enter something similar to an airlock! The door behind you has to close fully before the one in front of you will open. Funnier still is the ‘no guns’ signs that I have seen in banks – but, then, this isn’t the UK, I guess.

So I get inside the bank after repeatedly pressing the ‘man’ sign to find that, in fact, you had to press the small green button (that I mistook for a green light). But I’m in! There is hardly anyone around – this being 11.30. A nice young lady comes forward eventually. I explain in my terrible Italian, that I want to change some coins.

Apparently this is not possible. Why? Because, at 11.30 a.m. on a Monday morning, there are no bank tellers. Apparently, she explains, they will be here this afternoon – from a quarter to three to a quarter past four!

You have to remember, banks here do not work like they do in the UK. In the UK (more or less), the account holder is the customer. Here, you have to be grateful for a bank at all – and you should treat them as the customer. Certainly the opening hours are, more or less, from about 8.30 or 9 in the morning until about 1.30 p.m. and then for another hour or so in the afternoon!

I asked if I should try the Banca Intesa branch opposite. She said that sure, I could try – but she looked doubtful.

Of course, I am, somewhat determined (some may say pig-headed) and so off I go, across the piazza, to the other, grander and newly refurbished, Banca Intesa. At least, here, I thought, they will have cashiers.

And, true enough, they did! Two of them. Both occupied with clients at the moment. I see, like the post office and other places, there is a queuing system, done by printed ticket. I look around for a machine, expecting something like ones you see in the post office! I don’t see anything. There’s only me anyhow, so maybe it won’t be necessary, I think. But, to be on the safe side, I keep looking. I see a thing that looks more like an information box or cash dispenser. I go over, on the off chance, as, anyway, this is the only thing that looks remotely like a machine to print a ticket.

Sure enough. This is the ticket dispenser! I am, at once, both relieved (to have found it) and slightly peeved (at how stupid I am not to have seen it before). I get a ticket.

It seems I wait ages. However, it is air-conditioned AND they are playing some light pop music (although I forget which song – although I could sing along with the chorus, so it was a song sung in English). It’s not an unpleasant wait.

Eventually I get to go to a counter.

Unusually, this is not a stand-up counter but one where you sit down. However, this IS a cashier – my Italian is good enough to know that.

I don’t sit down. I ask the guy if I can change the money here. He asks if I have an account. I don’t and, in my best English, which, to be honest, is a life-saver more often then it isn’t, ask him what I should do, ignoring the fact that I’m not an account holder.

He explains that I need to put the money in these special containers. OK, I say. No problem. He gets out two. This will hold about €10 worth, if that. I explain I will need a lot more than that. He goes to chat to a colleague who is hidden behind an opaque glass screen.

He returns.

Apparently they can’t change it for me because I’m not a customer of theirs. I protest – but you’re a bank, I say. Apparently that makes not one iota of difference. I protest some more. He is Italian. We have the blank face and usual shrug of the shoulders. It’s not that they can’t, it’s that they won’t. In other circumstances, I would have been more persistent but, maybe, I am succumbing to the Italian disease of giving up when faced with a ‘can’t/won’t do it’ shrug. Or maybe it’s because I really couldn’t be bothered and had better things to do.

I told F. He said he would do it the next day. But, being me, I hadn’t quite given up.

Just after a quarter to four, I went to the bank across the road. The same bank I had been to in the morning where they had no cashiers.

There was one guy being served – and one cashier open. I waited. For some reason I felt more hopeful about this, in spite of the fact that it was the same bank, just a different branch. This branch was not sparkly new. It didn’t have music playing. It was air conditioned – but then, of course it would be.

It was my turn. I explained what I wanted. He started to open my carefully prepared packages – he saw my face. He explained that they had a machine. We could just put all the coins together. He and I spent the next ten minutes undoing my 3 hour work and mixing it all back up. He put it all in a plastic bag.

He asked if I knew how much it was. I got out my piece of paper. ‘No, don’t show me’, he said. And walked off with the money. I laughed. This would be a test of both my counting and the machine.

I could hear the coins being tipped into something. After a few minutes he returned. He wrote down the number and showed it to me. I showed him mine. They matched. We both laughed.

He gave me the money. F said I should have asked him why the other bank could not do it and yet they could. I explained that I didn’t know enough Italian. But, to be honest I didn’t care. OK, so I wasn’t so persistent with the other branch – but I did get it done in the end – and that’s the important bit, really.

The other branch just had lazy, good-for-nothing people!

They have two dogs.

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The differences between us and the Italians are many. I think we Brits like the idea of Italy so much because of these differences. They are little things; in themselves, of no importance but adding them together, there is a whole world waiting to be discovered or ready to trip up the unsuspecting ex-pat from the UK (and, probably, other places too).

Take one as an example. We have lunch – in the garden, in the gazebo, under the trees which are ten times the height of the small ‘holiday home’ but which help to lower the temperature to a very comfortable level. We spend nearly all the time in the garden. The dogs enjoy it and we enjoy it. We sit and chat (or, rather, they sit and chat – I sit and listen…mostly) or play cards or eat.

Lunch was what one would expect. Simple but beautiful food – slices of tomato with a slice of mozzarella on each, drizzled with good olive oil and sprinkled with parsley; slices of prosciutto and coppa; good bread and foccacia; lettuce leaves coated with the same olive oil – and my favourite – celery and parmigiana with some seasoning (I must find out what). All served with wine or beer and water, of course – siamo in Italia.

It wasn’t the meal that was different. Hell, in the UK we have similar, if not quite so good and fresh. No it was afterwards. And this bit I have never known happen in the UK – we got in the car to drive to a café for coffee! And, of course, not like you do it in the UK – it wasn’t a big thing in itself – we stood at the bar and drank it within a few minutes. The big thing was that it was run by the daughter of someone that F had gone to college with. But I’m not sure that’s the reason we went!

But we would never have gone out for coffee in the UK. It is strange but nice but always reminds me that I remain a stranger in a strange land.

Of course, no one knows that F is gay. Well, apart from his brother and sister-in-law. Oh and his sister (and, I presume, brother-in-law and nieces). But his parents ‘don’t know’, apparently.

So during the birthday lunch, his sister-in-law was talking to his sister. They were comparing animals.

“We’ve got two dogs and one cat and you have four cats”, she says, before adding “and they’ve got two dogs”.

F turns to me, excitedly, and says “You see, she said “they’ve got 2 dogs”” – meaning that everything was alright and everyone knows anyway, even his parents – which, of course, they do and on which I had very little doubt! And, also for him, the fact that he is included in the ‘ownership’ of the dogs is important. Which is fine by me!

Too fast? Too slow, more like

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“It’s all too fast”, he states.

“Not for me, it isn’t”, I reply.

“At our age you have to take things more slowly”.

“Really? Why?”

And I mean it. Really? Why? Why does one have to take it slowly? Surely, one should take it slowly when you’re very young – when there really IS enough time. Now, we should be rushing and going as fast as possible.

He suggests it is because of experience but concedes that that’s not in my experience – so outside my knowledge. Later, I think that I should have said that, more or less, when I was his age, I started a relationship with the guy I just spent over 20 years with – and, if I had my life over again, I would do exactly the same.

“But it’s been over nine months”, I attempt to justify to him. He has this habit of not looking at me. Of moving his head in such a way as to appear blind – like blind people do – looking into the air and moving their head from left to right – see Stevie Wonder, for example.

He doesn’t look at me when he says, “C’mon Andrew, 9 months is very short”.

I won’t argue with him. He doesn’t understand. To be, possibly, meeting the family after 9 months together is not fast. It’s slightly more than snail’s pace.

But then, as I pointed out to him, no one in the UK at the age of 30+ (or, even 20+) would consider spending the two/three weeks of their holiday at their parent’s house. Christmas, probably. Easter, maybe. But your summer holiday? Going home and spending all that time with your parents? Are you crazy?

So we may look the same but, mentally, we’re very, very different.

Even in little things. We got to the bar and there were empty tables at the far end, outside. I sat with my back to a huge fan they had going. A sat opposite me. The fan turned and, at one point in its cycle, the air blew, quite strongly, on to my back and the the back of my neck.

“I can’t sit here”, he says. “The fan will mean that I will get a [stiff] neck”, he says, rubbing his hand over the back of his neck, the part not being affected by the wind from the fan. Still, he got the waiter to adjust it, all the same. I’ve only ever really seen that here. No one in the UK gets that bothered by a bit of air movement. How can we? It’s so windy so often!

And, talking of the UK, I’m wondering what to take F to see and what to avoid. Should I go to my parent’s house (just to look where it is, not for any other reason); or just stick to Worcester – walk round a bit – Hereford we can do after the wedding. I will go to my Grandfather’s grave – just for a few moments – he was/is still my hero.

But, I want him to see where I’ve ‘come from’, so to speak. I don’t know why. But it might be boring. I have to be careful. We shall, hopefully, meet up with the bride and groom the day before and some other friends just afterwards and then, I hope, providing she can do it, go and stay with Best Mate for a few days.

I would like to go and see V’s Dad – but probably won’t get the chance. I would like to see Corrine but, again, it might be a bit much for F.

Or, perhaps, we should just suck it and see?

Some crap rambling

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They are squeezed in. I am reminded of the ‘packed in like sardines’ phrase – but that only makes sense if you’ve opened a tin full of sardines. But it is like that. I am sat down. The station is not really hot but not cool either. I can’t remember now. Was it only San Babila where they had the fans and the water spray every few seconds?

I hope that, in spite of the time of day, it is not rush hour for the ones going my way.

Previously, I had taken the tube. I noticed when a new crowd got on at one station that the smell ‘changed’ from a sort of plasticine to something else. I wonder if it the station or the people that made the smell change? I seemed to be more acutely aware of my surroundings- I don’t know why.

There was the young guy in the white shirt. Asian – like Indian or something. With the sideburns so short and thin running down besides his ear as if a line of dirt. The small goatee he had, seemingly false – attached at the lip only, very small and very black and standing proud of his chin – at least from side profile. The girl, short, not pretty but not ugly either, with the young guy. She carrying all the bags and with a propensity for hunching her back as if to presage the change, in 40 or 50 years, when she really would have the widow’s hunch; he not seeing to care that the bags were all with her, and not really responding when she put her arm around his hip, withdrawing it seconds later, perhaps because of his lack of response?

There was the woman, who, ducking under the arm of a guy holding on to the rail above his head, screwed up her face as she did this, and which face told me everything I needed to know about the guy’s personal hygiene or, rather, to be fair, the heat of Milan.. As she ducked and made the grimace, he moved because, actually, he was leaving the train too.

Outside, whilst I was waiting and watching the large digital display of temperature on the building at one side of the square; as the temperature clicked from 33° to, what looked like, 39° (which, in fact, seemed much more realistic) but which was 34°, there were the group of rather loud and, probably, slightly drunk men, sitting at the café (which is not really a true café but rather a kiosk with some high tables with matching high stools – all in red – since they were sponsored by a well known cola maker) talking loudly about something which I take to be football because different countries seem to be being compared, including England and Uruguay, etc. There was a woman who, at first I thought had just been passing and had stopped to look at them but on reflection must have been a part of the group; long, slightly curly (wavy, maybe? – no more than just wavy), brown hair, tied back with one of those half pony-tails that sit on the top of your head – there only to keep the fringe or the sides of the hair away from your eyes; of large build and, if I had been in the UK, lived, undoubtedly on one of the less salubrious council housing estates – but then, what do you expect from outside a main station in Milan.

As I’m stood there waiting, two municipal policemen come out from a ‘hidden’ door just beside me, the door just beside another kiosk that seemed perfectly closed to ensure the public can’t actually get any police help, one with a cycle and one without, the room was dark (one wonders if anything was ‘going on’ in there). I note that the policeman walking with the bike has, fixed to his hip, a large plastic-looking baton – with a handle that could come from a sword, all white making it look like some children’s plaything and if it would glow and make a noise, perhaps it could be a Star Wars weapon? The policeman with the bike walks off towards the traffic in front of me, the other guy walking towards the station – behind me but round me, me noticing his gun and wondering if they all have enough special training as to its use, saying his goodbyes or have-a-good-days or whatever.

Even in the shade, which is not real shade, it is hot. I really don’t believe the 34° but prefer my version of it – 39°. My shirt sticks to my back; I feel uncomfortable. I left the tie in the car. I notice and don’t notice things. A man with a child (I don’t even look round to see them) walk past, behind me. Did she speak English?, I wonder but vaguely not actually wondering because I’m not actually caring. I’m sure she said something like ‘There’s a tram?’. Did she add ‘Daddy’ or ‘papa’? I could continue to listen for signs but I don’t. It doesn’t matter if they are English or not; if they are tourists or not; if they even exist!

I see the café where we shall go, probably. I think I might suggest going inside where there will be air-conditioning. Or, perhaps the outside bit will have fans and water spray like they do in the Brera or Navigli areas. After all, this is a place where many tourists come – both Italians and esterni. I really want the beer that I have promised to myself. My body says ‘YEAH’ and ‘WHY WAIT’ and ‘GET ONE FROM THE CAFE THAT YOU’RE STANDING RIGHT NEXT TO’. I have a cigarette, instead because, if I’m honest, I’m frightened to go to the bar – I would have to push past the people that I don’t like who are still, probably, talking about football!

Is this what it’s like to get old? To be frightened to do things because of what may happen? Mind you, to be fair, I was always frightened thus. I’m not built like a ‘brick shit house’ as the phrase goes. I remember, when I was a kid, my Nan, for some reason, used to have those Marvel comics and they used to have the ads in for ‘7 stone weaklings’ which was me! And so, I thought, one day, I would get these things and transform myself into the guy who did not have sand kicked in his face – but I never did nor, now, would care to.

And, so, I don’t get a drink. But I do have a cigarette.

And then I wonder, as I usually do, if I will recognise her. I mean, I’ve only met her once and my memory is terrible. I watch someone walking away towards the park – but it’s not her, I know that much. I pretend not to look at anyone, just in case I don’t recognise her and I curse my memory for being so bad. But I sneak a peak, every now and then. Every now and then being every second, just in case.

I text her to say I am in the shade so she will know where to look because I’m not in quite the right place. I see someone waving and know, immediately it’s her. I needn’t have worried. But I shall do the same next time.

We air kiss as one does but not in the affected way that they do in the UK. Here it’s normal and natural. We go to the bar and she suggests inside, for which I am grateful. We go inside and she asks, in Italian for a table. As we sit down the waiter comes and talks to us in English. She responds in Italian. I think to myself that she is annoyed by the fact that they are talking in English to us – but I am British with a very British accent and she is Italian who speaks English almost like a native American/Canadian. Again, I am amazed at how her accent is not Italian. How every word she speaks does not end in a vowel as is more common here. I don’t know why but I’m also amazed that her accent is American/Canadian. It’s a little like black people speaking French, to me.

We order our drinks and I talk. She talks too but I am certain I over-talk. As I talk I keep telling myself to shut up. But then I forget and talk some more. I think I’ve forgotten everything we’ve talked of in the past. I am crap really. But the talk is easy and not strained and, after all, we know so much about each other and yet so little – like we’ve been friends for ages but not really known each other. And yet we know things that others do not, so it makes it confusing.

I talk some more and some more. We are not going to be that far away from each other for our holidays. Maybe we can meet? I want her to meet F for some reason. Maybe I want validation that what I have written here is true?

She has to catch a train and we walk back to the station. Then she tells me of her news and I am really pleased for her. So much so that I suddenly realise she might be missing the train. I hope she doesn’t.

I go back to the metro station and, as I pass the other entrance to the main station I look up at the departure board. Against her train (I suppose) are the flashing lights. I try to work out the platform to see if the train has gone or not. It seems not. I hope.

I go back down to the metro. And this is when I see the train packed like sardines in a tin. One end of one carriage is without light and I think to myself that the unbearable just got worse! Even worse than that is that it is one of the older trains with no air conditioning.

I reach my station in an air conditioned train. I see a text from A wanting me to go have ice-cream. The message came through when we were at the bar but I forgot about it till now. I say yes.

>As I come out from the station into the oven that is the outside and the street I wonder if my car will be there. I reprimand myself for being so stupid as to a) park in a blue zone without paying and b) parking too close to the car next to me – but I had no choice – the space between the two cars was so tight because of the way one had parked at an angle.

Everyone wants to save the square – save it for the trees – from the huge underground car park they (the council) want to build, here called a silo (probably see-loh rather than sigh-low). The trees are old. The square is quite nice although they could do a better job with the dog-walking areas in the centre but I’ve mentioned that before. At least I will probably have a fine. But what do I care – after all it’s not my car and, hopefully, it will be given back in a few days and then it’s not my problem. But I shouldn’t have parked there, really. Or, rather, not like that.

But it’s OK. The car is hot but not as hot as when I got in it at work. Then it said 45.5° and it felt like it. I drive back home and wonder how I introduce her to F? Maybe I just don’t really do the full introduction? Ah well, let’s see what happens. We only have a week which won’t be long.

I look forward to seeing F later, little knowing what had already happened……probably. I mean, what had probably happened by the time I was driving.

Logic – not something everyone can get to grips with!

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There is a cooling breeze coming through the open window.  It is, in spite of my adoration of the heat here, most welcome.

For days, now, the temperature during the day has been reaching the mid-thirties (Celsius) and my body has been, as they say of ladies, glowing!  But, glowing profusely.  A shower offers welcome respite for all of 2 minutes. I try not to move much. Certainly, I ‘do’ as little as possible.

But, last night we had a storm. I truly love these summer storms. The cloud cover, us being in the city, is not black and gloomy but rather bright and orange. The lightening, whether sheet or forked, is a wonder. We never had these type of storms in the UK – well, rarely. With it (but this is not always so) came rain. Probably less than half an hour but refreshing, nonetheless. With it also came wind, the only problem being that I had to shut windows and/or shutters, thus depriving the house from the real cooling effect it gave. Even so, the wind was not really cold – just cooler.

We were going to go to F’s flat – but the rain meant we were delayed. I had been mindful of the fact that F has not been sleeping well. The heat (which he hates), the dogs, my snoring and, of course, not least, work – now that he is working 6 days per week. Saturday night we had stayed at mine. The heat, during the night, imperceptibly different from the day-time heat. Even a sheet on top of you is almost too much to bear – and so, usually the sheet is thrown to one side.

I wake up, during the night. F has a headache and will I get him an aspirin. I do. Then he decides to move to the bottom of the bed, lying across the bottom of the bed at 90° to me (and the normal way of sleeping) – this allows him to have his head closest to the open window, trying to catch the slightest wisp of moving air, which is rare and, in any case, is as warm as having none.

I had promised to get down the fan. And, given the night he had had, I did get it down on Sunday, whilst he was at work. I plugged it in, making sure it was working and positioned to give the maximum of benefit for when we are in bed.

But, in any event, last night he finished really late and so, as I expected, we (the dogs and I) went round to his place.

As we are lying in bed, the breeze was really fantastic. As I said, not really cold – just cooler but enough so that I got under the sheet, covering my bare shoulders.

“I got the fan down, so we can have that at my house”, I said, pleased with myself that I had, at long last, done something to make him more comfortable.

“I have a fan too”, he said, adding, “but I can’t have it on during the night, otherwise I will get a stiff neck”.

I am glad it is dark. I am glad that I don’t laugh out loud. What I want to say is:
“But you have the window open at night – including tonight, when the air is cool – how can that be different from having a fan going?”

Apparently it is different.

Sometimes, the logic defies reason.

Five minutes away and yet ………

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“I’m going to stay at yours tonight because I will miss you so much”

That would have been nice.  Instead, the reason given was that “I won’t see the babies”!

“But you will”, I protest.

“Yes, I know but I won’t be there with them at night”

“But you can stay, you know?”, I reply.

“Yes but you have visitors and it will be difficult”

Of course, I’m not upset that he wants to be with the dogs.  It pleases me a lot that he likes them so much but, you know, it would have been nice if he had said that he would miss me too.  I’m not really complaining though, it just crossed my mind.

Italians are funny when it comes to hospitality and staying with other people.  We (people from the UK) are definitely more relaxed about it all.  He seems to worry that he can’t stay at mine whilst Best Mate is here.  I have explained it’s OK but to no avail.

I only wonder if I will miss him so much that one night I have to go and stay with him?  Of course, as the dogs will be clean and with short hair, they could come with me – but then I would leave Best Mate alone and, so, I probably won’t.  So, 5 nights without him and yet he will be just 5 minutes down the road.  Hmmmph!