Tag Archives: Italians

Parties and stuff

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The preparations are in progress.

The event could be a wedding. The marquee on the lawn, the large round tables covered in blue tablecloths, people working to prepare everything in time for mid-day.

Except it’s a party. A celebration. I’m not a fan of parties but this I dread. This is a company party. Hanging around with people that aren’t your friends, even if some of them are nice and even if some of them can, actually, be counted as friends. It’s not like we have anything in common, apart from work.

But, then, I’ve never really liked these things even when I ran my own company.

I would prefer to be somewhere else.

I don’t do small talk.

You can’t really talk about ‘real’ things.

There will be speeches which I won’t understand, I expect. There will be complaints about the food or the heat (for it is still in the high 20s here), about people, about something. And, probably, I will complain too. One does, after all, doesn’t one?

Ah, well, in 6 hours it will be over, thank goodness.

Tomorrow, F goes to the UK for work for four days. I’ve been helping him with his presentation for some big meeting. I have enjoyed helping him; I like to feel useful as well as loved. Then he goes to Spain for three days. Then Germany for over a week. I miss him already.

I’ve nearly completed my backlog of work and the only thing to complete now is my CV for editing. I hope to finish it before the party starts.

So, sorry, must dash …………

Never doing anything; Work or not?

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I get easily hurt.

V didn’t realize quite how much he’d hurt me until sometime after we had split. The night I made him cry. He said – “I didn’t realize how much I’d hurt you”. Yeah. Well. Too late now, isn’t it? Yes, it is. And it was too late then and, even, before then.

The problem, of course, is not him, nor them but me. I know that but, still, I can’t change it – the way I am, I mean.

His father said that nothing had been prepared so we couldn’t come. He told him that he had told his mum the night before that we would come over tonight. And he did. I was there and, even if I don’t understand Italian, I understood that. I told him that he had told his mum. “Good”, he said, “I thought I was going mad”.

“What shall we do?”

Now, for me, this is not a problem. We could do anything and that’s OK. I suggested a couple of things. One was too expensive. Another was too far. The third was …… well, he explained, it’s Saturday night. He meant that we would never get in. It would be too busy.

“So, what shall we do?”

“I don’t know”, I replied.

“We never do anything”, he says, spitefully.

See, there. That’s the wounding thing. Why? I mean to say, why say such a nasty, untrue thing. Of course, this plays over and over in my mind over the next few days and on the trip back home. It’s not true or, if it is true then it’s because he is ‘a little bit tired’; ‘has a bad back’ or ‘doesn’t feel to’ (sic). Or is so late over at mine that it’s too late to do anything.

I think about the times that I’ve suggested things. Going to the cinema; going for a drink with friends; visiting somewhere. It’s simply not fair or reasonable to throw that one at me.

Later, I think that he’s angry with his mum. Which he is. Often. It would seem.

But I don’t like it when he takes out that anger on me. Worse still is that I am left so shocked by it that the logical thoughts that answer it afterwards do exactly that. Answer it afterwards. Often days later. Not at the time. At the time, I go quiet. I say nothing. It makes me feel powerless and useless and, unsurprisingly, more hurt. In any event, I don’t like it.

And it’s all a bit ‘gay’. By that I mean, his thing – it’s all a little bit dramatic. And I’m not a lover of the dramatic and particularly the over-dramatic.

And, so, next time this starts, I shall be saying that, not only is it not true but it is also not fair nor reasonable. And then stop. Busting for a fight really doesn’t do it for me. Nor does thinking of the correct response afterwards.

And then I read Annie’s blog post and particularly Rita’s (wise old bird that she must be) thing about not confusing love with praise and attention. It’s difficult though since lovers always heap praise on you and give you their full attention. And then, when the love has worn off ……? Worse, of course, is when there is plenty of praise and attention which seems like love but is actually just praise and attention.

And some people are mean fuckers and know that what you want is love but you will assume that praise and attention IS love and so they pile on the praise and attention because of their needs without any love behind it. Like a cheese sauce that looks like a cheese sauce until you taste it – when you find out it is a cheese sauce without the cheese – which is just a tasteless gloopy sauce.

On a side note, I really, really have to do something about my job. And by ‘do something’, I mean get out of this. This was NOT what I intended to do when I got here. The introduction of more petty rules and regulations drives me to distraction. It’s so easy to fall into the rut of being in work and so paying the bills and then getting caught up in all the crap AT work – where you think (and it sneaks up on you so that you hardly notice) that work is, in fact, the world whereas, in fact, not only is work NOT the world but it is also much less significant than anything else. Apart from paying the bills, that is. But that’s not really a good enough reason to stay in this narrowing and blinkering environment, is it? Is it? No, it isn’t.

So, what to do? My mind screams ‘anything – so long as it’s not here’.

Of course, as I have learnt, everywhere is the same. And, probably, everywhere, even your home, has a dangerous tendency to become ‘world’ and grow its pettiness accordingly.

Bah!

Our July was stolen!

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It’s all gone a little awry.

Let’s be honest, June and July were, as far as the weather was concerned, a bit of a let down. Where were the 40° highs? It was, mostly, warmish but really nothing like previous years.

August started off quite mediocre and then, around the 15th it seemed that July had come, finally. Like August had nicked July.

Milan is now hot. I mean to say that this morning, at just after 7, on my drive to work, the temperatures were reading 27°. It was also about that, this morning, around 6 when I took the dogs out. The forecast I use says it will get to 33° this afternoon but I think it will be hotter.

F is not really happy about it since he’s not really into heat and, now that our holidays are over, he wants it to cool down.

The dogs aren’t really happy either but they have plenty of fresh water.

OK, so even I have to admit, lying in bed at night with sweat pouring off me isn’t the most comfortable of things. However, it’s only going to last until about Thursday, so I’m sure I’ll manage.

Oh yes, I suppose I could get some air conditioning – but it would be for about a week a year so hardly worth it and, anyway, I couldn’t use it if F were there because, like all Italians, they are susceptible to ‘air’. This can produce many illnesses which include a sore throat and, in F’s case, a bad back. I was allowed to keep the fan on last night but only with it pointing away from us. When I left this morning he said he wasn’t feeling well. I guess there’ll be no fan tonight!

My head, my face and what actually comes out of my mouth.

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It is 7.30 a.m. The sign reads 25°C.

I like it a lot although it is pretty humid, especially last night.

And, about last night. We went for a beer, just the two of us. We were chatting and P, my next-door neighbour came into Polpetta. We were chatting. She’s giving up her flat. Her lease runs out and they are increasing the rent – considerably. It’s too much for just one person and times is hard, especially in her line of work. And, so, she’s moving out of Milan, in November. It’s a shame as she is the only one in the building that I speak to.

F asked her about her rent. She does have a really good deal now, for sure. F and I talked about the flat below mine. I have asked about the cost of that flat. They will let me know in September. Then he asked about checking out the one with the terrace that is opposite the courtyard from mine.

And then he said (again) about how he couldn’t live with anyone again. The reason is: what happens when we split up?

I don’t say anything stupid like ‘Well, that’s not going to happen’. That would provoke the response of ‘You never know. Nothing lasts forever’. Instead I say, ‘Yes, I understand what you mean’.

And, I’m not really sure how this happened, but then he said, within the next 10 minutes that, perhaps we could live together and ‘would I want that?’.

My face stays flat. Without emotion. In my head I am screaming that yes, of course that’s what I want. My face says nothing and my mouth says, ‘Well, at least I wouldn’t have to worry about a cleaner’ and then I laugh.

It’s almost as if, if I don’t say what I really want, that’s what I get from him. It’s different to any other relationship I’ve had before.

And now, because I received the anonymous email and then made an unexpected post, last night, I’ve reached post 999.

As I’ve mentioned, I’ve written post 1000. I’ll set it to publish whilst I’m away. It gives you, my dear reader, something to look forward to. I hope it doesn’t disappoint and hopefully, the guy won’t manage to get my blog taken down in the meantime but I have backups and, if it does go, it should be back within a couple of days after I come back from my holiday.

Enjoy. E buona vacanza

Words and deeds. Chalk and cheese.

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Just like eating food, here, means that people talk about food, so going on holiday leads to people talking about holidays. Not always this one but future ones.

Sunday. Lunch. It was F’s Dad’s birthday and it reminded me that it was only a year ago when I first met ‘the Family’. In fact, this time last year, we went to the same restaurant, the day after his birthday. For his birthday, the whole family went to a fantastic restaurant on the side of a mountain. The Sunday was a lunch at a restaurant at the beach.

We’re back at the same restaurant. This time it is different. This time I know the people and they know me. There is talk – of holidays. F is suggesting that we could go to Sicily next year. There is talk of his sister coming plus brother-in-law and niece. Apparently, I learn, they have a house down in Sicily too!

I’ve never been to Sicily. I have been told it is a wonderful place. I would very much like to go. He asks if I would like to go and I say ‘yes’.

There is talk about the travel down there – plane, boats and road. I think F wants to take the plane from Milan. His brother-in-law is suggesting ferries. The first leg to Naples and the second to Messina. It’s cheaper that way. Each journey will be about 6 hours, apparently.

It is accepted that I will be there. I like it a lot. Even if S gets mentioned quite often, it’s not said in any way to make me feel uncomfortable (which it doesn’t). Anyway, it seems that barring the detail, next year it will be Sicily in a house I didn’t know about!

Except.

Of course, words are one thing. Deeds are another.

We’re at Polpetta with An, last night. The talk is of holidays. Her parents have a house in Puglia. F says that we will go there next year. I say it would be lovely. Of course it would. I learn that F hasn’t actually been back to Sicily since he was about 12!!!!!! He says it won’t be a real holiday since it would mean having to go round to relatives all the time. And lots of eating. But, since he hasn’t been there since he was 12, I’m thinking that he doesn’t really know. It’s OK anyway. I know these are words. Words are very different from deeds – at least, to him.

We differ a lot.

I empathise with the Sicily problem although, quite obviously, I don’t see this as a problem. I can empathise because I’ve heard it several times before. So when I say ‘Yes, of course’, I mean ‘Yes, of course, I’ve heard this before’. When I say ‘It’s not really a holiday’, I’m repeating what he has already said to me and not because I actually believe it.

So, this year is set. One week in Carrara followed by one week in Umbria – where we went last year.

Next year is only words. It’s OK. Maybe it will be Sicily or maybe Puglia or maybe just Carrara (He’s mentioned that already as it will be much cheaper). To be honest, I don’t really mind, as long as I’m with him.

Oh yes, and last night it is mentioned that we shall be going to Sardinia in May. Or maybe St Tropez. Or some place in the very south of Spain. It’s his friends 50th birthday and she wants to celebrate big time. I wonder when he knew? I wonder why he’s only told me now? Still, words are only words.

Lettuce and Cheese

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It’s a summer thing, really. It’s like raspberries and, now, sandals.

I always used to be reminded when Wimbledon was on. Wimbledon and lettuce and cheese sandwiches go together. Oh, yes, and strawberries and cream. My mother used to do the sandwiches. Now, thinking about it as I am writing this, she probably did them so that she didn’t have to interrupt her Wimbledon-watching too much.

There are things I ‘got’ from her. None of the rest of the family did but, even though I can’t say we were ever close, certain things remain as my favourites and were her favourites too. Things like Wimbledon, lettuce and cheese sandwiches, bread and butter pudding, rice pudding, etc., etc. Hmmm, now I look at it, it’s mostly food. I wonder why I have these things – my favourites were her favourites.

Of course, I developed some of these. I actually went to Wimbledon, twice and I don’t think she ever did.

And, lettuce and cheese sandwiches had black pepper added. Nowadays, as it’s harder to get salad cream (impossible here), I have to use mayonnaise. Salad cream has a more acidic flavor and compliments the other ingredients perfectly.

Here, of course, no cheddar either.

So, Saturday, on the beach, I ordered a lettuce, cheese (fontina), and mayonnaise sandwich. Because they don’t have black pepper (for some reason Italians don’t like it and think it’s bad for you – for me, it’s not only essential but it’s also good for you as it is supposed to improve your sex life (I heard that from someone and I’m a great believer in things I like to believe in)), I brought my own black pepper to add.

As I got it (and F’s sandwich) from the bar, the guy said that it was a strange combination. As usual, I replied that I’m English. That’s usually enough for Italians as they think we’re strange. He said that Italians would never choose this sandwich. They would never even think about it as a combination.

I took it back to our place and with the added black pepper it was almost as good as the real thing. Or, maybe that’s because I haven’t had them since, er, last summer?

It seemed a perfect thing to have on the beach, under the hot sun.

Service

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I have mentioned ‘service’ in Italy before now, probably in many posts.

Sometimes, it is exceptionally good. At other times it is, at best, abysmal. The abysmal usually occurs when you’re dealing with bureaucracy. There are many things which, whilst in the UK are straight forward, here require an amount of red tape that is, let us say, unfortunate.

Go to a small shop that, for instance, sells pens. There the service will be wonderful. When you have finally selected a pen, it will be wrapped with care as if it were to be the most important gift for someone – even if you are buying it for yourself.

Obviously, this doesn’t apply to all shops. Zara, for example, doesn’t carefully pack your purchased items but, much as shops in the UK, will just slip them in a bag. It does depend on where you go.

However, when dealing with something that requires the red-tape documentation, don’t expect a level of service even up to the Zara standard.

Instead, expect to wait; to be ignored; to be advised that you will have to come back with some other document; to be told that it simply ‘can’t be done’.

I go. Each desk is occupied both with an ‘assistant’ and a customer. There are a number of chairs for people who are waiting to sit on. It’s not a good sign. I’ve found waiting areas to be a sure sign of extreme slowness and incompetence. I find that I am not disappointed this time.

Two customers leave. The desks are empty of customers. The staff, though, are doing something else. Going for water; chatting to other people; walking around. They all look at me from time to time. I am English so am, to some extent, used to waiting. Quietly. Surely, I think, someone will attend to me shortly.

Another customer leaves. There are a lot of staff walking around. The desk where the last customer was definitely says ‘Closed’.

There are now only two desks which have customers at them. There is an office behind me that seems to attract the busy, walking-around staff. I could just pop my head round the door as it is right behind me. I don’t, of course.

Surely, I think, someone will notice the fact that I am waiting and that, by now, I don’t look like I am enjoying myself.

I wonder if the two customers that remain and are being served will ever finish.

A short man who could best be described as a retired spiv walks past. He is wearing one of those loud brown, striped suits. He reminds me of Danny DeVito. He looks at me and bids me good day. I mumble something in return. It’s not really a ‘good’ day for me.

The mumble was going to be something like ‘salve’ which is a two-syllable word but comes out as a one syllable word that almost doesn’t come out at all, it is so quiet. In part this is because no one, up to this point, has spoken to me.

He walks off somewhere.

About five minutes later he comes past me again. He asks me something in Italian. By now my mind is numb and even if he had said ‘Good Day’ in Italian, I wouldn’t have understood it. I feel like I have died whilst I’ve been waiting.

I give him the contents of the envelope and crank my mind into some sort of gear. I think I am somewhere between zero and first gear. He understands my comment that I just want to pay. He calls a woman from the room behind me – her with the ‘Closed’ desk. He tells her to serve me.

She is, obviously, less than happy with this. But, then again, I am less than happy with being here amongst all these totally ignorant Italians. I mean in this office not in Italy, of course.

She serves me. She is useless. But, in spite of her uselessness, five minutes later I am out of there. It will be the last time I use them and so, next year, I will do something about it. In time. I.e. a month before I need to do this again.

Or else I will be too lazy and go there again this time next year and be unhappy all over again.

Let’s see.

From hot and sunny Carrara to the Chicago rain.

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“I hate being in love”

“I always fall in love. I can’t stop it and I hate it”

“I fall in love and then I fall out of love. I’ve had enough of it”, the American girl behind me whined. I wanted to say something. I thought of turning round and saying “That’s life”, but I didn’t.

The morning was on the beach. The temperature was, probably, in the 30s (°C, of course). We had lunch, courtesy of F’s sister at which, because his sister and niece are both taking English lessons, there was an impromptu lesson.

Then we left. I could have stayed there all day but we had Chicago later.

It wasn’t supposed to rain. The forecast said no rain. Everyone’s forecast said no rain. The clouds in the distance were laden with rain. And the lightening, as always, was great to see – as a backdrop, of course. I don’t want it coming any closer. But it did. The spots of rain were large. Wearing sandals, a shirt and some linen trousers didn’t keep me dry.

On the plus side, it stopped the mosquitoes which, until then, had been on a feasting orgy and the smell of Autan was all around. I hate the smell of Autan and try my best never to use it. My thinking is that, if it’s potent enough to ward off mosquitoes, it can’t possibly be good for your skin. A couple of nibbles by the zanzare can’t be as bad. And, anyway, even the people who liberally spray themselves, seem to get bitten just the same.

There was another plus side. With the onset of the rain, many people started to get up and leave or, at least, try to find some shelter. Leaving a number (quite a sizeable number) who headed to the front. The front, for sometime, protected us from the rain but in the end it got us too.

I never did festivals. When you’re young, you can do this ‘staying in the rain’ for hours whilst you watch your favourite band. Firstly, this is NOT my favourite band and secondly, I only know a few of their songs and only one that I can sing along to. However, what was I to do? Everyone in my group was at the front and so, I followed.

To be honest, even without knowing all the songs (I knew about 5), the band were brilliant. Not only were they good but they obviously enjoyed themselves which makes a whole lot of difference. The trombone player was incredible – not only for his playing but also for his energy and enjoyment.

Once again, it was Milano Jazzin Festival and Chicago were great. It was worth the money and the rain to see them.

Superstitions

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Superstitions are strange things, really, aren’t they?

Take the one of spilled salt. I think (but I’m not really well up on these things), in the UK, if you spill some salt, you’re supposed to pick up some of the spilled salt with your right hand and throw it over your left shoulder. Or the other way round. They have a similar thing here, in Italy.

Then there’s the black cat. In the UK, if a black cat crosses your path, it’s considered lucky. Here, it’s unlucky. Does anyone know why (either is though)?

And then there’s the new car. I’m not sure it’s an Italian thing. It might just be a superstition within my company.

Anyway, to avoid having an accident in your new car, don’t worry about your driving. Instead you should bring in cakes and drink to share with your colleagues. This, apparently, will ensure that you don’t have accidents.

Who knew? I always thought it was careful driving and a bit of luck (that there aren’t any crazy drivers on the road – which is quite difficult to ensure here) that meant you didn’t have an accident. Stupid me.

I guess it’s official now.

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I guess I have reached the ‘I am an old codger’ stage of my life.

It’s not really my age, as such, it’s my attitude.

Saturday night was the ‘Notte Bianca’.  This is an Italian thing.  Once a year, roads are closed to traffic and the shops and bars stay open until late.  By late, I mean 2 or 3 or later.

There are often ‘discos in the street’, stalls and street traders selling tourist-type crap.  There are food and drink stalls.  And people wander about.

I suppose the reason it can be done here is the weather.  It’s warm and it lends itself to staying up till the early hours of the morning.

F apologised a number of times and checked I wasn’t bored.  St, an old friend of his, has been having problems with her 30+-year-old marriage.  Or rather her husband has been having problems, if you see what I mean.  She has lived in the town all her life and feels she cannot confide in anyone who lives there – so F was an obvious choice.  It seems a lot of people are having problems right now.

Anyway, obviously they were talking in Italian.  I suppose I could have tried to follow the conversation but it seemed rude to do so, me not being an old friend.  So, I didn’t.

We went to a bar and found a seat (which was lucky).  And they talked whilst I looked around.  And I catch myself wondering why the young people (especially the girls) think that wearing a pair of shorts or skirt that barely covers your bum when you have tree trunks for legs, think that it can possibly be attractive?

I suppose it is the same as when I was a teenager and I suppose the older generation thought much the same about us as I think about the youngsters of today.

But, that’s not entirely fair.  There are women of F’s age wearing the same sort of thing although it’s noticeable that the women of that age generally wear something that suits their figure.  Not always, of course, but mostly.

We left about midnight as F didn’t like a friend of R (his best friend who had joined us with his entourage later) who announced to everyone, and in front of her 10-year-old daughter, how she really needed a fuck tonight.  I only learnt later that was why we had left as I hadn’t understood.

Possibly it’s as well that I don’t understand sometimes but F and I do agree on stuff like that.  As we used to say in the UK – it’s not big and it’s not clever.

However, I did enjoy the evening.  Watching the people.  And St seems very nice.  Bless her, she’s still in love with her husband after almost 40 years of knowing him.  Shame he’s such a barsteward really.