Tag Archives: Speaking Italian

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

Posted on by
Reply

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!

Posted on by
12

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).

It’s a very good feeling

Posted on by
Reply

No, I was wrong.  This wasn’t Bunch but, most definitely Brunch.

Her husband (I presume) was from American stock and so there was bacon, scrambled eggs (with, because the husband was American, Heinz Tomato Sauce) and pancakes with maple syrup.  She also baked – blueberry muffins, carrot cake that was almost like ginger cake, a fruit cake (that reminded me of my mother’s rock cake) and raspberry jam tart!  Mmmmmm!  Delicious.

Most of the conversation was in Italian but it wasn’t too bad.  As I’ve recently said to Man of Roma in the post On Being British, my understanding of Italian improves.  The hostess was particularly kind when she found out that I didn’t understand perfectly saying that the few words I had spoken were perfectly pronounced and so she thought I spoke Italian.  It made me smile.

As did F, who, when we are together, doesn’t show affection so often but when we are out, touches me more (rubs my knee, strokes my leg, holds my hand, kisses me (although not today)) and in such a way that it is genuinely affectionate.  I know he loves me.

I was introduced as his findanzata.  I like that.

I watched him during the conversations.  He has such a way about him, such style, such a good conversationist, so friendly, so instantly likeable.  I got the small pastries that we were taking and went round to his flat before we went for brunch.  He was getting dressed.  At that stage he wore a white shirt and underpants.  So very sexy.

We walked back to his house with his colleague who had also been at the brunch.  I followed behind them sometimes, when the pavement was too narrow for three abreast, and noticed the back of his neck or, rather, the nape where his hair fanned out (though it is short) almost like an upside down peacock’s tail.  So sweet.  And I wanted to kiss it there and then.

But that’s for later when he comes round.  Now I should be making the bed, washing up the few things, putting the house in order.  His idea to come round.  He misses the babies (the dogs to you and I).  Especially Dino who loves him, probably, only slightly less than he loves Dino.

Yep, I like being his findanzata.  It’s a very good feeling.

I love the fact that he loves me too.

Posted on by
2

It read -3°.  This was nearly mid-day.  WTF?

I was going out because I had promised.  And because it would be nice to see L before Christmas and because it was a park I hadn’t been to before.  When I texted, some 15 minutes after we were supposed to meet I had been half hoping that she would say it was too cold or too much to take the cars or whatever.

She didn’t.  I realised I had forgotten to put on my thermal socks and knew I would suffer as a result.

The park was lovely.  We had had a few centimetres of snow and the trees and ground had that festive feel.  I just felt cold, even if it was pretty.  We walked and talked.  We don’t seem to run out of conversation and, yet, I never feel as if she will be one of my best friends.  I wonder why that is?  Maybe because we met at her friend’s party in the summer, also L (although different – so L2) and L2 and I, introduced through N, never really hit it off.  I mean, we are cordial to each other but there’s this thing between us.  I think we both realise that we don’t like each other, not that there’s a good reason why, but we both know to avoid each other after the required greetings.

However, L & I did hit it off.  We have dogs in common.  But, also, for some reason, we don’t run out of things to say.  So, here we are, in the park, which, being slightly on the edge of Milan is probably around -5°, talking and walking the dogs – my two and the two that really belong to her boyfriend, D.

I ask her about the ‘not moving in together’ thing.  They have good reason as children are involved but we both also know it is an Italian thing.  But, at least I’ve told someone here, other than F himself.  And she understood me, her being American.

We spoke about carols (see the previous post) and she agreed with me. In fact, D had never heard of them until he met her. She said she had toyed with asking me to the Milan Anglican Church Christmas Carol Service last Sunday. I wish she had. It would have been nice for a change.

By the end of the walk, my feet (and most everything else but particularly my feet) felt like they are made of ice.  My mouth had stopped working properly, being unable to correctly form the words I’m trying to say.  Although it had been a nice walk there is nowhere to go for coffee and it means driving somewhere back into town and then there are the dogs and what to do with them and so we decide to skip it.

I get back home and spend a few minutes trying to thaw out.  When F left this morning to go to the new flat to carry on with the painting, I had agreed to bring him a panino later after going back to his flat to switch on the heating.  And, now, as L and I had left late and walked longer than I had thought we would, I am rushing.  Rushing to go to his flat to turn on the heat (rushing so much that I left my flat and had locked the door before I realised that I didn’t have the bag I was taking back for him nor, in fact, the keys to get in), taking the metro to Porta Venezia to get cigarettes for both of us, going to the supermarket to buy essential stuff together with a pack of four Ferrero Rocher, because I know he likes them.  It’s another food thing we have in common (and because we have so little in common with regards to food, each one is important, to me anyway).

I took a tram back home, dumped the stuff I had bought and went round to the café on the corner.  I got 2 panini – one cheese (for him) and one ham and cheese (for me).  I wasn’t originally going to have one but changed my mind.  I got them hot, as is normal here, in Italy.  Today they would need to be hot.  I regretted, for a moment, that he doesn’t really eat meat because a hot pork roll with stuffing and apple sauce would have been perfect – not that they do them here either, so although I hankered after one, it wouldn’t have happened in any case.

I went to pay.  The girl on the till didn’t understand a word of what I said.  For her, it might have been a foreign language.  The problem with my mouth not working properly meant that I couldn’t even get the words out in badly pronounced Italian!

I went to the new flat.  He stopped work whilst we had the sandwiches.  Nice crusty bread and still warm.  Then we had one of the chocolates each.  He asked if the babies (as he calls them) enjoyed the walk, which I affirmed that they did.  I told him about L and the fact that she was going to Vienna for Christmas because that is where her mother and grandmother live and all the family will be there.  He said it was really nice and he loved the place (he was there for a few years when he worked for Helmut Lang).  I said that L had said that they do great Christmas markets and he confirmed that it is really Christmassy there.

He added, ‘Next year, we’ll go to Vienna for Christmas, yes?’.  Yes, I agreed, thinking how nice it was to be talking about being together this time next year too.  And I looked at him with flecks of paint on his nose and hands, in a striped top, showing a little below the neck, the hair from his chest just visible, with his newly cut hair, sitting, crossed-legged on the floor and, really I wanted to go over and hug him and kiss him and tell him just how much I loved him and how much I loved the fact that he loves me too.

I mentioned the blog

Posted on by
3

It seems that S (F’s ex) wants to meet me.  I joked and said that he wanted to check me out, making sure I was ‘suitable’.  F said that he had only introduced one other guy to S and that was the someone that lasted 6 months.  So I guess F is trying to tell me something.

I mentioned that I had written, before I met him, that, for some reason, the meeting with F seemed more important than the rest [of the meetings] but that I had no idea why [it seemed more nor why I wrote that].  I mentioned the ‘blog’.  That is – this blog.

There was a look on his face that I couldn’t quite discern.  I was ready for the questioning, ready for some surprise or some interest or something.  There was nothing.  It is entirely possible, since this is Italy, that he has no real idea of what I was talking about.

I am sure it will come up again later.

Last night was an English night.  I explained to him, prior to going out that I would be speaking English all night; that I must speak English all night.  I said I would explain later.  I did.

We went to the Imperiale in Via Plinio.  N suggested it and as A wanted to go out too I suggested that he come, which he did.  Great night.  F was, as usual, in great form.  Whilst F & A were talking sometimes, N & I discussed various things.  I told her that I adore him.  Which I do.  Sometimes, when we’re out, I look at him and I am so pleased to be with him that I just want to hug him there and then.  Instead, as usual, I rest my arm on the back of his chair and stroke his back with my thumb; the touching of him being enough to satisfy my for that time, in that public place.  And although our backs were to the rest of the restaurant, I just didn’t care.  Even at one point where I realised this.

Actually, this is almost exactly how I felt when V & I were together and out.

Next week, he will be in Germany all week.  He leaves early on Monday morning.  I have offered to drive them to the airport, of course.  He comes back on Saturday either late afternoon or evening.

I know I will miss him already but, at least, I can try to catch up on my sleep!

…..it’s just too effing hard! (Tu sei un bastardo!)

Posted on by
8

“But why aren’t you speaking Italian?”, he asks.  “Have you forgotten last night?”

“Oh no”, I wail, using my pathetic, feel-sorry-for-me voice, “but it’s too difficult on the phone”.

“No it isn’t” he states, adding “it’s easier.  So, are you going to do it or not?”

Of course, he is speaking in almost perfect English.  I want to say ‘but it isn’t fair’, but I don’t.  I can’t tell if he is slightly angry or frustrated with it or it’s just put on but I don’t want to take the risk.  I want him to come round tonight.  I miss him.  I want him badly enough that I say, albeit reluctantly and with a heavy voice, just in case he hasn’t got the message, “Va bene”.

Then we start the conversation again.  “How has your day been?” he asks.  He’s wrong, it really is difficult for reasons I will explain in a moment – and, so, he gets a one word answer “Male”.

“Why?” he asks.  I burst into laughter.  “Bastardo” I say through the laughter.  As I say it I realise it should have been “Tu sei un bastardo” but it’s not important, he knows what he’s doing and he knows that he is!

“I clienti” I add.  And then he says something in Italian that I didn’t catch.  He says he will phone me later.  I say OK.  I love that Italians use English words, thank goodness!

But it is difficult.  I have to really concentrate to speak Italian and there are too many distractions here.  Plus, there is no way that I want my colleagues to know I speak Italian.  I lose my advantage that way, even if some of them do know this (Pietro!) and I need all the advantage I can get!

But now, it seems, he wants me to speak Italian all the time?  I have to have some breaks from it…….it’s just too effing hard!

Speaking, of course, is a different thing; I feel quite stupid when I talk

Posted on by
9

Speaking_of_course_is_a_different_thing_I_feel_quite_stupid_when_I_talk

We were on the phone for a while.  I rang because I needed some help which he was great about.  Then we talked about Ig and him.  And he was saying that he has very strong feeling for Ig and doesn’t want him to go but that he wants his freedom ‘cos he feels that he needs that more now.  I told him to be careful because he could lose Ig on the way and why doesn’t he try it first…..he can always split if it didn’t work out.

And then he was saying that, although they talk a lot and have the same sort of ideas, they have nothing in common and I reminded him that neither did we when we first got together but then we had lots of things in common by the end – the things in common happen because you either like to do the same things or you compromise and do the same things anyway, even if you don’t particularly like them or they do nothing for you.

I told him not to worry about that.

But then it got me to thinking (and I’ve already told him that he shouldn’t do too much thinking about it, lest he becomes Italian), we, that is F & I, don’t seem to have so much in common – and then I started to worry about that and worry about the fact that, maybe, there is nothing there other than the physical side and continue to thinking about how it would be in 6 months or a year when we run out of things to say……

And that’s exactly why I gave him the advice I did and why I must take the same advice.

And then I went round last night and all that worry disappeared for I was so glad to see him and hold him and kiss him again and just be with him.  And I knew that I was right in what I had said to V. These things in common become the things you have in common as you do things together.  And I knew it to be true.

For various reasons, he had not eaten at lunchtime and so he was hungry.  Anyway it was our meseversary (lol)!

And so we went to the Sardinian restaurant (Baia Chia on Via Bazzini), again.  This is because he goes there often, they know him, and he really likes the food and service.  And, I have to be honest, so do I and, in particular, their Mirto (after dinner liqueur) which is so much nicer than the stuff you can buy in the shops.

The waitress, who loved S (his ex) seems also quite taken with me.  She said that she likes that I ‘speak sweetly’ to him.  I chose an starter but she suggested something else.  I accepted her choice.  It was lovely.  We drank wine, we talked about Christmas about his work about us about many things.  The conversation was good.  He told me that I must speak Italian to him.  I am scared of this.  I cannot express myself very well in Italian since the words I know are limited in number.  My grammar is crap (but I’m not worried about that because I can learn that as we go along) – but it’s the lack of words that is the problem.

I talked about the first time we met and how I didn’t think anything would happen.

We drank the mirto at the end (they put the bottle on the table – something that would never happen in the UK (and, I guess, the USA) and we had several glasses.  F went to pay.  He gets a big discount.  A few moments after he came back, the waitress came up with a bottle of Mirto for me to take as a present.  They would not take payment for it.

They love him, of course.  What’s not to love?  And, after the comment about me talking sweetly to him, we discussed the fact that people must be able to ‘see’ how we feel about each other.

We walked home (well, to his home) and, after a couple of cigarettes, went to bed and I know that it is ‘right’ and good and that he is the man for me.

This morning, I am walking home and it is just about 6 a.m. so no metro or buses.  I am so happy in spite of the cold and that feeling remains even now.

This morning I changed the writing language on my mobile phone to that of Italian and so, now, I write messages in Italian.  It’s a start, I know.  Speaking, of course, is a different thing; I feel quite stupid when I talk.

Now we have Christmas and New Year together

Posted on by
6

“…then we can spend the night together!”

The voice was hushed and, yet, excited.  Bless him.  Still there is the ‘not running’ thing.  See, that’s what I don’t quite get.  Again, it’s my mild autism coming into play, I guess.  Run!  Don’t Run!  Run!  Don’t Run!

‘Would you like to come to dinner with me and MM [his colleague with whom he goes to Tango lessons on a Monday night] or pick me up after the lesson?’, he asked earlier.

‘I can do both’, I reply – not telling him that every moment I spend out of his presence is a moment too long.

And so, last night, I got home and went almost straight away to pick him up from work.  The plan was that we would go for something to eat, he would go to Tango lessons with MM and then I would drive down about 10.30, pick him up from the lesson and we would go to his house.  I would have taken the dogs out before I left, of course.

The reality was a little different.  First, I went to his office and I quickly tried on a suit jacket – just to see if the standard size fitted me.  It was absolutely perfect!  I am so lucky like that.  He was pleased.  These are samples, made for the buyers.  They come in one size and, very fortunately, it’s my size.  And I mean, so my size it looked like it was tailored just for me.  He said that I could also use his discount as he’s not buying anything this year.  That’s an extra 50% off!

Then, because it was a little early to meet MM, we went for a beer.  We talked about A.  A was funny on Sunday because he felt he should get changed if we were to meet F, which in the end, we didn’t.  I said that F wouldn’t mind and it was fine.  A seemed nervous about meeting F.  F is also nervous about meeting A (and all my other friends).  I explained to F that everyone will love him because he makes me so happy!  This is true, I know.

We went to the restaurant/pizzeria.  MM was already there, on her first beer.  She drinks beer like an English person.  And smokes as much as I do.  I love her already.  We order and, she wants meat but they only do it for 2.  F asks if I will have that and I am pleased to do so.  The meat was perfect.

MM understands English quite well but doesn’t speak it at all.  The conversation is difficult to follow at times but I get most of it.  MM asks if F is going to Austria for Christmas.  He says that no, we are going to R’s birthday dinner and then we shall spend Christmas together.  He turns to me and says ‘Is that OK?’.  I smile and say ‘Of course, that’s OK’.  In my head I am already dancing on the table!

MM says that perhaps we should go to Vienna for New Year.  F thinks this is a good idea and says we could drive there.  It’s his birthday just after New Year.  It would be nice.  I say that this would be lovely but I have to sort out the dogs.  He understands.

We have another beer each at the restaurant and then go outside for a cigarette.  They talk about Tango.  The problem is that F (and MM) will miss the next two weeks.  MM suggests that, as they are supposed to pay this week, it seems quite mad that they are going anyway – missing so many lessons already.

They decide that they won’t go after all.  MM suggests going for a drink.  She lives not far from me.  We walk up towards Via Eustachi.  We go to Bar Aurore on Via Castelmorone.  This is one of the more famous bars in Milan.  Very old fashioned and, to me, it seems almost French in style.

We order beers.  We talk.  Occasionally we go outside for a cigarette.  I try to talk Italian with MM.  F smiles (almost laughs) as I am talking.  I stop and ask why he is laughing at me.  He explains (mainly to MM) that this is the first time he has heard me speak Italian, which is probably true and it’s not wrong just strange to him.

We have several more beers.  I go to the bathroom.  Afterwards, F explains that, whilst I was in the bathroom, MM had exclaimed ‘Why, F, you never told me he was gorgeous!  If he wasn’t gay I would be interested in him!’  I think this pleases him.  I like MM very much (apart from the beer drinking and smoking) – she is lovely.  I think she likes me too.  I think I’m doing OK!

I have to go and walk the dogs.  He says we should walk the dogs together.  I am happy about that, except that, when I rushed out, I left the cleaner doing the ironing and knew there would be ironing left all over the lounge, the bedroom with sheets not changed; I had no idea that he would come over tonight!

I try to explain that the house will be a mess and why it will be so.

We get home.  He loves the dogs although Dino is, as usual with someone new, over excited.  We take them out.  We get back.  We go to bed.  We talk.  I so love having him with me.  I just so love it.

Again he talks about going slowly.  I wonder at what point that will change.  He explains why (again) and I do understand.  But then there are the Christmas and New Year arrangements.  But these all come from him.  I cannot make suggestions (I feel) as I do not know how fast/slow such arrangement-making is!

This morning, I get up early but let him sleep in whilst I take the dogs out.  I go back and make coffee and then have a shower.  I explain how, next time, I will alter the arrangements and have a shower before coffee so that he can get up later.

Dino is over excited as normal.  He really likes Rufus, who is quiet and calm.  But I think he likes Dino also.  Dino will be calmer when he gets used to him.  I must remember to tell him that.

I drive him home.  He says that he can catch a bus.  I tell him that no way and, anyway, this is on my way to work.  He is ready to get out at Piazza Loretto but I say that I will drive him up to his house.  He says that the traffic will be bad for me.  I say it is far to early and it will be fine and point this out as we drive towards his place.  I am right.

I drop him off.  We kiss, briefly before he gets out of the car and blow kisses to each other as he walks to his building.  He says he will call me.

Now we have Christmas and New Year together.

In the half-light, I could see the smirk

Posted on by
2

In_the_half_light_I_could_see_the_smirk

He tried, on the internet, to find a film in original language, bless him, even though I tried to explain that they did not have original language films on a Sunday any more.  They used to do it at the Odeon, near the Duomo but stopped it a year or so ago.  I guess not enough people went.

But he tried anyway and for that I was happy.  He had said he wanted to see the new film Julie & Julia, with Meryl Streep.  I told him that we could go and watch it anyway, even if it was in Italian.  In fact, I insisted we did as I knew how much he wanted it.  My Italian is improving, at least my understanding of it, mainly because I have less choice now and, although we speak almost exclusively English when we’re together, when we meet his friends or, in general, Italian is spoken much more often in my hearing.

We had had a rather lazy Sunday morning, including a quick trip downstairs to the nice café for breakfast followed by a quick trip round the supermarket for some essential items (including wine).  The clocks had gone back and so, effectively we had the extra hour – although, after so many days/nights like this, I was completely shattered and needed about 3 extra hours!

He was going to lunch with friends and then to see a flat that was, apparently, rather small but had a terrace and was on the top floor and, much more importantly for him, was 3 minutes from work.  This is not so important right now but the first three months of the year it is, as he works from about 8 a.m. until 10 p.m. every day.

I went home to spend some time with the dogs.  They are being a little neglected right this moment and so, when I’m home we go for longer walks and I play with them more.  Still, this week I have to spend some nights at home, which fact I still have to tell him.

We agreed that we would meet at the cinema. Before that I googled the film and got the synopsis and watched clips so that I would have a good idea of what the film was about.  It is more difficult to understand if I don’t really know the subject.  It looked a funny film.  I Skyped FfI who explained that Julia Childs was very famous in America – a sort of Fanny Craddock, I suppose.

So, when we met, I already had a good idea and could remember some of the clips.  We had quite good seats.  I did follow quite a lot of the film.  There were a couple of bits where I really didn’t quite get it but not so many and there was only one bit that I had to check with him afterwards – although I had got the gist of it after all.

Good film.  One of those feel-good films and one that I now want to see in English, to get all the nuances.  But I do think that he liked the fact that I went with him.  I hope so.  It’s all part of the strengthening of the relationship.  He also wants to see it in English.  At the end of all this, he’s speaking in English to me partly because he wants to improve his pronunciation and general command of English (although he is already very, very good).

On that subject (but see the bit about the bar, below), we went out on Saturday night to an Indian restaurant (The Dhaba, Via Castaldi 22) which has to be the best Indian restaurant I have been to in Milan.  Superb food and excellent service although, for those of you from the UK, a little expensive.

Whilst we were chatting over dinner I found that he doesn’t eat red meat – or, at least, not unless it’s minced up (ragù (Bolognese sauce to my English readers), sausages, etc.).  This would be a bit of a problem with Roast Beef and Yorkshire Pudding then?  Hmmm.  That’s a bit like really loving ice-cream and being told that you may never be able to have it again!  But he did tell me some funny stories of when he was a kid.  He still makes me laugh and I really like that.

Afterwards we went to a bar nearby (the corner of Castaldi and Via Settala) where a friend of a friend was having some special evening.  AfL, the friend, was there with her friend M.  AfL is married to an English guy and has lived in London for 5 years.  F asks me, when they have gone to the bar for another drink, if his pronunciation of English is better than AfL.  I tell him yes, of course.  It does help that it is the truth but he is immensely pleased with this.  He tries so hard to talk with a more English accent, bless.

I leave them to go and do the dogs.  I text him when I am almost back home and he tells me he is coming to pick me up in a taxi (as we had agreed).  In the taxi, on the way back to his place, he tells me that AfL (who will be staying with him next weekend) thought I was really nice.  This is good.  One should always be the best of friends with the friends and colleagues of one’s partner – certainly at the beginning.  You have all seen ‘Hitch’ haven’t you?  And the being friends with the friends is pretty crucial.  Luckily, all the ones I have met so far have been lovely so it’s not so difficult.  Anyway, I can be the perfect English gentleman with all the charm switched on, when I want.

Sunday night, after the film (we went to the 5.30 showing), we went to Al Basilico Fresco restaurant (Viale Abruzzi 21) where we had pizzas.  Nice place.  The pizzas are thin (like Pizza OK) but not so large.  Very nice and not so expensive.  I like that after the meal they give you a sorbet free of charge.  It is nicer than having a limoncello or mirto or something.

During the meal we were talking about films and cartoon films (which we both like).  His favourite was Ice Age, which I’ve never seen.  When we got home, he put the film on the DVD in the bedroom and we watched it.  It was good.  After the film was over, apparently, I went to sleep immediately!  And to be honest, I am very, very tired.  I’m almost looking forward to him going away for a night this week!  I need sleep.  Also, next weekend, it is very unlikely that we shall be together as, not only does he have AfL staying with him but also a dog, for whom he is dog sitting!  A dog who sleeps on the bed!

And, this morning, at about 6.15, just before the alarm went off, he again said that I should remember that he is like porcelain in the morning, but now I’m thinking that this may not be quite so true as, in the half-light, I could see the smirk on his face.

Some little things?

Posted on by
2

I already bought a bottle of white wine.  It is in the fridge – just in case.  Next time I’m at his house, I will check which shower gel he uses, just in case.  There will be other things.

I write an email.  I try to explain the Karl Spark and the fact that, actually, after expressing my doubts yesterday, here, I feel there is that Karl Spark and that I don’t want it to frighten him away.  I compare him to the best chocolate cake in the world, ever.  I know he will understand as this is a simile he has used.

I think he probably won’t get it until he is home.  We text during the day and speak whilst he is on the train, on his way home.  I tell him that, if he didn’t have so much to do, I would meet him from the train.  But I am trying to play it cool.

I go to see A.  It seems weeks since I saw him.  He wants to find out what is going on but, also, to talk about his own shit.  My doubts are all gone now.  At least, for the moment.  The things that worry me are insignificant and nothing to worry about.

I walk back home (the tram will be a long time).  I check my messages on my phone as I walk.  Gordon has sent me an email.  I ask if this is good or bad.  He says he thinks it is good.  I ask if I can phone him when I read it, in about 5 minutes.  He says that he is going to bed but that, of course, I can.

I read the email.  It’s so sweet.  He compares me to a volcano.  I’m not sure I’ve ever been compared to that before?  He explains that he doesn’t want to get hurt, nor cause someone else hurt and so, he needs to be sure of his feelings.  He promises a meeting soon.  A meeting where we can kiss and hug and more.  I know that is true.  The building of trust is important.  And he needs to trust me and so I will make sure he can.

He says he doesn’t write so well (and although his English is good, it must be difficult).  He would prefer to speak to me face-to-face.  Me too.  But I also write.  A lot.

I call him.  I don’t remember what I say – it’s enough (although not enough) to hear his voice.  I cut it short as he is tired.

We text this morning.  Him first (again), which bugs me and makes me happy at the same time.  We will speak later before he flies off to see the Diva on Saturday.  Already I am looking forward to next week.  I don’t know when but am hoping for Tuesday.  Even if it is a school night, I don’t care.

And, just to show you what this all means I am seriously thinking that I should start speaking Italian to him……….it’s my way of being able to show trust and a willingness to ‘fit in’ to his world.  What do you think?