Tag Archives: Restaurants

Strange Days Indeed

Posted on by
Reply

The world is a new, brighter, more interesting world. It’s a strange thing. There is this whole new life out there that I have only just begun to explore. There was a song, by the Weather Girls – It’s Raining Men – a great gay anthem when I used to go to clubs in Manchester – and it seems so appropriate.

But, in general, it seems I’ve lost interest. Not in life or work (although, right now, work is NOT the most important thing in my life) but in trawling the sites. The new world exists outside the sites where now, every man I see becomes a potential gay man – and so many are.

But, the loss of interest in the sites worries me. As I was explaining to FfI last night. What if Gordon is not ‘the one’ and I’m making a big mistake? Today, I am meeting Othello. Othello I found through the first site I signed up on. We’re a 70% match, so they say. These sites are full of shit.

OK, I’m shallow, maybe, but crucial to anything happening between me and a guy is how he looks (and there’s still a post in draft waiting to be posted on that one). I know I’ve been spoilt – V was/is, after all, stunningly beautiful – but I can’t go for something less.

Add to this that all I can think about is Gordon, I am less than interested. Gone, out of the window, is the idea that I needed more friends who are gay; that I would have loads of sex before I got far too old – just because I never did that, really and part of me feels that I somehow missed out on all that; and that I need to keep looking for ‘Mr Right’.

But, do I have that wrong? What if Gordon is NOT the one?

So, this, being written later (this post will take 2 days to write, I feel it), I have now met Othello. We meet in the park. Othello is OK. His English is excellent – he lived in London for 5 years. He has a wicked sense of humour – very like mine. We stay in the park until he gets too cold, then go for lunch at my Saturday lunchtime café (Free Time, just off Corso Buenos Aires) which he is really impressed with; and that makes me happy. We see some guy walk past to his table. I say to Othello ‘He’s gay, isn’t he?’ (and by implication, so is the guy he’s sitting with). Othello confirms this. My gaydar seems to be getting better.

We had talked in the park. Well, mostly I did the talking. He said his life wasn’t that interesting but I did get some blood from that stone, so that was good. It seems he has never had a relationship but ‘dated’ men who already had partners. Apart from that, we have much in common, well a sense of humour, anyway.

After lunch, we take the dogs to the nearest dog area and we continue to talk and take the piss (or is it pith?) out of each other. It’s good. He would make a fine friend. And I hope he is….we shall see.

Later, Henry, who has been saying he would come (he lives out of Milan) says he will come again (this would make it about the 5th time he says he is going to come – “going to” being the operative words and “coming” not actually happening – and HE’S the reason that, on that particular day I moaned at Gordon and why Gordon and I are, possibly, maybe, perhaps, something – I do think it is a strange world full of strange coincidences). I do not think he is coming. He arrives. I am really surprised! OK so I had made an effort to make the place a little less untidy – but not really going out of my way!

He only has about 20 minutes before he must go to the party. So all the things he said he wanted to happen are simply not going to happen. But, you know, whilst Gordon and I are not yet something, I was, kind of thinking that, perhaps, maybe, I should take the opportunity….my last chance and all that………….I’m not sure if I turned him on or he was just desperate or that’s the way he is……….in about 10 minutes it was all over for him. I may need a little more time amongst other things. Anyway, he didn’t actually come to see me but was coming to a party, for which he was late. Too rushed for me. Next time, perhaps….unless Gordon becomes ‘the one’ in which case – not ever. Shame really. Cute kid (and when I say kid – I’m talking about over 20 years my junior) and he seems nice…..but, let me see…….someone who’s 40 in a full-time job with a 30-year-old body or someone who’s actually 30 and no real job and not such a body!

Hmmm. Let’s see what happens.

Later still. I am out with friends for a pizza. Again I find they have Ham and Pineapple pizza – which I have. The place is Pizza OK in Piazza 8 Novembre, near my house (i.e Porta Venezia). It’s a new selection. Still the Italians don’t go for it but it is different than the ones we used to have in the UK (and, I guess, the USA would be the same). It’s not cubed ham but slices of fresh boiled ham and not cubed pineapple from a tin but slices of very fresh, very sweet pineapple. Delicious. Oh, yes, and if you like really thin pizza base, then this pizzeria is the best I have found in Milan for that.

During the meal, Gordon phones. He is in the concert of the Diva. He wants me to listen to a song but it’s just noisy and I can’t make it out. He phones later as I walk L home. This time I recognise the song. It’s a song for me. This is sweet and lovely and, given my day, a little scary.

(Diana Ross with Ain’t No Mountain High Enough)

I have said that, if he would like, I will pick him up from the airport on Monday night. He is with one of his colleagues. I said we would take her home and, at least, I would get to spend some time with him and get a kiss or something. We both have early starts on Tuesday so that will be all – but, to me, that is important. He said he would let me know – but I explained that it would get them home faster. I hope he takes me up on it. I really do want to see him.

It’s all very confusing and they are strange days indeed for me.

I don’t know what to give as a title

Posted on by
7

It was strange. The restaurant (Wok of Milan) was near his house and, therefore we went there. It was OK but, to my mind, nothing special. Again, I say, if you’re a Chinese restaurant be Chinese, if Japanese, be Japanese but don’t mix and match – it’s just not possible since the food is so different.

However, we chatted about crap. I told him that Rufus had not been so well and that, surprisingly for me, I thought that, perhaps, this was it for him. He wants to come round and see him.

We talked, tentatively at first, about the online thing and about Italian men, in general. Each saying we had ‘interesting’ experiences. He admitted that one should always read the manual (in this case profile) before one ventures forth. But, then, so should I it would seem. I seem to not be able to ‘see’ the photographs properly or, rather, I seem to look at them and think that the person can’t possible look like this and it’s just a bad photo.

But it is not, generally, a bad photo. In fact, if anything, it’s a good photo! So, I should take a look, imagine that they don’t look this good, and go from there.

Anyway, back to V & I.

So we’re chatting and, eventually, he admits that he’s rather smitten with someone. He says that the guy is short and nothing like me. I say that he should go for it and not hold back like he is doing.

It seems strange to me that, after all the time we were together, I don’t feel bad about this, nor like it’s a problem only, if I am honest, slightly jealous that I haven’t found someone before him. But I put that aside, and tell him (and I mean it) that he should not worry about how the guy looks but in how he feels and if he feels like this he shouldn’t waste the chance to be with someone who could be ‘the one’.

We continue this conversation in texts as I go home and as I take the dogs out for their walk.

I get a little fed up with him and, eventually say that he should stop being so stupid.

He accepts this in the way it was intended, i.e. He should just try and see. I hope it works for him (although, obviously, providing that I find someone also) :-) I also add that he shouldn’t be thinking about the fact that the guy isn’t like me and that, in fact, the guy shouldn’t be like me – otherwise it would be me……and we can’t go there again.

Still, it was all very relaxed although I can see myself being his agony aunt, which, given my free time right now (virtually none as you may be able to tell by the blog entries) may be more than a little difficult.

And, then, last night was the sweet guy from Varese.

It’s from a different site, one where they try to match you for compatibility rather than looks or whether you are Top or Bottom or somewhere in between. We are something like 75% compatible. But I should read the manual and, in this case, rather than the small-print, the pictures. OK so a little chubby, not pretty. But the photos have got to be bad ones.

Um, no. The photos were good

He is, actually, a nice guy but I have been with V for 20 odd years. I want the 40-year-old man with the 30-year-old body (and face) – something that Italy seems incapable of providing). We go for a walk along lake Lugano (on the Italian side), stop and have a drink and then go to a pizzeria that he knows.

OK so it is a nice evening but the whole thing is very one-sided in that he is thinking ‘Wow!’ and I am not. How do I know this? Well, a) it is the first thing he says when he meets me and b) I can just tell it doesn’t go away during the evening.

He looks like my M (my first partner of 10 years) only if he were now 60 (even though the guy is supposed to be in his 40s. Actually M won’t look like this. This guy looks like M’s father!

We do kiss but there is no Karl Spark – nor will there ever be. Friends, yes. More, no!

And then, because I had moaned at Gordon (via chat) about Italian men and how difficult it was for me to handle them, I am now preparing to go to his flat as I write this. Gordon has a beautiful body – a 30-year-old body and he’s 40. So far so good. Now, on my new PC (bought today), his face does not look so good but neither does it look so bad. He doesn’t look 40 for certain.

Now I read back, you won’t get the steps between moaning at him and ending up going to his flat but, briefly, it goes like this. I moan. He asks what is wrong with Italian men. I say there’s not enough room to write about it. He says he is listening. I ask are you sure. He says yes. I give him brief idea that these people don’t do what they say (see the previous post) and, anyway, they all carry too much baggage in their heads. He writes a serious response about all this chat stuff being fake but it makes me laugh and I tell him so. Then after a bit more chat I ask him what does it make our chat, real or fake?

He then says we can meet. I say that, for some reason (and I think it is because I am quite scared – he is too beautiful, too perfect) I am not pushing this and chatting is fine but, in any event, we arrange to meet Saturday.

And so, here we are. I am about to leave and go to his place for a glass of wine (having drunk half a bottle already and not really eaten anything). This one actually seems important but will, in all probability, end up like the rest.

However, who’s to know?

Tomorrow is Boris. Coming down from Cantù, near the lakes. He wants to go to Borgo, a bit gay disco held on a Sunday night. I don’t. Other than it is full of gay people, it is Sunday night and I have customers in on Monday! Hmm, we shall see. So, Pietro, if I am less than awake on Monday, you will know why.

Oh, and by the way, another person at work now knows I am gay. It is about time that everyone knew and then I can stop pretending…….

Out on the scene again; is it the Karl Spark?

Posted on by
2

I felt I should amend the previous post in case it gave the wrong impression……so I did.

Last night was the Mexican meal with the sweet (but far too effeminate) Stephen.  Nice kid though.  A shoe designer.  Interesting conversation, pretty and slim – just right for me in some ways but a little young and just a little to out-going.  After the meal he took me to some bars where we met many of his friends.

It was very nice for a change and his friends were nice.  I was, of course, new to the ‘scene’ so attracted interest but, although it was all very pleasant, I remembered why I don’t really like this way of spending your Friday and Saturday nights.  Still, I might go do it again with him as he is very popular and so, who knows who I might meet – except most of them aren’t ‘my sort’ at all.  I’m just such a ‘straight’ guy trapped in a gay world.  Must be the same sort of thing for effeminate but straight guys!  It makes me feel like I really don’t belong.

Still, tonight is the theatre with the nice guy from Pavia.  This, I know will be fun evening and then we shall go home (to our separate houses) as he is in for the long-term and is wooing me more than anyone else at the moment.

Of course, I haven’t really mentioned one guy that, perhaps I should.  He is very, very sweet.  Not effeminate, not my type  – but I find myself very attracted to him.  Not sure whether this is the Karl Spark but it’s pretty damned close.

Just a couple of things that are and, at the same time, are not important.  One is that he is definitely not the dominant type and, so, I’m not sure that he is strong enough – I mean to say, I sometimes need someone who is equal to me and will ‘fight’ with me.  He may be just too much of a pushover.

Oh, yes, and the other thing is that he is HIV+.  Now, before you go giving me advice and all that, bear in mind that I do know about this and I know we would have to be very careful but, really, it didn’t make any difference as to how I feel about him.  He was surprised at my reaction but I look at it this way, he’s nice, we are attracted to each other and, if I’m honest, the cigarettes are probably going to kill me first before anything else gets a look in.  And, if we’re careful, it shouldn’t be a problem.

He is a bit reticent though and I’m not sure why.  He’s also seriously Italian with all of the baggage that that entails (*sigh*).  And, he doesn’t smoke or drink, was a vegetarian (so is fussy about his food) – you know, all the things that would mean, oh, I don’t know…….

I need to see him again to see if I still feel the same way…..and if he does too, of course………

Restaurants in Milan

Posted on by
Reply

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.

Spit Roasting and Irrationality

Posted on by
2

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.

The Tiber; Via Appia; Roman eating

Posted on by
4

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.

Hawaiian Pizza in Milan?; Gay shirts!

Posted on by
4

Hawaiian_Pizza_in_Milan_Gay_shirts

I have to hand it to A.  He doesn’t understand me at all.  It’s like I’m some sort of alien from some distant planet.  Maybe that’s why I like him, in spite of himself?

Anyway, he rings me and talks about going for a pizza.  Apparently, F really ‘cares for me’.  He wonders why people like me.  Me too.  I think that he says that because he’s also slightly jealous.  Don’t worry, if I understood why people seem to care about me, I would tell him the secret.

I suggest apero at mine – I have some Boursault cheese (both normal and Goat varieties) and I’ve been wanting him to try it and, after F’s love of Stilton, her too.

They come over.  F adores the cheese.  I feel she has had somewhat of a sheltered life when it comes to food and I like to be able to introduce her to new tastes which are not Italian – and she seems to like it too.  I think that this also makes A slightly jealous – but, really, he has nothing to be jealous about.

A wonders if my next love will be a woman.  He just does not understand at all.

‘But, you’ve been with women before’, he states.

‘That was over 30 years ago’, I reply, ‘before I found men’.

They are going to Fox Town again.  They invite me.  I ask F if the cute guy still works in Iceberg.  It’s a kind of joke that A doesn’t get at all.  F says yes so I say I’m coming.  She gets it and laughs.  A can’t remember him at all and he is definitely uncomfortable with the whole idea.  Well, if he’s my friend then he needs to get used to it.

We go to see F’s flat which has been ‘done out’ ready for rent.  Nearby is this pizza place that F likes and they have found in the last few weeks.

We go.  The pizzeria is called La Masseria – Via Feltre, 19.

I look down the list of pizzas and spot Hawaii.  Incredible!  Every Italian I’ve spoken to pulls a face at the idea of Hawaiian pizza but, here it is, on the menu in an area that is certainly NOT touristy.

I order it.  It is even better than any I’ve had in the UK because they have used fresh pineapple and it is really juicy.  The flavours of the sweet pineapple with the good prosciutto is sublime.  F tries it and doesn’t like it.  I didn’t expect her to, to be honest.  However, in all the time I have been in Italy this is the first time I’ve seen Hawaiian pizza on the menu.

I had remarked on A’s shirt.  Unusually, for him, the shirt is rather striking – brown, with a large printed pattern on the front.  F doesn’t like it.  After the pizza A explains that it is because she thinks it is a gay shirt!  I feign shock and horror for a moment but, actually, I think it is really funny.  She explains that she doesn’t like it on him – and that’s probably because he dresses like a fifty-year-old man already!

A truly English meal out.

Posted on by
2

A_truly_English_meal_out

OK then. Just one more post for now, since it is about last night.

We decided on Indian. We’ve been there before but I wasn’t so impressed last time and less so this time. But that’s not what I need to talk about at all.

We talked without really talking.

How was the flat hunting going?

How are you getting on where you’re living?

How’s work?

They were the subjects. As part of the answers there were things like, ‘a friend who lives on that street came with me’.

What friend? A colleague? No. But no explanation. An explanation is not needed – I know already or, at least, I guess but I bet I’m right since the things that I do, actually, know lead to a guess that will be, pretty much, spot on.

And, whereas it still has the power to wound, it is only a little now, like a pin prick compared to a stab with a bread knife.

The flat-hunting story continues. I ask questions, just as I am supposed to. He asks me questions just as he is supposed to.

We do the things we are supposed to with no feeling, no desire (and I don’t mean for each other but, rather, no desire to make a wave or really enquire or, be involved).

The conversation could be wrapped up in one of those typical English conversations:

Hello! How are you?
Fine, thanks, and you?
Oh can’t complain, you know.
Well, goodbye then.
Goodbye.

The end.

Of course, it went on much longer than that. But nothing was ever really said. I wanted to tell him of Ico; of the fact that Best Mate is coming over for some more time as she’s feeling much better; of my potential few days with the boys at a friend’s place in Rome.

Instead I said nothing. Partly because I now want some secrets from him, as he now has from me and as he thought he had from me but didn’t, so much, over 6 months ago and partly because I didn’t want him to tell me of things that he has done or is going to do that mean I am permanently excluded from parts of his life that I hadn’t been before – just like he is already excluded from parts of my life.

We could never get those back even if we wanted to.

He did tell me of the holiday plans that he doesn’t want to do; that he says he won’t do. I don’t enquire as to what he will do instead but stick to the simple things that I know about him such as ‘and when will you tell them that you won’t be going? The day before?’, smiling and laughing but without smiling and laughing at all because this is ritual and, after 20 years, I can do it without thinking, without feeling, without anything. Not that I expect anything amazing after 20 years. I’m not that deluded. Nor am I sad for that either. It’s the way it is and what can be expected. No surprises after all that time.

I notice he looks thinner still but that at least the moustache has gone, which is better. And I tell him so. He tells me the story of why it went and I am bored within the first couple of words since it is all irrelevant and as irrelevant as me telling him in the first place but at least mine was only a sentence.

I joke that, as his ‘mother’ and ‘father’ have phoned him during the meal, the holiday with them will make them all like a little family. He knows me too. He knows I am joking and taking the piss. We laugh as we should; as is required. We probably both know what we are doing.

We talk a little about FfI, complaining about the same things about her. United in our complaints but not really caring what the other has to go through, knowing that the other doesn’t have to go through this if they didn’t really want to.

The samosas were crap. The main course was decidedly average. The house wine expensive, as I pointed out just after he had ordered it, but we only drank half a litre in the end anyway, probably because neither of us wanted to extend out this nothingness when no possible good could come of it.

It wasn’t pretty but it could have been much worse. It did, however, feel more like we were in a Mike Leigh play (such as Abigail’s Party) and had the same ‘cringe factor’.

I didn’t go with the thought that it would be any better but I think I was prepared for most possibilities. This, though, left an empty feel.

Prices seem to have dropped for flats and it seems he will end up with a bigger flat than mine. I feel a little jealous but, at the same time, know I could have done no different and still love my flat anyway. And I do hope that he is happy with whatever he finds.

We shall see each other on Tuesday when certain things will be finalised. The Final Question still, after all this bloody time, hangs there. I can tell no one. I am alone in this, again, as always, as we all are, really.  I want to tell someone but they will only try and give me good advice – which I already know anyway and which will change nothing.

Those ties that bind are thin now and about to break. I can still see the things in him that I like and love but they are not mine now to ‘have and to hold’ – not that they ever were nor ever could be, really. To think that is so is a delusion.

My trip to the Northern Lands

Posted on by
2

Unexpectedly (even for them) the weather was gorgeous – even better than Milan and less humid.

We even got chance to wander about the capital city and, being as it was so much further north, we marvelled at the daylight extending into the night (although I didn’t marvel at the bloody dawn starting so much earlier).

This picture is of, what we think was, the Cathedral.  My picture doesn’t do it justice but the tower of wrought iron (I guess) was quite fabulous.

Possibly_cathedral_in_Stockholm_about_10_at_night

We ate in a restaurant called Mårten Trotzig where I had fish roe with a wonderful slice of warm cheese pie to start and followed that with Reindeer with a sauce which, to me, was really like a redcurrant sauce.  It was really good food and well cooked.  A delight.

A nice red wine would have been perfect but I was with one colleague and one of the customer’s representatives – so we had beer.  Don’t get me wrong, I love beer and I like to taste different ones but, when I’m having a meal (unless it’s a pizza) there’s nothing to beat a glass (or bottle or two) of good wine.

The price, though, was astronomical.  For the same money I could have eaten in one of the better restaurants in Milan and had wine, water and more food.  Still, I won’t be unhappy to go back there again, if I have to.  Of course, the weather is not normally better than Milan!  However, next time, for certain, I will get a hotel in the centre, preferring to travel to the customer rather than be on the customer’s doorstep but having to travel into the city.

Nice_building_in_Stockholm_about_10_at_night

I don’t know what this building was but it was taken a few minutes after the other one – it was after 10 p.m.!  It should be noted that my phone (see post below) is not really that good for pictures and they seem a little dark.  It was not as dark in real life as it seems in the photos, sorry.

Is it Brunch or Lunch or just Italy?

Posted on by
4

Is_it_Brunch_or_Lunch_or_just_Italy

Brunch. Invented by the Americans or, more likely, people too lazy to get up early enough on a Sunday to have a proper breakfast but wanted a breakfast anyway, rather than a lunch. And so, the two merged together and became Brunch.

Great idea. And the times were flexible. An early Brunch would be about 11 or 11.30; a late one about 2 or 3 p.m.

Brunch was quite simply a late breakfast – to include bacon, eggs, sausage, beans and toast and marmalade.

And the Italians like the idea of Brunch a lot only, being in Italy, they’ve made it Italian.

What does that mean? Well, certain establishments do the bacon and eggs thing (with other things) like, for example Indiana Post on the Navigli. Other, more Italian places, have dispensed with that and just do the Italian Brunch.

And what makes an Italian Brunch? Well, basically anything you may have for lunch even, maybe, including pasta – but usually without the main meat course.

And on Sunday I was invited to M’s place. My first time there.

So, being Italian the thing is the number of dishes. Rather than having a few main dishes, they like variety. There was meat and there was cheese. Then there was a kind of chicken curry risotto and two different quiche-like pies. And there was this Sicilian/Sardinian bread (can’t remember which place it’s from). There was tea and coffee (American rather than espresso) and juice and water.

Then we had sbrisolona (not one of my favourites, I have to be honest) and la greca (both cakes from Mantova where one of the guests, Marco, is from). La greca was a kind of lemon/almond cake and very nice. I’ve certainly never had it in Mantova before so will be on the lookout for it next time I’m there. There were also normal (small) pastries. There was also fresh fruit (cherries, nectarines, strawberries and melon).

Luckily, I brought a couple of good bottles of Rosé and someone else brought some Moscato for the sweets.

Then there was espressos all round.

It was a lovely afternoon (we left about 7 p.m. having got there for 1.30) but, to my mind, Brunch it was not. Italian (it only missed being under a pergola overlooking the Tuscan hills), it most certainly was and, given the right setting (as I described), it was almost exactly what you would expect from an Italian summer lunch.

>I’m just going to have to do a proper Brunch for them all, aren’t I? Although, they would probably think it strange not to have more than a couple of hundred different dishes. Ah well, this would have to be another in my quest to get Italians to understand that not all British food is tasteless rubbish.