A while ago I wrote about the feisty vecchio (old man) who lives upstairs. He's been a bit quieter of late after a hospital scare and enforced bed rest but he's often there on his balcony during the day keeping a menacing vigil over the parking spaces which lie alongside his garden. I'm not ashamed to admit I'm a little afraid of him, and in fact often when we leave in the morning I involuntarily twist my head upwards in search of the lurking flat cap above. E's started revving the car when we get in it just to see my reaction ("shhhh, just go for goodness' sake, he'll hear us" "But the car's not warmed up yet" replies E with a wicked glint in his eye).
Anyway, yesterday I was at home for my lunch break when there was a fierce knocking at the door. I opened the door and lo and behold, there was il vecchio.
"Erm, buongiorno" I began nervously
"Oh, your Dad's not in then?" he asked
"Mi scusi?"
"Your Dad's not here?" he began to glower suspiciously
"Ummmm. No my boyfriend's not here" I replied confusedly
"Whose is that car?" he gestures, jabbing with his walking stick at a car parked just outside
"I don't know, sorry"
(Grunts) "Right. Well don't forget to tell your dad that he's not allowed to park there. Good day."
Poor old E. Maybe it's time he shaved off that burgeoning beard. At least now I can be safe in the knowledge that any problems il vecchio has with me he'll take up with my dad rather than shouting at me!
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Searching for cliches
I thought I knew what to expect when I came to Italy almost a year and a half ago. I was looking for passion, for warmth, for colour, for shouts of ‘mamma mia’, for chilsel-cheekboned lotharios, for steaming plates of hot lasagne.
At the beginning I searched hard for my clichés in what I considered all the right places. My search began at my rented accommodation- all I had was a scribbled address and name ‘Maria Santini’. Well that sounded authentic enough, I reasoned, sure I was about to meet a homemade pasta-rolling matriarch with curly dark hair who would clutch me to her bosom and reclaim me as the long-lost English daughter she never had. Imagine my disappointment when she had short mousy brown hair, a nervous disposition and sat alone in front of the TV eating salads at mealtimes because she was on a permanent diet. The day she charged me four Euros for using her washing machine I gave up on her and moved the search for clichés elsewhere.
But the Italians of my imaginings didn’t seem to want to come out of the woodwork. In bars that I went to more than twice I was still met with disinterested indifference by the barista. The only chisel-cheeked lotharios who showed any interest were those that seemed to frequent the Irish bars of Rome taking advantage of the starry-eyed foreign girls looking for an Italian Stallion. And when you got up close these sorry specimens of the male species were more acne-scarred than chisel-cheekboned. People on the street, instead of shouting, gesturing and exclaiming ‘mamma mia’ every two seconds were rude and pushy and on the buses they didn’t stand up for the eldery people.
So I gave up hope. Disappointed by the Italians, I stopped looking for clichés and immersed myself in my new relationship with my Albanian boyfriend and friendship with my international friends. Some time passed, all my international friends left and I had a bad motorbike accident leaving me practically immobile with a broken leg for some time. Forced to dedicate some real time to getting to know people the real Italy started to reveal itself to me. The staff at the local bar always wanted the latest medical update and were cheering me on. An old local at the bar stopped me every day for a chat because he too had crutches, and we compared progress stories. When I went to the hospital for check-ups the nurses I had gotten know when I was inside crowded round me, wanting kisses. One of the doctors told me I was so much more bellissima out of hospital robes and aforementioned Albanian boyfriend nearly punched him. (Quite chiselled cheekbones but also a prominent bald patch unfortunately).
And the list went on. I realised that before, I had expected these clichés to appear through a series of disconnected encounters with strangers and bar staff. Once I spent some time with Italians I discovered that the clichés do, to some extent, exist. There are my students who thank me after a class for a ‘beautiful lesson’. There’s my boyfriend’s best friend who parks his car on double yellow lines, switches the hazard lights on then strolls to the bar for a leisurely coffee. There’s the barista at the bar near work who sings while he’s making the coffee. There are Italians who are warm, generous, passionate, exuberant and full of life. Just don’t make my mistake and expect them to fall in your lap.
At the beginning I searched hard for my clichés in what I considered all the right places. My search began at my rented accommodation- all I had was a scribbled address and name ‘Maria Santini’. Well that sounded authentic enough, I reasoned, sure I was about to meet a homemade pasta-rolling matriarch with curly dark hair who would clutch me to her bosom and reclaim me as the long-lost English daughter she never had. Imagine my disappointment when she had short mousy brown hair, a nervous disposition and sat alone in front of the TV eating salads at mealtimes because she was on a permanent diet. The day she charged me four Euros for using her washing machine I gave up on her and moved the search for clichés elsewhere.
But the Italians of my imaginings didn’t seem to want to come out of the woodwork. In bars that I went to more than twice I was still met with disinterested indifference by the barista. The only chisel-cheeked lotharios who showed any interest were those that seemed to frequent the Irish bars of Rome taking advantage of the starry-eyed foreign girls looking for an Italian Stallion. And when you got up close these sorry specimens of the male species were more acne-scarred than chisel-cheekboned. People on the street, instead of shouting, gesturing and exclaiming ‘mamma mia’ every two seconds were rude and pushy and on the buses they didn’t stand up for the eldery people.
So I gave up hope. Disappointed by the Italians, I stopped looking for clichés and immersed myself in my new relationship with my Albanian boyfriend and friendship with my international friends. Some time passed, all my international friends left and I had a bad motorbike accident leaving me practically immobile with a broken leg for some time. Forced to dedicate some real time to getting to know people the real Italy started to reveal itself to me. The staff at the local bar always wanted the latest medical update and were cheering me on. An old local at the bar stopped me every day for a chat because he too had crutches, and we compared progress stories. When I went to the hospital for check-ups the nurses I had gotten know when I was inside crowded round me, wanting kisses. One of the doctors told me I was so much more bellissima out of hospital robes and aforementioned Albanian boyfriend nearly punched him. (Quite chiselled cheekbones but also a prominent bald patch unfortunately).
And the list went on. I realised that before, I had expected these clichés to appear through a series of disconnected encounters with strangers and bar staff. Once I spent some time with Italians I discovered that the clichés do, to some extent, exist. There are my students who thank me after a class for a ‘beautiful lesson’. There’s my boyfriend’s best friend who parks his car on double yellow lines, switches the hazard lights on then strolls to the bar for a leisurely coffee. There’s the barista at the bar near work who sings while he’s making the coffee. There are Italians who are warm, generous, passionate, exuberant and full of life. Just don’t make my mistake and expect them to fall in your lap.
Saturday, October 4, 2008
Why not to trust your tutore
Do you ever get the feeling you've been taken for a ride? How do you feel afterwards? Angry? Frustrated? Humilliated? Bewilldered? Outraged? Disappointed? E and I got taken on the ride of our lives this week and much as I think it's incredibly dull to read other people's moaning 'why me' stories I'm going to tell you about it anyway and if you don't like whingeing you can stop reading now!
Let me start from the beginning. On leaving hospital after my iron-removal work I was told that the next stage of the therapy would involve wearing some kind of plastic leg support, a tutore. The doctor, who I have known since February, informed me that tutores were hard to find. 'But don't worry!' he told me 'I know a place that stocks them. Here is their phone number and the name of the product you need'.
Armed with our information we phoned a couple of days later. The shop had them in stock, but it was some distance away so we planned to go on the only morning E could get free from work. This also happened to be the day before I was due in hospital to have the thing put on.
Off we set, and two hours of murderous traffic later arrived at a somewhat uncomprimising looking, poky sanitaria. Already feeling slightly out of kilter by this discovery seeing as there is a sanitaria in every neighbourhood in Rome we went in and were told that the tutore they had was for the right, not left leg. And it cost 114 Euro. 'I can get you the left leg by tomorrow morning, or you could ask elsewhere if you're in a rush' the girl told us. Some not-so-probing questions later confirmed our suspicions that yes, this was an ordinary run-of-the-mill sanitaria and not, as we had been led to believe, a tutore churning-out super-shop.
We left the shop, sat in the car and looked at eachother in disbelief. We were bewildered, and kept going round in circles trying to find an obvious answer to why our doctor would send us here for no apparent reason. This was the doctor who spoke to me in Englsih when I arrived hurt and confused in hospital. He liked chatting to E about pizza toppings. It didn't make sense.
After a while E's mouth set in a grim line. As we set off to go and look for the tutore in one of the hundreds of sanitarias in Rome the anger began. There ensued lots of steering-wheel bashing and some very colourful language. I was caught between begging to be let out of the car as he stormed angrily down resedential streets and trying not to laugh at the fantastic Italian curses raining out of his mouth (how about porca madonna- pig madonna, anyone?).
As we raced back towards town desperately trying to find the thing before the next days' appointment I made myself as small as possible in the passenger seat and while E started yelling abuse and honking his horn in response to some minor road infringement I began to feel that very British form of anger- outrage. I was outraged that a doctor in a public hospital could make such a 'recommendation'. Outraged that he had the nerve. Outraged by the betrayal of trust. So I sat and nursed my outrage while pig madonnas were cursed all around me and we passed a very tense hour trip back to the city.
Finally, when we later came to talk about it with our friends we were humilliated when they pointed out to us what we already knew- that he had taken us for a ride because we are foreigners and therefore easy prey for this particularly Italian brand of furbizia, or cunning. My doctor knew that at the time I couldn't walk, that E worked, and that we had no one else to help us out, yet he still sent us miles out of town to find what we could have found on our doorstep. We felt stupid.
And now? I'm mainly disappointed that this could happen in the public health system and will be more wary in the future. It may seem like I'm making an unncecessary hoo-ha about this, but it really was a spectacular waste of E's time and my money, both of which we have in short supply (the nurse asked me in hospital why I had splashed out and bought the branded tutore...yep, you guessed it, the brand was there specified on my handy doctor's note). This one's definitely getting labelled under 'Italian Puzzles'.
Let me start from the beginning. On leaving hospital after my iron-removal work I was told that the next stage of the therapy would involve wearing some kind of plastic leg support, a tutore. The doctor, who I have known since February, informed me that tutores were hard to find. 'But don't worry!' he told me 'I know a place that stocks them. Here is their phone number and the name of the product you need'.
Armed with our information we phoned a couple of days later. The shop had them in stock, but it was some distance away so we planned to go on the only morning E could get free from work. This also happened to be the day before I was due in hospital to have the thing put on.
Off we set, and two hours of murderous traffic later arrived at a somewhat uncomprimising looking, poky sanitaria. Already feeling slightly out of kilter by this discovery seeing as there is a sanitaria in every neighbourhood in Rome we went in and were told that the tutore they had was for the right, not left leg. And it cost 114 Euro. 'I can get you the left leg by tomorrow morning, or you could ask elsewhere if you're in a rush' the girl told us. Some not-so-probing questions later confirmed our suspicions that yes, this was an ordinary run-of-the-mill sanitaria and not, as we had been led to believe, a tutore churning-out super-shop.
We left the shop, sat in the car and looked at eachother in disbelief. We were bewildered, and kept going round in circles trying to find an obvious answer to why our doctor would send us here for no apparent reason. This was the doctor who spoke to me in Englsih when I arrived hurt and confused in hospital. He liked chatting to E about pizza toppings. It didn't make sense.
After a while E's mouth set in a grim line. As we set off to go and look for the tutore in one of the hundreds of sanitarias in Rome the anger began. There ensued lots of steering-wheel bashing and some very colourful language. I was caught between begging to be let out of the car as he stormed angrily down resedential streets and trying not to laugh at the fantastic Italian curses raining out of his mouth (how about porca madonna- pig madonna, anyone?).
As we raced back towards town desperately trying to find the thing before the next days' appointment I made myself as small as possible in the passenger seat and while E started yelling abuse and honking his horn in response to some minor road infringement I began to feel that very British form of anger- outrage. I was outraged that a doctor in a public hospital could make such a 'recommendation'. Outraged that he had the nerve. Outraged by the betrayal of trust. So I sat and nursed my outrage while pig madonnas were cursed all around me and we passed a very tense hour trip back to the city.
Finally, when we later came to talk about it with our friends we were humilliated when they pointed out to us what we already knew- that he had taken us for a ride because we are foreigners and therefore easy prey for this particularly Italian brand of furbizia, or cunning. My doctor knew that at the time I couldn't walk, that E worked, and that we had no one else to help us out, yet he still sent us miles out of town to find what we could have found on our doorstep. We felt stupid.
And now? I'm mainly disappointed that this could happen in the public health system and will be more wary in the future. It may seem like I'm making an unncecessary hoo-ha about this, but it really was a spectacular waste of E's time and my money, both of which we have in short supply (the nurse asked me in hospital why I had splashed out and bought the branded tutore...yep, you guessed it, the brand was there specified on my handy doctor's note). This one's definitely getting labelled under 'Italian Puzzles'.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Rome on a budget
Hello! Sorry for the prolonged delay in posting, I have been doing lots of leggy activities, and am pleased to report that after 6 months of my leg cage I am finally iron-free and (almost) back to normal! I'm sure I'll bore you all with leg-related stories in the next few days but right now I am utterly bored of talking about it so it'll have to wait. Instead, inspired by another visitor to Rome with a strict budget, today I thought I'd share some of my favourite budget activities and tips (I'm not talking about the free monuments/churches which are in every guidebook but my personal favourite experiences) that I put into action for my inpoverished recently-graduated friends when they make the trip over. Please add any of your own, it would be great to extend my itinerary!
So here are some of my tips for anyone who wants to enjoy the eternal city without stretching their wallet:
FOOD AND DRINK:
1) Pack a picnic instead of splashing out on lunch; there’ll be no end of picturesque monuments to eat it sitting on. Supermarkets are few and far between in the city centre but you’ll find one downstairs in Termini station where you can pick up the essentials.
2) Alternatively go to the institute that is the Italian Bar to get lunch. All bars should have a selection of panini which, as long as you don’t sit down in the bar, won’t cost the earth. Either take it away or eat it standing at the bar with the locals.
3) Don’t waste your money on rip-off bottled water, take a bottle out with you and fill it up from the numerous free water fountains around the city.
4) For a snack on the go find a pizzeria al taglio (a small takeaway pizzeria), and ask for pizza bianca. It is basically plain pizza base with oil and salt and the cheapest type of pizza you can find. It doesn’t sound that promising but it is surprisingly delicious and will satisfy a mid-morning hunger pang. Even better, in this type of pizzeria you can choose the size of your slice so if you really do only have one Euro left in your wallet you can shamefully produce this in the palm of your hand and the server will cut you a piece the appropriate size (yes, this has happened to me).
5) Make the most of the happy hour offers at Campo de’ Fiori. This bar and restaurant-lined piazza is a famous nighttime hotspot but enjoying a drink there after dark might well use the whole of your next day’s budget. Go from late afternoon to early evening; the atmosphere is not as buzzing but it is still a great spot to enjoy a drink and watch the world go by while spending only 4-5 Euro per drink.
PLACES:
1) Look through the magic keyhole on the Aventine Hill. Find your way to Circus Maximus, turn off at Piazzale Ugo la Malfa and walk up the hill until you find Piazza Cavalieri di Malta. Here you will see an unassuming door with a keyhole in the middle and possibly a short queue of tourists in front of it. Join the queue to enjoy a spectacular view of St. Peter’s Basilica framed by the trees that line the garden immediately behind the door. Then go and enjoy the ‘Garden of the Oranges’ which sits next to the piazza. In the garden you will find lots of stray cats and a 180 degree panoramic view of the city. A quiet and relaxing hour or two above the city and away from the crowds.
2) Shop for bargains at the market. Forget Porta Portese, the famous Sunday market in Trastevere. In my opinion it’s overrated and stupidly overcrowded, which means to have a chance at getting near the stalls you have to be there at ridiculous o’clock on a Sunday morning. Instead get the metro to San Giovanni where just out of the exit at Via Sannio there is an eminently more manageable market that runs every morning from Monday to Saturday. As well as new clothes there are second-hand clothes stalls where every item is 3-5 Euro, and vintage clothes stalls. Also in evidence are an abundance of the usual fake designer bags, belts, watches etc, if that’s your thing.
3) Walk around the old Jewish Quarter. Take a right off Piazza Venezia and wander round the streets between here and Largo Argentina which are narrow, shady and usually quiet. Look out for the unusual turtle fountain in Piazza Mattei and the Jewish Bakery (Via Portico D’Ottavia 1). It’s tiny, has no sign outside and you are unlikely to be served with a smile by the gruff old ladies behind the counter but it is the perfect place to pick up a delicious (and often still warm) treat to eat in the piazza.
4) On a sunny day go for a stroll or sunbathe in the huge Villa Borghese, taking aforementioned picnic. If you have a few Euro spare take an electric tram ride around the park or go pedal-boating on the lake.
5) Top peoplewatching exercise: Go to Piazza Di Spagna in the early evening and hang out on the steps for a while with the teenagers posing in ridiculously huge sunglasses and the foreign exchange students. Afterwards head straight down Via Condotti. Here, have a gawk in the windows of Prada, Dior and Gucci whilst admiring the groups of beautiful young people and the old ladies in fur coats taking their tiny dogs out for an evening stroll.
So here are some of my tips for anyone who wants to enjoy the eternal city without stretching their wallet:
FOOD AND DRINK:
1) Pack a picnic instead of splashing out on lunch; there’ll be no end of picturesque monuments to eat it sitting on. Supermarkets are few and far between in the city centre but you’ll find one downstairs in Termini station where you can pick up the essentials.
2) Alternatively go to the institute that is the Italian Bar to get lunch. All bars should have a selection of panini which, as long as you don’t sit down in the bar, won’t cost the earth. Either take it away or eat it standing at the bar with the locals.
3) Don’t waste your money on rip-off bottled water, take a bottle out with you and fill it up from the numerous free water fountains around the city.
4) For a snack on the go find a pizzeria al taglio (a small takeaway pizzeria), and ask for pizza bianca. It is basically plain pizza base with oil and salt and the cheapest type of pizza you can find. It doesn’t sound that promising but it is surprisingly delicious and will satisfy a mid-morning hunger pang. Even better, in this type of pizzeria you can choose the size of your slice so if you really do only have one Euro left in your wallet you can shamefully produce this in the palm of your hand and the server will cut you a piece the appropriate size (yes, this has happened to me).
5) Make the most of the happy hour offers at Campo de’ Fiori. This bar and restaurant-lined piazza is a famous nighttime hotspot but enjoying a drink there after dark might well use the whole of your next day’s budget. Go from late afternoon to early evening; the atmosphere is not as buzzing but it is still a great spot to enjoy a drink and watch the world go by while spending only 4-5 Euro per drink.
PLACES:
1) Look through the magic keyhole on the Aventine Hill. Find your way to Circus Maximus, turn off at Piazzale Ugo la Malfa and walk up the hill until you find Piazza Cavalieri di Malta. Here you will see an unassuming door with a keyhole in the middle and possibly a short queue of tourists in front of it. Join the queue to enjoy a spectacular view of St. Peter’s Basilica framed by the trees that line the garden immediately behind the door. Then go and enjoy the ‘Garden of the Oranges’ which sits next to the piazza. In the garden you will find lots of stray cats and a 180 degree panoramic view of the city. A quiet and relaxing hour or two above the city and away from the crowds.
2) Shop for bargains at the market. Forget Porta Portese, the famous Sunday market in Trastevere. In my opinion it’s overrated and stupidly overcrowded, which means to have a chance at getting near the stalls you have to be there at ridiculous o’clock on a Sunday morning. Instead get the metro to San Giovanni where just out of the exit at Via Sannio there is an eminently more manageable market that runs every morning from Monday to Saturday. As well as new clothes there are second-hand clothes stalls where every item is 3-5 Euro, and vintage clothes stalls. Also in evidence are an abundance of the usual fake designer bags, belts, watches etc, if that’s your thing.
3) Walk around the old Jewish Quarter. Take a right off Piazza Venezia and wander round the streets between here and Largo Argentina which are narrow, shady and usually quiet. Look out for the unusual turtle fountain in Piazza Mattei and the Jewish Bakery (Via Portico D’Ottavia 1). It’s tiny, has no sign outside and you are unlikely to be served with a smile by the gruff old ladies behind the counter but it is the perfect place to pick up a delicious (and often still warm) treat to eat in the piazza.
4) On a sunny day go for a stroll or sunbathe in the huge Villa Borghese, taking aforementioned picnic. If you have a few Euro spare take an electric tram ride around the park or go pedal-boating on the lake.
5) Top peoplewatching exercise: Go to Piazza Di Spagna in the early evening and hang out on the steps for a while with the teenagers posing in ridiculously huge sunglasses and the foreign exchange students. Afterwards head straight down Via Condotti. Here, have a gawk in the windows of Prada, Dior and Gucci whilst admiring the groups of beautiful young people and the old ladies in fur coats taking their tiny dogs out for an evening stroll.
Saturday, September 6, 2008
First week of the new term
This is what Rome feels like in September. The city practically empties of its inhabitants for the month of August and they all reconverge in September to compare tans, sing the praises of this year's chosen holiday coastline and make the most of the last of the good weather by fitting in as many gelatos as possible.
This week was also literally the first week of the new term for me at the language school where I work. Since I've been doing nothing but working, eating gelato and explaining to hoards of mahogany Italians that I am naturally pale and actually for me this is a tan thank-you-very-much, I thought I'd share with you some snippets of my day yesterday.
This was an 'Only in Italy' moment: On the bus going to work I was gazing out of the the window absent-mindedly as we pulled up to a set of traffic lights. In the lane next to us a little Panda full of nuns pulled up. I heard a tapping in front of me, and on shifting my gaze saw a teenage boy with a pierced ear tapping on the window to get the nun's attention. The nun in the front seat saw him and waved, and he waved back happily. The traffic lights changed and off we went, the nun giving the boy one last wave as they pulled out infront.
Arriving at work I started preparing a lesson for a new student, a fashion stylist who needs to learn English for international fashion work. Since the closest I ever get to fashion are the 2-month old glossy magazines that my friends bring me over from England, I really don't know why I was seen as the ideal candidate for this job, but I give it my best shot, my only fumble yesterday being when I was asked about the names of different types of pockets (who knew there were different types?).
I hobbled from work to the station. It's a tiring 10/15 minute walk but I've chosen to do it twice a day because the more I walk the more my bone will heal. My operation is going to be in about 3 weeks, and if the bone's not healed enough they're threatening to give me a cast, which would seem like a huge step backwards when I'm walking so well now. It's a challenge with the heat, the slow speed and all the steps it involves, but it seems like a natural progression.
I then went to the pizzeria, where as an official hanger-on I can enjoy all the benefits of the first week of term atmosphere without any of the work. I sat myself outside and soon enough along came various people with holiday stories to tell. Later on the in the evening, I was sitting with the family of E's friend Giorgio when a friend of theirs with a young baby arrived. Sure enough, Giorgio's father started admiring how big she was, the mother started baby-talking at her and Giorgio started taking photos of her on his phone. E and his colleague were equally enchanted and started pinching her chubby legs and trying to make her talk. Giorgio, who is well versed in my strange, cold English ways, was sitting with her on his lap when an evil glint came into his eye. 'Take her, Fra' he said, and before I'd had the chance to protest had plonked the baby onto me. I sat there mute and awkward. 'Er, what do I do with her?' (Thank goodness in Italian you always have to specify gender, or I probably would have said 'it'). The assembled crowed stared in amusement and horror (for the greater part horror) as I begged Giorgio to take her away, scared that I would drop her.
'Oh my God, you hate babies' said E to me later. 'I don't hate them I just don't like them. I'm indifferent towards them', but he was still shaking his head in confusion so I gave up trying to explain. Great, so now not only am I suspected to be a sub-woman species by Albanian parents of boyfriend, I have also confirmed their suspicions to Italian friends of boyfriend.
And that was my day. How was your Friday?
This week was also literally the first week of the new term for me at the language school where I work. Since I've been doing nothing but working, eating gelato and explaining to hoards of mahogany Italians that I am naturally pale and actually for me this is a tan thank-you-very-much, I thought I'd share with you some snippets of my day yesterday.
This was an 'Only in Italy' moment: On the bus going to work I was gazing out of the the window absent-mindedly as we pulled up to a set of traffic lights. In the lane next to us a little Panda full of nuns pulled up. I heard a tapping in front of me, and on shifting my gaze saw a teenage boy with a pierced ear tapping on the window to get the nun's attention. The nun in the front seat saw him and waved, and he waved back happily. The traffic lights changed and off we went, the nun giving the boy one last wave as they pulled out infront.
Arriving at work I started preparing a lesson for a new student, a fashion stylist who needs to learn English for international fashion work. Since the closest I ever get to fashion are the 2-month old glossy magazines that my friends bring me over from England, I really don't know why I was seen as the ideal candidate for this job, but I give it my best shot, my only fumble yesterday being when I was asked about the names of different types of pockets (who knew there were different types?).
I hobbled from work to the station. It's a tiring 10/15 minute walk but I've chosen to do it twice a day because the more I walk the more my bone will heal. My operation is going to be in about 3 weeks, and if the bone's not healed enough they're threatening to give me a cast, which would seem like a huge step backwards when I'm walking so well now. It's a challenge with the heat, the slow speed and all the steps it involves, but it seems like a natural progression.
I then went to the pizzeria, where as an official hanger-on I can enjoy all the benefits of the first week of term atmosphere without any of the work. I sat myself outside and soon enough along came various people with holiday stories to tell. Later on the in the evening, I was sitting with the family of E's friend Giorgio when a friend of theirs with a young baby arrived. Sure enough, Giorgio's father started admiring how big she was, the mother started baby-talking at her and Giorgio started taking photos of her on his phone. E and his colleague were equally enchanted and started pinching her chubby legs and trying to make her talk. Giorgio, who is well versed in my strange, cold English ways, was sitting with her on his lap when an evil glint came into his eye. 'Take her, Fra' he said, and before I'd had the chance to protest had plonked the baby onto me. I sat there mute and awkward. 'Er, what do I do with her?' (Thank goodness in Italian you always have to specify gender, or I probably would have said 'it'). The assembled crowed stared in amusement and horror (for the greater part horror) as I begged Giorgio to take her away, scared that I would drop her.
'Oh my God, you hate babies' said E to me later. 'I don't hate them I just don't like them. I'm indifferent towards them', but he was still shaking his head in confusion so I gave up trying to explain. Great, so now not only am I suspected to be a sub-woman species by Albanian parents of boyfriend, I have also confirmed their suspicions to Italian friends of boyfriend.
And that was my day. How was your Friday?
Friday, August 29, 2008
Show me your culture and I'll show you mine
My boyfriend is Albanian. That is to say he was born in Albania and lived there until the age of 14, when he came to Italy. But he often says he doesn't feel Albanian, having done a lot of his growing up here in Italy. To his parents, who still live there he was, is, and always will be Albanian. That is to say, amongst other things, he must respect his culture and his family's will and meet and marry an Albanian girl who is muslim and from near his ancestral home, preferably before the age of 27. Before meeting and marrying that girl he must not have other relationships.
So it was with a heavy heart that he returned to Albania this summer holiday to stay with his parents and break the news that he was living in sin with a girl who wasn't muslim, Albanian, or even necessarily a prospective wife. Oh, and that he'd kept it from them for a year. Trooper that he is he broke the news, and it went down as well as a lead balloon might be expected. I didn't bother asking for the gory details on his return, but he assured me that they would get used to the idea 'in time'. And now? 'My mum is worried that we'll have children and then you'll run off and leave me with them'. Why? 'Because you're foreign and don't want to be a housewife'. Oh. So we're talking that sort of time to get used to the idea then.
Just recently E's Uncle, who has been in Italy for some years, has been joined by his family who had been waiting for the processing of documents to come over from Albania. In a transparent (but nice nonetheless) effort to make up for the fact that his parents think I am a child-hating witch I was bundled in the car to go and be introduced to this leg of more distant (and liberal) family. On arrival I shook hands with the wife and sons and was shown to a chair where I sat with a fixed smile on my face for a while they spoke in Albanian for a while. Then I was asked if I liked honey. 'Yes' I responded, eager to please, and a dish of honey with two spoons was brought out for me and E. 'Um, how am I supposed to eat this?' I muttered to E. He then translated my question into Albanian and everyone laughed. Almost a year to the day from when I arrived in Italy, I never would have predicted I'd end up eating honey from a bowl with my Albanian boyfriend whilst a roomful of his family watched us intently.
The eldest cousin is 18 and has been taken under E's wing immediately at the pizzeria. He doesn't speak much Italian yet and is almost painfully shy so E has taken it upon himself to be his official facilitator into the Italian Life. We went out for a shisha and had a mint tea, and he politely declined the shisha after two puffs and didn't drink any more tea, saying his stomach wasn't used to such things. He was bowled over when a girl came into the pizzeria with some facial piercings and couldn't stop staring. He was wowed when we went home via Via Salaria, a notorious Rome red light district. 'Look Toni' exclaimed E 'prostitutes!' and proceded to honk his horn at them enthusiastically ('oh for god's sake, stop showing off' I muttered at this point). The cousin reminds me a little bit of how I was this time last year- an almost silent participator in events that I was overwhelmed by; so overwhelmed that despite loving every minute of living them I was eqaully eager for them to be over so I could rest my tired brain and try to digest some of the things that had happened. I think it's going to be an interesting few months, and I'll make sure to keep you updated on the Albanian chapter of this saga.
So it was with a heavy heart that he returned to Albania this summer holiday to stay with his parents and break the news that he was living in sin with a girl who wasn't muslim, Albanian, or even necessarily a prospective wife. Oh, and that he'd kept it from them for a year. Trooper that he is he broke the news, and it went down as well as a lead balloon might be expected. I didn't bother asking for the gory details on his return, but he assured me that they would get used to the idea 'in time'. And now? 'My mum is worried that we'll have children and then you'll run off and leave me with them'. Why? 'Because you're foreign and don't want to be a housewife'. Oh. So we're talking that sort of time to get used to the idea then.
Just recently E's Uncle, who has been in Italy for some years, has been joined by his family who had been waiting for the processing of documents to come over from Albania. In a transparent (but nice nonetheless) effort to make up for the fact that his parents think I am a child-hating witch I was bundled in the car to go and be introduced to this leg of more distant (and liberal) family. On arrival I shook hands with the wife and sons and was shown to a chair where I sat with a fixed smile on my face for a while they spoke in Albanian for a while. Then I was asked if I liked honey. 'Yes' I responded, eager to please, and a dish of honey with two spoons was brought out for me and E. 'Um, how am I supposed to eat this?' I muttered to E. He then translated my question into Albanian and everyone laughed. Almost a year to the day from when I arrived in Italy, I never would have predicted I'd end up eating honey from a bowl with my Albanian boyfriend whilst a roomful of his family watched us intently.
The eldest cousin is 18 and has been taken under E's wing immediately at the pizzeria. He doesn't speak much Italian yet and is almost painfully shy so E has taken it upon himself to be his official facilitator into the Italian Life. We went out for a shisha and had a mint tea, and he politely declined the shisha after two puffs and didn't drink any more tea, saying his stomach wasn't used to such things. He was bowled over when a girl came into the pizzeria with some facial piercings and couldn't stop staring. He was wowed when we went home via Via Salaria, a notorious Rome red light district. 'Look Toni' exclaimed E 'prostitutes!' and proceded to honk his horn at them enthusiastically ('oh for god's sake, stop showing off' I muttered at this point). The cousin reminds me a little bit of how I was this time last year- an almost silent participator in events that I was overwhelmed by; so overwhelmed that despite loving every minute of living them I was eqaully eager for them to be over so I could rest my tired brain and try to digest some of the things that had happened. I think it's going to be an interesting few months, and I'll make sure to keep you updated on the Albanian chapter of this saga.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Battle at the Bidet
I am as baffled as the next non mediterrean-born person about the many varied and exotic uses for the bidet. I'm not really that interested either, I try not to go near the thing; to me it's just a big useless hair and dust-collecting lump of white porcelain taking up unnecessary space in our tiny house. However, it has become a bit of a bone of contention between my boyfriend and I. Here's what happens every night at the precise moment that I slide myself into bed and am about to rest my head on the pillow:
Him: Have you washed your feet?
Me (rather too quickly): Yes
Him: You haven't, I know (starts moving to inspect nearest foot)
Me: (jerking my foot away and whining in tone of 5-year-old) But I don't want to wash my feet
Him: But you should (grabs foot)- look, it's black on the bottom
Me: It's just a bit of dust. Let me go to sleep for god's sake
Him: You can't go to sleep with feet like this, go and wash them in the bidet
Me: Fine, I'll do it if you let me go to bloody sleep afterwards (stomp to the bidet, insert foot and run water over it)
Him (appearing at the door): You're not doing it properly, you need to scrub them too
Me: (theatrical sigh) I can't reach, you'll have to do it (sit on toilet, cross arms in petulant manner and leave foot in bidet where he scrubs with flannel. Wonder if it is right that feet-washing has become the main source of discord in our relationship)
Is this normal behaviour for bidet pros? I am currently losing this battle at the bidet because some time ago I foolishly admitted that I was a bidet novice and this has been used as ammunation against me ever since. Because obviously only a non bidet-educated ignoramus would try to suggest that if they wanted to wash their feet of an evening they would be able to find several other sources of water in the average bathroom without having to resort to the white elephant over there in the corner.
Him: Have you washed your feet?
Me (rather too quickly): Yes
Him: You haven't, I know (starts moving to inspect nearest foot)
Me: (jerking my foot away and whining in tone of 5-year-old) But I don't want to wash my feet
Him: But you should (grabs foot)- look, it's black on the bottom
Me: It's just a bit of dust. Let me go to sleep for god's sake
Him: You can't go to sleep with feet like this, go and wash them in the bidet
Me: Fine, I'll do it if you let me go to bloody sleep afterwards (stomp to the bidet, insert foot and run water over it)
Him (appearing at the door): You're not doing it properly, you need to scrub them too
Me: (theatrical sigh) I can't reach, you'll have to do it (sit on toilet, cross arms in petulant manner and leave foot in bidet where he scrubs with flannel. Wonder if it is right that feet-washing has become the main source of discord in our relationship)
Is this normal behaviour for bidet pros? I am currently losing this battle at the bidet because some time ago I foolishly admitted that I was a bidet novice and this has been used as ammunation against me ever since. Because obviously only a non bidet-educated ignoramus would try to suggest that if they wanted to wash their feet of an evening they would be able to find several other sources of water in the average bathroom without having to resort to the white elephant over there in the corner.
Monday, August 25, 2008
With a stink under their noses
Recent happenings have taken me to Foligno, Umbria, and I spent some hours wandering it's streets yesterday morning. It's a small city, and it is beautiful, really totally beautiful. On every corner there seems to be a perfectly preserved ancient church and the smallest cobbled sidestreets will lead you out into wide smart piazzas with elegant bars and elegant people sitting outside them.
Just as I was preparing to get on the next train back to Rome and flee my newbuild studio flat for a little something in Foligno's sun-dappled piazza (if possible living over that baker's with the fancy-looking biscotti), I had a shock. That is to say, I had my first contact with a local. Window-shopping a bit aimlessly I accidentally wandered into the path of a bicycle. The girl braked. "Whoops, sorry" I exclaimed, shocked. She tilted her head, narrowed her eyes, and gave me an icy-cold look. She held me in her freezing gaze for a few seconds then she re-adjusted her rucksack and glided away without a backwards glance. I was willing it to be a temporary blip, but no, it turned out the residents of Foligno had a definite 'stink under their noses' (the rather more elegant Italian way of saying they had a stick up their arse). I went into several bars and was treated with the utmost hostility by the staff. After paying for my coffee I threw a casual 'thanks, bye' over my shoulder like I do in Rome and was met with a wall of silence as I exited instead of the usual 'thanks to you too, bye'. People in the street stared at my leg like always, but the staring was never followed by a sad or sympathetic muttered 'mamma mia' or 'poverina' and a shake of the head like in Rome. It was an appraising stare at the leg, followed by a scan of the face, then a dismissal and continutation with whatever they were doing.
I was extremely happy to return to my town, where the chairs outside the bars are made of red plastic and don't have cushions on them, but at least the staff acknowledge your thanks. Foligno is Italy at it's pituresque best, but it's definitely not the Italy I know.
Does anyone know Foligno that could shed some light onto this 'stink under the nose' phenomenon? Did the residents just all get out of bed on the wrong side the day I was there? I would be interested to hear of any experiences...
Just as I was preparing to get on the next train back to Rome and flee my newbuild studio flat for a little something in Foligno's sun-dappled piazza (if possible living over that baker's with the fancy-looking biscotti), I had a shock. That is to say, I had my first contact with a local. Window-shopping a bit aimlessly I accidentally wandered into the path of a bicycle. The girl braked. "Whoops, sorry" I exclaimed, shocked. She tilted her head, narrowed her eyes, and gave me an icy-cold look. She held me in her freezing gaze for a few seconds then she re-adjusted her rucksack and glided away without a backwards glance. I was willing it to be a temporary blip, but no, it turned out the residents of Foligno had a definite 'stink under their noses' (the rather more elegant Italian way of saying they had a stick up their arse). I went into several bars and was treated with the utmost hostility by the staff. After paying for my coffee I threw a casual 'thanks, bye' over my shoulder like I do in Rome and was met with a wall of silence as I exited instead of the usual 'thanks to you too, bye'. People in the street stared at my leg like always, but the staring was never followed by a sad or sympathetic muttered 'mamma mia' or 'poverina' and a shake of the head like in Rome. It was an appraising stare at the leg, followed by a scan of the face, then a dismissal and continutation with whatever they were doing.
I was extremely happy to return to my town, where the chairs outside the bars are made of red plastic and don't have cushions on them, but at least the staff acknowledge your thanks. Foligno is Italy at it's pituresque best, but it's definitely not the Italy I know.
Does anyone know Foligno that could shed some light onto this 'stink under the nose' phenomenon? Did the residents just all get out of bed on the wrong side the day I was there? I would be interested to hear of any experiences...
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Progress
Progress is quite boring when it's actually in progress isn't it? That's probably why I haven't spoken much about my day-to-day improvements here. After all, what's so interesting about the time I first took a shower on my own, or the day I walked up a hill for the first time since the accident?
However today being my first crutchless day for almost 5 months I realised that a lot of mundane little things have added up to a great amount of progress. When I first came out of hospital in March I left the house once a day in a wheelchair to be pushed to the bar for breakfast. During the day while E was at work I walked for a total of about 10 minutes a day in circles round the house then got tired and napped for the whole afternoon. We went to the hospital once a week with the wheelchair on the bus. It was the highlight of my week; I got to talk to people and stay out of the house for at least an hour.
After about a month I began to move better and develop some wonderful popeye arm muscles from the crutches. It took a while, but I could get myself up to the village piazza to sit on a bench for a while and pass the time. The wheelchair was still wheeled out for special occasions, such as a trip to Rome when my family came, but after a while we took it back to the hire shop and it was down to me and my popeye arms.
A while later I took my first trip to the pizzeria alone on the bus. When I arrived I was so tired E put me on a matress in the basement with my leg up on a sack of flour. I waited a few days then tried again; this time it went better.
In May I set off for a meeting with my boss to discuss going back to work. The trip to her office, some distance away on the bus, and the walk from the bus stop left me exausted. 'You know you can't go back to work like this' E told me gently. I knew he was right but was so disappointed. I asked my boss if she could wait another few weeks. I continued my trips to the pizzreia and round the village, and 3 weeks later went back to work, for 4 hours a day. Every day, after those 4 hours it was straight back to the pizzeria to put the leg back up on the sack of flour again.
June came and I started working full-time again. Around the same time my Doc started breaking my balls (as the Italians would say), telling me to lose a crutch. I did so and watched with horror as one of my popeye arms turned back into the jelly arm that I had known of old.
Nowadays I sometimes forget that I've got several bits of metal sticking out of my leg and get really confused when people stare at me on the bus, thinking I must have a stain on my shirt. Today I'm crutchless after another ball-breaking session at the hospital, and it feels fine- I'm just going to have to come to terms with my last popeye muscle going to seed.
See you in a week or so when I return from England, walking better but with with my old friends the jelly arms in tow.
However today being my first crutchless day for almost 5 months I realised that a lot of mundane little things have added up to a great amount of progress. When I first came out of hospital in March I left the house once a day in a wheelchair to be pushed to the bar for breakfast. During the day while E was at work I walked for a total of about 10 minutes a day in circles round the house then got tired and napped for the whole afternoon. We went to the hospital once a week with the wheelchair on the bus. It was the highlight of my week; I got to talk to people and stay out of the house for at least an hour.
After about a month I began to move better and develop some wonderful popeye arm muscles from the crutches. It took a while, but I could get myself up to the village piazza to sit on a bench for a while and pass the time. The wheelchair was still wheeled out for special occasions, such as a trip to Rome when my family came, but after a while we took it back to the hire shop and it was down to me and my popeye arms.
A while later I took my first trip to the pizzeria alone on the bus. When I arrived I was so tired E put me on a matress in the basement with my leg up on a sack of flour. I waited a few days then tried again; this time it went better.
In May I set off for a meeting with my boss to discuss going back to work. The trip to her office, some distance away on the bus, and the walk from the bus stop left me exausted. 'You know you can't go back to work like this' E told me gently. I knew he was right but was so disappointed. I asked my boss if she could wait another few weeks. I continued my trips to the pizzreia and round the village, and 3 weeks later went back to work, for 4 hours a day. Every day, after those 4 hours it was straight back to the pizzeria to put the leg back up on the sack of flour again.
June came and I started working full-time again. Around the same time my Doc started breaking my balls (as the Italians would say), telling me to lose a crutch. I did so and watched with horror as one of my popeye arms turned back into the jelly arm that I had known of old.
Nowadays I sometimes forget that I've got several bits of metal sticking out of my leg and get really confused when people stare at me on the bus, thinking I must have a stain on my shirt. Today I'm crutchless after another ball-breaking session at the hospital, and it feels fine- I'm just going to have to come to terms with my last popeye muscle going to seed.
See you in a week or so when I return from England, walking better but with with my old friends the jelly arms in tow.
Sunday, August 3, 2008
Part-time Foreigner
I'm off to England again in a few days, and preparing myself for yet another reverse culture shock experience. Believe me it's more stressful than you might imagine. Here are some things I did last visit that really marked me out as a part-time foreigner:
- Annoying hand gestures that have no significance whatsoever in England. For example the 'pull the other one' hand move where you kind of swirl your hand about in a circle in the air when someone is telling an outrageous anecdote or exaggerating a fact. How to recognise it and tell me to stop doing it: looks a bit like a backwards queen's wave.
- The 'boh' facial expression: Here 'boh' is an inescapable catch-all noise that is the equivalent of saying 'I don't know'. I have managed to cut down on my use of the word itself however the idiot facial expression is more difficult because at work I am bombarded with it from all angles by confused 'boh'ing students. Assume an extremely puzzled expression in the eyes, then pull down the corners of the mouth as far as they will go. Involuntarily your shoulders will now rise as far as your earlobes in a massive shrug. Got it? Good, now never do it again if you are not in Italy, it will earn you some very strange looks.
- Speaking to people on the train. I get on the bus in Italy. I have a broken leg. Poeple notice and help me find a place to sit. I get on the train in England. I get a seat. An old lady with a walking stick gets on and can't find a seat. People ignore her. I stand up and ask the carriage if there is a spare seat anywhere for the old woman. A horrified and embarassed silence fills the carriage. I have broken rule no.1 of public transport travel in England: do not speak to strangers unless there is a bomb about to explode on the train (and then only speak to politely ask them if they could move a bit more quickly towards the emergency exit).
The worst thing is as soon as I've re-acclimitasied I'm on my way back to Rome where I arrive and confuse everyone by saying 'sorry' every time I graze someone's arm and sitting politely with my hands in my lap throughout the most heated discussions.
There are many more of these mini reverse culture shocks, and I'm sure I'll be able to remember them and add them to the list when I return to Italy again.
- Annoying hand gestures that have no significance whatsoever in England. For example the 'pull the other one' hand move where you kind of swirl your hand about in a circle in the air when someone is telling an outrageous anecdote or exaggerating a fact. How to recognise it and tell me to stop doing it: looks a bit like a backwards queen's wave.
- The 'boh' facial expression: Here 'boh' is an inescapable catch-all noise that is the equivalent of saying 'I don't know'. I have managed to cut down on my use of the word itself however the idiot facial expression is more difficult because at work I am bombarded with it from all angles by confused 'boh'ing students. Assume an extremely puzzled expression in the eyes, then pull down the corners of the mouth as far as they will go. Involuntarily your shoulders will now rise as far as your earlobes in a massive shrug. Got it? Good, now never do it again if you are not in Italy, it will earn you some very strange looks.
- Speaking to people on the train. I get on the bus in Italy. I have a broken leg. Poeple notice and help me find a place to sit. I get on the train in England. I get a seat. An old lady with a walking stick gets on and can't find a seat. People ignore her. I stand up and ask the carriage if there is a spare seat anywhere for the old woman. A horrified and embarassed silence fills the carriage. I have broken rule no.1 of public transport travel in England: do not speak to strangers unless there is a bomb about to explode on the train (and then only speak to politely ask them if they could move a bit more quickly towards the emergency exit).
The worst thing is as soon as I've re-acclimitasied I'm on my way back to Rome where I arrive and confuse everyone by saying 'sorry' every time I graze someone's arm and sitting politely with my hands in my lap throughout the most heated discussions.
There are many more of these mini reverse culture shocks, and I'm sure I'll be able to remember them and add them to the list when I return to Italy again.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
The story of my broken leg (part 2)
Arriving at hospital I am put on a table and doctors cut off my trousers and boots. An English-speaking doctor arrives and tells me he's taking me to have a pin put in my foot. I am being wheeled around, having an x-ray done, in an operating room, then back in the x-ray room. I am put in a corridor and a policeman appears and asks me what happened. I mumble something about not knowing Italian, and he tells me to say whatever I can. I say something about a car turning, then trail off, dozy and confused. Then I can see E at the end of the corridor. I'm really fretting because they took off my bra to put on the surgery gown and I'm being carted around with my skanky greying bra in my hand. "My bra, take it away" I beseech E. "I'll give it to Maria" he says, and I see Giorgio and Maria standing at the other end of the corridor looking uneasy. They come over and give me a kiss on the cheek. Then all three of them are told to leave. 'Bye' I say confusedly.
I am wheeled to another part of the corridor. There is a temporary camp of beds and stretchers, about 15 people in all. Suddenly from having loads of busy people in white coats around me there is no-one, just a bunch of people hooked up to painkillers and worried only about their own disasters. I start crying silently. After a while a kind-looking man who also has his leg up on a pillow catches my eye. He looks like he is crying too. He gives me a wavery sort of smile, and I feel a bit better that there is at least someone who is on my side. The night in the coridor passes very slowly. The doctors and nurses seem to have better things to do than come and visit us misplaced patients and when the painkillers wear off the wait for someone to show up is interminable.
The night becomes the morning but it all seems the same as there are no windows and the light is kept on 24 hours. I only know it's morning because I wake up to people eating breakfast around me. I was asleep when it was handed round and now the nurse tells me there isn't any left. Hours pass. E phones me, tells me he can't come until this evening because there is no-one to take his place at the pizzeria. Lunchtime comes and I am asleep again. Again, they will not give me lunch when I ask for it later. But I don't really care, I just want to be out of the corridor. The old man in the bed next to me keeps trying to get up to go for walks, leaning heavily on my bed, dangerously close to my leg. I am trying to remeber the polite form in Italian to ask him to be careful but I can't. The old man the other side of me is making a massive fuss, demanding a hospital transfer. The nurses get so fed up with him they eventually more or less stop coming to check on us altogether. We form our own support group, with those more mentally in check keeping a watch on the old people trying to escape from their beds, and those more physically able trying to put the old people back in bed and going off to try and find a nurse for people in need of painkillers.
E arrives at 11pm on the last bus. He phones me from behind the emergency room door telling me the nurses won't let him in. After 20 minutes I ask one of the support group to go and open the door. He does so and E enters, and is viciously scolded by a nurse who spots him when he is halfway across the room. She lets him pass in the end. I ask him to bring me some food because I haven't eaten all day, and he goes and fetches a bagfull of supplies from the nearest bar, which, when he returns I cannot eat because the first bite makes me feel nauseous. He is not allowed to stay long. He makes for home; there are no more buses, he will have to walk the 4km back to the village.
I am promised by the English-speaking doctor that they have 'found a place upstairs' for me and I can go tomorrow. I don't know what 'upstairs' is , but I reckon it's sure to be better than here. The second night passes much the same as the first with snatched sleep between drip changes, other peoples' moaning and old people routinely trying to climb out of their beds. In the morning, and not a moment too soon, I am taken in a lift to a ward. I am put in a corridor. Shit, I think, not again. But a nice nurse appears and explains to me that we're just waiting for someone to be picked up to go home, then I can have my own room and my own bed. Soon I will tell you all about life on the orthopedic ward, which was to be my home for the next month.
(Ps, don't worry, this was by far the most depressing chapter of the story, it gets better after this).
I am wheeled to another part of the corridor. There is a temporary camp of beds and stretchers, about 15 people in all. Suddenly from having loads of busy people in white coats around me there is no-one, just a bunch of people hooked up to painkillers and worried only about their own disasters. I start crying silently. After a while a kind-looking man who also has his leg up on a pillow catches my eye. He looks like he is crying too. He gives me a wavery sort of smile, and I feel a bit better that there is at least someone who is on my side. The night in the coridor passes very slowly. The doctors and nurses seem to have better things to do than come and visit us misplaced patients and when the painkillers wear off the wait for someone to show up is interminable.
The night becomes the morning but it all seems the same as there are no windows and the light is kept on 24 hours. I only know it's morning because I wake up to people eating breakfast around me. I was asleep when it was handed round and now the nurse tells me there isn't any left. Hours pass. E phones me, tells me he can't come until this evening because there is no-one to take his place at the pizzeria. Lunchtime comes and I am asleep again. Again, they will not give me lunch when I ask for it later. But I don't really care, I just want to be out of the corridor. The old man in the bed next to me keeps trying to get up to go for walks, leaning heavily on my bed, dangerously close to my leg. I am trying to remeber the polite form in Italian to ask him to be careful but I can't. The old man the other side of me is making a massive fuss, demanding a hospital transfer. The nurses get so fed up with him they eventually more or less stop coming to check on us altogether. We form our own support group, with those more mentally in check keeping a watch on the old people trying to escape from their beds, and those more physically able trying to put the old people back in bed and going off to try and find a nurse for people in need of painkillers.
E arrives at 11pm on the last bus. He phones me from behind the emergency room door telling me the nurses won't let him in. After 20 minutes I ask one of the support group to go and open the door. He does so and E enters, and is viciously scolded by a nurse who spots him when he is halfway across the room. She lets him pass in the end. I ask him to bring me some food because I haven't eaten all day, and he goes and fetches a bagfull of supplies from the nearest bar, which, when he returns I cannot eat because the first bite makes me feel nauseous. He is not allowed to stay long. He makes for home; there are no more buses, he will have to walk the 4km back to the village.
I am promised by the English-speaking doctor that they have 'found a place upstairs' for me and I can go tomorrow. I don't know what 'upstairs' is , but I reckon it's sure to be better than here. The second night passes much the same as the first with snatched sleep between drip changes, other peoples' moaning and old people routinely trying to climb out of their beds. In the morning, and not a moment too soon, I am taken in a lift to a ward. I am put in a corridor. Shit, I think, not again. But a nice nurse appears and explains to me that we're just waiting for someone to be picked up to go home, then I can have my own room and my own bed. Soon I will tell you all about life on the orthopedic ward, which was to be my home for the next month.
(Ps, don't worry, this was by far the most depressing chapter of the story, it gets better after this).
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Latin Jealousy
Continuting from the last post I would like to confirm the existence of yet another stereotype. One of the things that really makes me step back and realise that I live in a different country is when I experience the Latin Jealousy. In my experience these people are loud, proud and unashamedly jealous. Let's look at some examples:
Take E's friend Giorgio. Giorgio runs a fruit and vegetable stall at a market and usually provides E's pizzeria with produce. Sometimes E is not able to get hold of Giorgio for some last minute mushrooms (or other vegetable emergency) and so buys from another supplier instead. It's guaranteed that that very same night Giorgio will get wind of the betrayal, rock up at the pizzeria, start berating E and examining the traitorous mushrooms at close quarters. At this point Giorgio's tirade gets too fast for me to pick up everything, but I can usually catch a 'fanno schifo' (they're gross) and a few other derogatory comments before Giorgio storms off home. It'll probably be the next afternoon before he'll talk to E again. A few nights ago he turned up at the pizzeria in a rage because he'd argued with his girlfriend. His girlfriend's mum had served him some tomatoes which he deemed disgsting (ie, not from him) and he'd refused to eat them. His girlfriend was mortified, they argued and he stormed off.
Or look at the doctor who performed my operation. I once had a student of mine dress my leg because she thought it looked infected and I was between hospital appointments (she was actually a doctor by the way, and she dressed my leg at her hospital). Next hospital visit I brought up the incident, thinking my doc'd be pleased that I'd taken the initiative. Oh no. On the contrary he scolded me for 10 minutes like a naughty schoolchild around the theme of 'I am the only doctor allowed to touch your leg' and began a long rant about non-orthopedic doctors being overly paranoid about infections. Turns out that between hospital visits he'd much rather my boyfriend, who makes pizza for a living, treats my leg than another doctor. Oh, and I was strictly forbidden to see a doctor in England too. Maybe in case they accidentally amputated my leg or something. Instead my friend the mortgage adviser was roped in to tend to the cage.
Finally my boyfriend E, though not strictly 'Latin', nevertheless has enough Eastern-European blood and Italian influence running through him to make him as jealous as the rest of 'em. I am not allowed to eat pizza that is not from his pizzeria. "But what if I'm hungry and there's nowhere else to buy food? I won't be eating it for enjoyment. It'll probably be disgusting" I try. I get a dark look in return "I don't think you should try it". Once I bought a spinach and ricotta roll, which admittedly was from a pizzeria, but I assure you did not even vaguely resemble pizza. I couldn't eat it all and took it to E to offer him some. As it turns out however, this is definitely categorised under pizza product. His sulk lasted a good few hours and I learnt that to prevent further 'episodes' I was going to have to be a bit cautious in the future. Now I am constantly checking my receipts and going over my fabrications in my head ('What did I have for lunch? Why, I had pasta al pomodoro'). I'm sure I'll get caught out one day, but until then I'd prefer to avoid the big green-eyed Italian monster.
Take E's friend Giorgio. Giorgio runs a fruit and vegetable stall at a market and usually provides E's pizzeria with produce. Sometimes E is not able to get hold of Giorgio for some last minute mushrooms (or other vegetable emergency) and so buys from another supplier instead. It's guaranteed that that very same night Giorgio will get wind of the betrayal, rock up at the pizzeria, start berating E and examining the traitorous mushrooms at close quarters. At this point Giorgio's tirade gets too fast for me to pick up everything, but I can usually catch a 'fanno schifo' (they're gross) and a few other derogatory comments before Giorgio storms off home. It'll probably be the next afternoon before he'll talk to E again. A few nights ago he turned up at the pizzeria in a rage because he'd argued with his girlfriend. His girlfriend's mum had served him some tomatoes which he deemed disgsting (ie, not from him) and he'd refused to eat them. His girlfriend was mortified, they argued and he stormed off.
Or look at the doctor who performed my operation. I once had a student of mine dress my leg because she thought it looked infected and I was between hospital appointments (she was actually a doctor by the way, and she dressed my leg at her hospital). Next hospital visit I brought up the incident, thinking my doc'd be pleased that I'd taken the initiative. Oh no. On the contrary he scolded me for 10 minutes like a naughty schoolchild around the theme of 'I am the only doctor allowed to touch your leg' and began a long rant about non-orthopedic doctors being overly paranoid about infections. Turns out that between hospital visits he'd much rather my boyfriend, who makes pizza for a living, treats my leg than another doctor. Oh, and I was strictly forbidden to see a doctor in England too. Maybe in case they accidentally amputated my leg or something. Instead my friend the mortgage adviser was roped in to tend to the cage.
Finally my boyfriend E, though not strictly 'Latin', nevertheless has enough Eastern-European blood and Italian influence running through him to make him as jealous as the rest of 'em. I am not allowed to eat pizza that is not from his pizzeria. "But what if I'm hungry and there's nowhere else to buy food? I won't be eating it for enjoyment. It'll probably be disgusting" I try. I get a dark look in return "I don't think you should try it". Once I bought a spinach and ricotta roll, which admittedly was from a pizzeria, but I assure you did not even vaguely resemble pizza. I couldn't eat it all and took it to E to offer him some. As it turns out however, this is definitely categorised under pizza product. His sulk lasted a good few hours and I learnt that to prevent further 'episodes' I was going to have to be a bit cautious in the future. Now I am constantly checking my receipts and going over my fabrications in my head ('What did I have for lunch? Why, I had pasta al pomodoro'). I'm sure I'll get caught out one day, but until then I'd prefer to avoid the big green-eyed Italian monster.
Latin Jealousy
Continuting from the last post I would like to confirm the existence of yet another stereotype. One of the things that really makes me step back and realise that I live in a different country is when I experience the Latin Jealousy. In my experience these people are loud, proud and unashamedly jealous. Let's look at some examples:
Take E's friend Giorgio. Giorgio runs a fruit and vegetable stall at a market and usually provides E's pizzeria with produce. Sometimes E is not able to get hold of Giorgio for some last minute mushrooms (or other vegetable emergency) and so buys from another supplier instead. It's guaranteed that that very same night Giorgio will get wind of the betrayal, rock up at the pizzeria, start berating E and examining the traitorous mushrooms at close quarters. At this point Giorgio's tirade gets too fast for me to pick up everything, but I can usually catch a 'fanno schifo' (they're gross) and a few other derogatory comments before Giorgio storms off home. It'll probably be the next afternoon before he'll talk to E again. A few nights ago he turned up at the pizzeria in a rage because he'd argued with his girlfriend. His girlfriend's mum had served him some tomatoes which he deemed disgsting (ie, not from him) and he'd refused to eat them. His girlfriend was mortified, they argued and he stormed off.
Or look at the doctor who performed my operation. I once had a student of mine dress my leg because she thought it looked infected and I was between hospital appointments (she was actually a doctor by the way, and she dressed my leg at her hospital). Next hospital visit I brought up the incident, thinking my doc'd be pleased that I'd taken the initiative. Oh no. On the contrary he scolded me for 10 minutes like a naughty schoolchild around the theme of 'I am the only doctor allowed to touch your leg' and began a long rant about non-orthopedic doctors being overly paranoid about infections. Turns out that between hospital visits he'd much rather my boyfriend, who makes pizza for a living, treats my leg than another doctor. Oh, and I was strictly forbidden to see a doctor in England too. Maybe in case they accidentally amputated my leg or something. Instead my friend the mortgage adviser was roped in to tend to the cage.
Finally my boyfriend E, though not strictly 'Latin', nevertheless has enough Eastern-European blood and Italian influence running through him to make him as jealous as the rest of 'em. I am not allowed to eat pizza that is not from his pizzeria. "But what if I'm hungry and there's nowhere else to buy food? I won't be eating it for enjoyment. It'll probably be disgusting" I try. I get a dark look in return "I don't think you should try it". Once I bought a spinach and ricotta roll, which admittedly was from a pizzeria, but I assure you did not even vaguely resemble pizza. I couldn't eat it all and took it to E to offer him some. As it turns out however, this is definitely categorised under pizza product. His sulk lasted a good few hours and I learnt that to prevent further 'episodes' I was going to have to be a bit cautious in the future. Now I am constantly checking my receipts and going over my fabrications in my head ('What did I have for lunch? Why, I had pasta al pomodoro'). I'm sure I'll get caught out one day, but until then I'd prefer to avoid the big green-eyed Italian monster.
Take E's friend Giorgio. Giorgio runs a fruit and vegetable stall at a market and usually provides E's pizzeria with produce. Sometimes E is not able to get hold of Giorgio for some last minute mushrooms (or other vegetable emergency) and so buys from another supplier instead. It's guaranteed that that very same night Giorgio will get wind of the betrayal, rock up at the pizzeria, start berating E and examining the traitorous mushrooms at close quarters. At this point Giorgio's tirade gets too fast for me to pick up everything, but I can usually catch a 'fanno schifo' (they're gross) and a few other derogatory comments before Giorgio storms off home. It'll probably be the next afternoon before he'll talk to E again. A few nights ago he turned up at the pizzeria in a rage because he'd argued with his girlfriend. His girlfriend's mum had served him some tomatoes which he deemed disgsting (ie, not from him) and he'd refused to eat them. His girlfriend was mortified, they argued and he stormed off.
Or look at the doctor who performed my operation. I once had a student of mine dress my leg because she thought it looked infected and I was between hospital appointments (she was actually a doctor by the way, and she dressed my leg at her hospital). Next hospital visit I brought up the incident, thinking my doc'd be pleased that I'd taken the initiative. Oh no. On the contrary he scolded me for 10 minutes like a naughty schoolchild around the theme of 'I am the only doctor allowed to touch your leg' and began a long rant about non-orthopedic doctors being overly paranoid about infections. Turns out that between hospital visits he'd much rather my boyfriend, who makes pizza for a living, treats my leg than another doctor. Oh, and I was strictly forbidden to see a doctor in England too. Maybe in case they accidentally amputated my leg or something. Instead my friend the mortgage adviser was roped in to tend to the cage.
Finally my boyfriend E, though not strictly 'Latin', nevertheless has enough Eastern-European blood and Italian influence running through him to make him as jealous as the rest of 'em. I am not allowed to eat pizza that is not from his pizzeria. "But what if I'm hungry and there's nowhere else to buy food? I won't be eating it for enjoyment. It'll probably be disgusting" I try. I get a dark look in return "I don't think you should try it". Once I bought a spinach and ricotta roll, which admittedly was from a pizzeria, but I assure you did not even vaguely resemble pizza. I couldn't eat it all and took it to E to offer him some. As it turns out however, this is definitely categorised under pizza product. His sulk lasted a good few hours and I learnt that to prevent further 'episodes' I was going to have to be a bit cautious in the future. Now I am constantly checking my receipts and going over my fabrications in my head ('What did I have for lunch? Why, I had pasta al pomodoro'). I'm sure I'll get caught out one day, but until then I'd prefer to avoid the big green-eyed Italian monster.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Stereotypes win the day
Stereotype 1: Romans are the crudest and rudest Italians around
If not definitely the crudest and rudest I'm sure they're near the top of the list as a recent excange with the old man who lives upstairs proved:
Old man: What happened to you leg?
Me: I broke it in a blah blah blah
Old man: (regards leg intently with rheumey eyes for several monents before raising an impressed gaze to meet mine) Cazzo*!
(*Fuck!)
Stereotype 2: Italian policeman are workshy bar-dwellers
A taxi driver told me this joke the other day: "What do a policeman and a brioche have in common? You can find both in any bar."
At the local carabinieri office I waited 45 minutes to pick up a report because two officers went to the bar leaving just one alone at the desk to man all enquiries (honest to god, E saw them go in with his own eyes). Then, when I got seen I was told I'd have to go to the tabacco shop across the road to make a photocopy of the report before we could continue with the paperwork. What service!
If not definitely the crudest and rudest I'm sure they're near the top of the list as a recent excange with the old man who lives upstairs proved:
Old man: What happened to you leg?
Me: I broke it in a blah blah blah
Old man: (regards leg intently with rheumey eyes for several monents before raising an impressed gaze to meet mine) Cazzo*!
(*Fuck!)
Stereotype 2: Italian policeman are workshy bar-dwellers
A taxi driver told me this joke the other day: "What do a policeman and a brioche have in common? You can find both in any bar."
At the local carabinieri office I waited 45 minutes to pick up a report because two officers went to the bar leaving just one alone at the desk to man all enquiries (honest to god, E saw them go in with his own eyes). Then, when I got seen I was told I'd have to go to the tabacco shop across the road to make a photocopy of the report before we could continue with the paperwork. What service!
Saturday, July 19, 2008
The story of my broken leg (part 1)
A friend of mine was visiting Rome. We'd spent a relaxed afternoon together; a plate of pasta and a gossip followed by a few pints in the pub. E came and met us after he'd finished work and my friend started eyeing up the two scooter helmets E had carried in with him. "You know I've always wanted to go on a scooter" he told me "but I'm scared something might happen". "What?!! I replied incredulously "nothing will happen. They're actually really safe, and it's really fun. Let E give you a spin around the piazza, go on!". "Hmmmm" he replied, unsure. E and I spent the next hour or so convincing him that nothing terrible would happen and in the end, after a final courage-giving beer he relented, and hopped on the back for a turn around the piazza. I stood there and smiled indulgently like a proud mother as I heard my friend laughing out loud in a mixture of fear and delight all the way round the square. "That was amazing!" he told me excitedly as he hopped off "I'm definitely having another go before I leave. His bus arrived. "See you tomorrow" he yelled as he jumped on the bus to go back to his hotel.
I took the second helmet and got on the back of the bike. "You didn't have to take him so fast" I complained to E as we began the journey back to the village. "He was enjoying it" countered E, and we gently bickered as we made our way home. As we entered the town before ours the streets were still busy at around midnight with teenagers on their way to discos, families on their way home from dinners, and groups of friends crowded outside bars. I was thinking of nothing in particular, half watching the road ahead, half watching the street life around me.
A car up in front on the other side of the road was doing something strange. It looked like it was turning into our path, but surely it couldn't be as it must have seen us coming along at full speed. But no, it was still turning. But I'm sure E can swerve out of it's way. There we go, he's swerving now. It's going to be close, but I know it won't hit us because E is an excellent driver, and...ok now I'm rolling across the ground. The car must have bumped us because I'm not on the scooter anymore. Right, I've finished rolling now, and- shit- is that the scooter 20 metres away? Wow, I went a long way. I feel ok though, and look there's E standing up, thank goodness he's ok too. I quite want to go home now though, think I'll get up too. So I'll just bend my knee, put my foot on the ground and...now why did I hear a crunch? Why can't I get up? E please come over here and help me get up, I want to go home.
I am screaming but I can't quite remember why, I just know that somewhere it hurts. A paramedic on his way home from his shift appears. His name is Paolo and he puts my leg on someone's coat. He won't let me drink water even though I am so thirsty. Somewhere to the right of me E is squaring up to a man who is saying "you didn't slow down when you saw me turning". Paolo calls E away saying "Francesca needs you right now", and I feel like I am in a cheesy film.
An old lady is bending over me and calling me 'carina' and trying to give me tissues, even though my crying isn't really the teary kind of crying but more a hysterical hyperventilating crying. A group of teenagers have stopped their motorinos nearby to find out what's going on. They must be bored of looking, I think, because they are now standing in a circle gossiping. About 5 people are trying to call an ambulance but it is Saturday night and it won't arrive. Finally it comes and I am put on a stretcher and I beg them to let E come with me because I don't think I can remember how to speak Italian any more and I don't know where they're taking me. They very firmly tell me 'no', and I am carted away thinking 'it can't be that bad because there are no flashing lights'.
Part 2 coming soon.
I took the second helmet and got on the back of the bike. "You didn't have to take him so fast" I complained to E as we began the journey back to the village. "He was enjoying it" countered E, and we gently bickered as we made our way home. As we entered the town before ours the streets were still busy at around midnight with teenagers on their way to discos, families on their way home from dinners, and groups of friends crowded outside bars. I was thinking of nothing in particular, half watching the road ahead, half watching the street life around me.
A car up in front on the other side of the road was doing something strange. It looked like it was turning into our path, but surely it couldn't be as it must have seen us coming along at full speed. But no, it was still turning. But I'm sure E can swerve out of it's way. There we go, he's swerving now. It's going to be close, but I know it won't hit us because E is an excellent driver, and...ok now I'm rolling across the ground. The car must have bumped us because I'm not on the scooter anymore. Right, I've finished rolling now, and- shit- is that the scooter 20 metres away? Wow, I went a long way. I feel ok though, and look there's E standing up, thank goodness he's ok too. I quite want to go home now though, think I'll get up too. So I'll just bend my knee, put my foot on the ground and...now why did I hear a crunch? Why can't I get up? E please come over here and help me get up, I want to go home.
I am screaming but I can't quite remember why, I just know that somewhere it hurts. A paramedic on his way home from his shift appears. His name is Paolo and he puts my leg on someone's coat. He won't let me drink water even though I am so thirsty. Somewhere to the right of me E is squaring up to a man who is saying "you didn't slow down when you saw me turning". Paolo calls E away saying "Francesca needs you right now", and I feel like I am in a cheesy film.
An old lady is bending over me and calling me 'carina' and trying to give me tissues, even though my crying isn't really the teary kind of crying but more a hysterical hyperventilating crying. A group of teenagers have stopped their motorinos nearby to find out what's going on. They must be bored of looking, I think, because they are now standing in a circle gossiping. About 5 people are trying to call an ambulance but it is Saturday night and it won't arrive. Finally it comes and I am put on a stretcher and I beg them to let E come with me because I don't think I can remember how to speak Italian any more and I don't know where they're taking me. They very firmly tell me 'no', and I am carted away thinking 'it can't be that bad because there are no flashing lights'.
Part 2 coming soon.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Roman Parking Etiquette
We've stopped at the bar for a speedy breakfast. There's no parking space outside so we block in an already parked silver car and hurry in, leaving the car unlocked. We gulp down a quick coffee and scoff a cornetto and pay. On leaving we notice that our car is no longer blocking in the silver car but is further down the road. "Oh, someone's moved the car" observes E mildly. Then we see the silver car pulling out onto the main road. The driver gives us a big, Italian 'what could I do?' shrug and rolls down the window. "Sorry" she shouts "I waited a bit but no-one came so I had to take off the handbrake and move it". "Don't worry about it" shouts back E, waving as she drives off. We walk towards the re-parked car. "Well that's not really on" mutters E in injured tones, "everyone knows you're meant to sound your horn for a while before trying something like that".
Saturday, July 12, 2008
What nonno did next
We've swapped one crazy for another. At our new house the nonno who lives in the appartment above is a little dotty. The first morning I slept here I was woken early by him shouting at the top of his voice at his wife "Screw you, you've busted my balls this morning. I'm going out for a walk". That was the first sign that something was amiss. Then began the complaints about where E parked his car. "Don't park it outside my garden" he ordered us "I don't want to smell your car in my garden". "Si signore" we replied dutifully, then continued to park there (thinking he'd forget) as it was more convenient for me with my leg. A couple of days later he came to the door "Whose car is that? If it's yours you'd better move it, I don't want to smell it in my garden". A couple more instances like this and we realised this guy was serious about not having the smell of our stationary car in his garden.
Another essential housekeeping rule that us cretins were unaware of is that our letterbox outside the gate must always be emptied. If not it 'looks dirty' and nonno is likely to start trying to remove the contents by poking a small stick through the slit as E found him doing the other day.
As I write Nonno is walking up and down the garden. He stopped a little while ago to spend 5 minutes rearranging my crutches which I left in what was probably some objectionable configuration outside the front door. Being somewhat of an slapdash amatuer in the art of hanging out clothes, I am now terrified of the reaction my first washing load will provoke when my efforts are displayed outside the front door for Nonno to judge...!
Another essential housekeeping rule that us cretins were unaware of is that our letterbox outside the gate must always be emptied. If not it 'looks dirty' and nonno is likely to start trying to remove the contents by poking a small stick through the slit as E found him doing the other day.
As I write Nonno is walking up and down the garden. He stopped a little while ago to spend 5 minutes rearranging my crutches which I left in what was probably some objectionable configuration outside the front door. Being somewhat of an slapdash amatuer in the art of hanging out clothes, I am now terrified of the reaction my first washing load will provoke when my efforts are displayed outside the front door for Nonno to judge...!
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
The difference between an Italian and an Englishman
At school we teach that the more polite a person wants to be in English, the more words they must use in their question, so for example 'How old are you?' becomes 'Excuse me, would you mind me asking how old you are?'. The following is a very good example of English politeness in action compared with typical Italian directness. (If you are English, see if you too think the English exchange reminds you painfully of 'Fawlty Towers')
It's also very telling that in England the only time a stranger was able to face approaching a potentially embarassing conversation was when that stranger was drunk!
Setting: Bar, Italy
Italian stranger, staring: Oooh, that leg looks nasty, what did you do?
Me: Broke it in a scooter accident
Italian stranger: What did you break?
Me: Tibia and fibia
Italian stranger: Ouch. Happened to my brother once. Be carerful on scooters. Good luck then, bye!
Setting: Pub, England
Drunk English stranger: Wow, that's quite some contraption you've got there.
Me: Yes
DES: Look at all the bits coming out of your leg everywhere. Do you mind if I ask you what happened?
Me: No. I broke my leg in a scooter accident.
DES: Ah, doesn't sound too nice. Sorry, I don't mean to ask lots of questions, but when do you have to keep it on until?
Me: A couple more months probably.
DES: Sorry, I don't want to embarass you, I've just never seen something like this before. Sorry, is this really awkward?
Me: No, not particularly
DES: Sorry, you didn't want to talk about it did you?
Me: I don't mind, honest
DES: Look, if it makes it any less awkward I've been in hospital too
Me: Oh?
DES: Yes, I had a testicle removed
Me: Um. Oh.
DES: Oh God, now it's even more awkward. Sorry, are you embarassed? I just thought it might help to tell you about my hospital experience. I had to wear special pants for a month afterwards. God, I've made this really awkward haven't I?
Me: (speechless)
DES: Right, well, I must go. Sorry about all the questions. I didn't mean to be rude. Well, my friends are just over there, so...um, yeah, bye, nice to meet you.
Returning to Italy today.
It's also very telling that in England the only time a stranger was able to face approaching a potentially embarassing conversation was when that stranger was drunk!
Setting: Bar, Italy
Italian stranger, staring: Oooh, that leg looks nasty, what did you do?
Me: Broke it in a scooter accident
Italian stranger: What did you break?
Me: Tibia and fibia
Italian stranger: Ouch. Happened to my brother once. Be carerful on scooters. Good luck then, bye!
Setting: Pub, England
Drunk English stranger: Wow, that's quite some contraption you've got there.
Me: Yes
DES: Look at all the bits coming out of your leg everywhere. Do you mind if I ask you what happened?
Me: No. I broke my leg in a scooter accident.
DES: Ah, doesn't sound too nice. Sorry, I don't mean to ask lots of questions, but when do you have to keep it on until?
Me: A couple more months probably.
DES: Sorry, I don't want to embarass you, I've just never seen something like this before. Sorry, is this really awkward?
Me: No, not particularly
DES: Sorry, you didn't want to talk about it did you?
Me: I don't mind, honest
DES: Look, if it makes it any less awkward I've been in hospital too
Me: Oh?
DES: Yes, I had a testicle removed
Me: Um. Oh.
DES: Oh God, now it's even more awkward. Sorry, are you embarassed? I just thought it might help to tell you about my hospital experience. I had to wear special pants for a month afterwards. God, I've made this really awkward haven't I?
Me: (speechless)
DES: Right, well, I must go. Sorry about all the questions. I didn't mean to be rude. Well, my friends are just over there, so...um, yeah, bye, nice to meet you.
Returning to Italy today.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Misplaced Irony
I'm off to England for a couple of weeks, see you when I'm back!
ps, My doctor is somewhat misguided about the English character. Last visit he told me that I would only have to stay a few days in hospital when the time comes to get my leg cage removed. 'Hooray' I replied. In mock hurt he asked, "why, didn't you like your month stay with us last time?". "Well, you know" I replied, "it was a beautiful exerience and all, but...". "Aha! You have just demonstrated exactly why you are English through and through" he said "look at how diplomatic you were"....
ps, My doctor is somewhat misguided about the English character. Last visit he told me that I would only have to stay a few days in hospital when the time comes to get my leg cage removed. 'Hooray' I replied. In mock hurt he asked, "why, didn't you like your month stay with us last time?". "Well, you know" I replied, "it was a beautiful exerience and all, but...". "Aha! You have just demonstrated exactly why you are English through and through" he said "look at how diplomatic you were"....
Saturday, June 14, 2008
5 pleasantly surpising discoveries about Italy
1)A sugary coffee and a pastry is considered a nutritious breakfast
Yep, order that cappuccino, chuck in at least a sachet of sugar and then order that greasy cornetto with nutella oozing out the sides. Because everyone knows the Mediterranean diet is one of the healthiest in the world, right?!
2)'Getting drunk' is not part of the culture
...unless it's with dinner, and even then it's not a British 'getting drunk for the sake of it' type getting drunk. Don't get me wrong, I love drinking, but these days I save all my serious drinking for trips to England because here they don't really get it, and drunkenness isn't considered very acceptable in public. At first I missed my social crutch but I've come to appreciate that it's possible to stay out late without the aid of booze and still have a good time. I swear it's true! And the next day isn't a write off either.
3) The willingness to 'overlook' problems
Tell the doctors at the hospital you're strugling to afford all the lotions and potions they are prescribing you? Don't worry, just slip these things from the stock cupboard into your bag, but make sure you don't flash them around on your way out. Get caught on the bus without a ticket? Not to worry this time love, there are plenty of fare-dodging Romanians we can fine instead. If it works to your advangtage the 'willingness to overlook' can be a time and hassle-saving wonder.
4) Scooter riders are not always cool
Think of Rome, think of cobbled streets filled with impeccably dressed, dark-haired handsome people radiating cool as they buzz around town on their sooters? For the most part your image is fairly accurate. However come to Italy in winter and you will witness the 'moto blanket', a blanket not unlike a common dog basket blanket, attached to the front of the bike and spread over the knees during the winter months to keep off the chill (probably about 10 degrees). It is pleasantly surprising to fnd a chink in the Italian armour of 'cool', and this spectacle never fails to raise a smile from me because, frankly, the moto blanket looks ridiculous!
5)Public holidays are treated as actual holidays
People get dressed up in their sunday best, visit friends with trays of pastries, and go on strolls round the city with their families. If you've ever been to England and spent a rainy bank holiday traipsing round a crowded shopping centre you will undrestand why this is a pleasant novelty.
Yep, order that cappuccino, chuck in at least a sachet of sugar and then order that greasy cornetto with nutella oozing out the sides. Because everyone knows the Mediterranean diet is one of the healthiest in the world, right?!
2)'Getting drunk' is not part of the culture
...unless it's with dinner, and even then it's not a British 'getting drunk for the sake of it' type getting drunk. Don't get me wrong, I love drinking, but these days I save all my serious drinking for trips to England because here they don't really get it, and drunkenness isn't considered very acceptable in public. At first I missed my social crutch but I've come to appreciate that it's possible to stay out late without the aid of booze and still have a good time. I swear it's true! And the next day isn't a write off either.
3) The willingness to 'overlook' problems
Tell the doctors at the hospital you're strugling to afford all the lotions and potions they are prescribing you? Don't worry, just slip these things from the stock cupboard into your bag, but make sure you don't flash them around on your way out. Get caught on the bus without a ticket? Not to worry this time love, there are plenty of fare-dodging Romanians we can fine instead. If it works to your advangtage the 'willingness to overlook' can be a time and hassle-saving wonder.
4) Scooter riders are not always cool
Think of Rome, think of cobbled streets filled with impeccably dressed, dark-haired handsome people radiating cool as they buzz around town on their sooters? For the most part your image is fairly accurate. However come to Italy in winter and you will witness the 'moto blanket', a blanket not unlike a common dog basket blanket, attached to the front of the bike and spread over the knees during the winter months to keep off the chill (probably about 10 degrees). It is pleasantly surprising to fnd a chink in the Italian armour of 'cool', and this spectacle never fails to raise a smile from me because, frankly, the moto blanket looks ridiculous!
5)Public holidays are treated as actual holidays
People get dressed up in their sunday best, visit friends with trays of pastries, and go on strolls round the city with their families. If you've ever been to England and spent a rainy bank holiday traipsing round a crowded shopping centre you will undrestand why this is a pleasant novelty.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
The Great Escape
Looks like my new-found arguing skills are going to become redundant, as E and I have found a house. It's in a nearby town in a small block of flats. Living in the block are the couple who own our new house, the parents of the wife and another couple. I checked the cupboards and found no crazy Romanians. The couple who rent the house are friendly enough even though the husband is one of those types who knows five phrases in English and keeps trotting them out in the presence of an English-speaking person, accompanied by lots of self-conscious haw-hawing. "You're in pole position for this house" haw haw haw, he informed us. (Is this actually annoying or am I just really intolerant?).
The house is small but sweet, and the residence is fenced off from the road and has a garden which is full of flowers and a vegetable patch. My blogging is likely to slow down (...even more) for the moment as we have emptied our pockets and bank accounts to pay the deposit (a painful 3 months' rent here). This means that paying the internet subscription might go down the list of priorities for now, however there's always the internet cafe, so I will endeavour to keep the posts coming.
The house is small but sweet, and the residence is fenced off from the road and has a garden which is full of flowers and a vegetable patch. My blogging is likely to slow down (...even more) for the moment as we have emptied our pockets and bank accounts to pay the deposit (a painful 3 months' rent here). This means that paying the internet subscription might go down the list of priorities for now, however there's always the internet cafe, so I will endeavour to keep the posts coming.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
Learning to Argue
I'm beginning to quite enjoy arguing you know. Before I moved into this house I can honestly say I'd never had an argument in my life. 'Disagreements' and short-lived sulks yes, but never a full-scale shouting and finger-pointing session.
This all changed a couple of weeks ago when my friend came to stay. My crazy witch housemate stormed into the room where we were sleeping at 8am on a Sunday morning, dramatically snapped on the light and started a full-scale barney in her pajamas.(If you've read anything else about this deranged woman you'll know that the actual details of the argument are likely to be non-sensical and inconsequential so I won't bother going into them). As my friend cowered next to me in the bed, I sat up and gave as good as I got, even trying out a bit of experimental finger jabbing to make my points. We had a good 20-minutes of this, then she finally realised that she'd been falsely accusing me of something the whole time and slunk off. Afterwards I really felt like we'd cleared the air- even if her accusations were crazy at least she'd got them out in the open instead of stomping round with a face on. Despite the fact that we don't particularly like eachother we reached a sort of uneasy peace afterwards that was a million times better than the ignoring eachother stage.
Yesterday night it was E's turn to argue with her. What started off as a conversation about cleaning the house turned into another raise-the-roof barney. To his credit, E is somewhat more talented in the art of arguing than I am and came out with some fantastic Eastenders-worthy lines such as "you're an evil witch" and "if you don't stop shouting I'll throw you off the balcony and you'll never be allowed back into this house". Sonia's responses were equally as impressive "who the hell do you think you are?" "I'm not scared of you or anyone else", "You should respect me, especially after I used to iron your shirts for you before you had a girlfiend. Your girlfriend doesn't even know how to iron". Thoroughly enjoyable stuff.
This all changed a couple of weeks ago when my friend came to stay. My crazy witch housemate stormed into the room where we were sleeping at 8am on a Sunday morning, dramatically snapped on the light and started a full-scale barney in her pajamas.(If you've read anything else about this deranged woman you'll know that the actual details of the argument are likely to be non-sensical and inconsequential so I won't bother going into them). As my friend cowered next to me in the bed, I sat up and gave as good as I got, even trying out a bit of experimental finger jabbing to make my points. We had a good 20-minutes of this, then she finally realised that she'd been falsely accusing me of something the whole time and slunk off. Afterwards I really felt like we'd cleared the air- even if her accusations were crazy at least she'd got them out in the open instead of stomping round with a face on. Despite the fact that we don't particularly like eachother we reached a sort of uneasy peace afterwards that was a million times better than the ignoring eachother stage.
Yesterday night it was E's turn to argue with her. What started off as a conversation about cleaning the house turned into another raise-the-roof barney. To his credit, E is somewhat more talented in the art of arguing than I am and came out with some fantastic Eastenders-worthy lines such as "you're an evil witch" and "if you don't stop shouting I'll throw you off the balcony and you'll never be allowed back into this house". Sonia's responses were equally as impressive "who the hell do you think you are?" "I'm not scared of you or anyone else", "You should respect me, especially after I used to iron your shirts for you before you had a girlfiend. Your girlfriend doesn't even know how to iron". Thoroughly enjoyable stuff.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
index finger for yes, middle finger for no
Learning to drive is never easy, as anyone who's tried to master the art will know. Therefore I was fully behind E when he decided to convert his Albanian lisence to an Italian one. It didn't seem too tricky a process- he just had to take the theory test and then be observed a bit driving. He studied hard, battling through the pages-long manual, following the text with his finger as he mouthed the words to himself (he left school at 14 and is a slow reader). He took the test the day after the accident on two hours sleep and unsurprisingly failed, although not by much. He re-booked and took it again a month later, and this time failed by one mark.
Here comes the moral dilema: being bored and frustrated by the process he then told me he was going to 'buy' his lisence. He proceeded to phone around various 'contacts' at the driving school agency to get some prices. I was, and still am being very purse-lipped and English about the whole thing, despite being simultaneously fascinated. "But how does it work?" I asked him. "Well, I give the guy a few hundred euros now, and then the rest on the day of the exam".
The day before the exam he went to meet the contact to discuss how it would be done, and it was explained that for every question read out the examiner would raise one finger slightly if the answer was 'yes' and another if it was 'no'. Yesterday he set off happlily to the test centre and handed over the rest of the cash- half for the contact at the driving centre and half for some senior guy who works for the state. I saw him later that day. "Well...?" He laughed; "I passed" and then "why are you still pulling those faces? Everyone does it".
I'm still not sure how I feel about this. If 'everybody does it' then perhaps the driver who broke my leg did it too. Maybe I'm just being overly sensitive and within a year or so will be pushing envelopes under tables left, right and centre too.
Here comes the moral dilema: being bored and frustrated by the process he then told me he was going to 'buy' his lisence. He proceeded to phone around various 'contacts' at the driving school agency to get some prices. I was, and still am being very purse-lipped and English about the whole thing, despite being simultaneously fascinated. "But how does it work?" I asked him. "Well, I give the guy a few hundred euros now, and then the rest on the day of the exam".
The day before the exam he went to meet the contact to discuss how it would be done, and it was explained that for every question read out the examiner would raise one finger slightly if the answer was 'yes' and another if it was 'no'. Yesterday he set off happlily to the test centre and handed over the rest of the cash- half for the contact at the driving centre and half for some senior guy who works for the state. I saw him later that day. "Well...?" He laughed; "I passed" and then "why are you still pulling those faces? Everyone does it".
I'm still not sure how I feel about this. If 'everybody does it' then perhaps the driver who broke my leg did it too. Maybe I'm just being overly sensitive and within a year or so will be pushing envelopes under tables left, right and centre too.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
The Best Hotel in Town
Well, it's definitely been an eventful few days. I had two friends over to visit and they certainly made an impression on the household. Having heard legendary stories of housemate Sonia's jealousy of any females that enter within a 20-mile radius of her boyfriend I had a few apprehensions about two of my friends staying in the next room. However I reckoned that we wouldn't be in the house much anyway, and seeing as they couldn't speak Italian or Albanian, opportunities to steal Marco away would be fairly limited for them.
The first night was fine, they were already in bed when we got back. My friends began to accuse me of exaggerating (they were expecting her to be waiting up with a kitchen knife), when we heard the very distinct sound from the next room of a key being turned in a lock. Marco safely locked in the bedroom away from pyjama-clad English seductresses all went quiet again and we giggled ourselves to sleep.
The next day unfortunately we didn't fare so well. Making ourselves a furtive plate of pasta in the empty house, the couple returned home. Marco, being a normal, sociable kind of chap started practicing his English with us until a screech from the other room interrupted the fledgling English lesson: "Come here, NOW". Marco scuttled off and I shushed my friends in order to hear better and translate a one-way shouting match that went something like this: "why the f**k are you trying to talk English? I'm your girlfriend. I'm Romanian. Why don't you speak Romanian with me instead of trying to speak that s****y language" etc etc. A bit later Marco returned looking a bit embarassed and put on some music. Some music that unfortunately happened to be in English, and which unfortunately my foolish friend started nodding her head to. The witch was watching and listening and the screech came again- "change this music IMMEDIATELY". Why do you suddenly want to listen to English music? Put on some Romanian music you ignorant bastard." etc etc. I swear I'm not making it up, there really does exist a woman this crazy.
We hid out on the balcony for the rest of the night with our bottle of Amaretto and drunk enough of the stuff that it seemed really funny when later on one of the friends accidentally walked in on Marci in the loo. She legged it as the shouting started and we spent the next 10 minutes having silent, painful laughing fits.
The last couple of days we managed to stay for the most part out of their way, and whenever we saw her around she studiously ignored us all. In fact she's still ignoring me despite the fact that the wanton seductresses have departed the village. I sat E down for a 'talk' last night, insisting that we move house as soon as humanly possibly, explaining that while he escaped the house every day I was consigned to being near the crazy witch with only a pair of crutches for defence. However, as luck would have it my old job phoned me today asking me to cover a few hours. I went to see them and they gave me a timetable with a non leg-wearying few hours in the afternoon and evening, with the probability of getting more when I finish the holiday cover. This means both E and I will be working hours where we can essentially avoid ever seeing the witch, and therefore there's no urgent rush to move (the low rent we pay makes it worth putting up with the odd spell being cast on us).
Oh, did I mention I've got another friend coming to stay this weekend..? Hopefully I'll make it out alive to tell you what happens next week!
The first night was fine, they were already in bed when we got back. My friends began to accuse me of exaggerating (they were expecting her to be waiting up with a kitchen knife), when we heard the very distinct sound from the next room of a key being turned in a lock. Marco safely locked in the bedroom away from pyjama-clad English seductresses all went quiet again and we giggled ourselves to sleep.
The next day unfortunately we didn't fare so well. Making ourselves a furtive plate of pasta in the empty house, the couple returned home. Marco, being a normal, sociable kind of chap started practicing his English with us until a screech from the other room interrupted the fledgling English lesson: "Come here, NOW". Marco scuttled off and I shushed my friends in order to hear better and translate a one-way shouting match that went something like this: "why the f**k are you trying to talk English? I'm your girlfriend. I'm Romanian. Why don't you speak Romanian with me instead of trying to speak that s****y language" etc etc. A bit later Marco returned looking a bit embarassed and put on some music. Some music that unfortunately happened to be in English, and which unfortunately my foolish friend started nodding her head to. The witch was watching and listening and the screech came again- "change this music IMMEDIATELY". Why do you suddenly want to listen to English music? Put on some Romanian music you ignorant bastard." etc etc. I swear I'm not making it up, there really does exist a woman this crazy.
We hid out on the balcony for the rest of the night with our bottle of Amaretto and drunk enough of the stuff that it seemed really funny when later on one of the friends accidentally walked in on Marci in the loo. She legged it as the shouting started and we spent the next 10 minutes having silent, painful laughing fits.
The last couple of days we managed to stay for the most part out of their way, and whenever we saw her around she studiously ignored us all. In fact she's still ignoring me despite the fact that the wanton seductresses have departed the village. I sat E down for a 'talk' last night, insisting that we move house as soon as humanly possibly, explaining that while he escaped the house every day I was consigned to being near the crazy witch with only a pair of crutches for defence. However, as luck would have it my old job phoned me today asking me to cover a few hours. I went to see them and they gave me a timetable with a non leg-wearying few hours in the afternoon and evening, with the probability of getting more when I finish the holiday cover. This means both E and I will be working hours where we can essentially avoid ever seeing the witch, and therefore there's no urgent rush to move (the low rent we pay makes it worth putting up with the odd spell being cast on us).
Oh, did I mention I've got another friend coming to stay this weekend..? Hopefully I'll make it out alive to tell you what happens next week!
Friday, April 18, 2008
Breakfast Rules
Want to know what I had for breakfast this morning? Probably not, but I'm going to tell you anyway. I had a cappuccino and a cornetto. And yesterday? Cappuccino and cornetto. And every day last week? Cappuccino and cornetto. Why don't I branch out and have something different? Well, um, I'm not entirely sure. Having rather too much time on my hands I've given this some thought and come to the conclusion that I've been inadvertantly sucked into the Italian 'order of things', a routine which can never be satisfactorily explained because it usually doesn't follow the rules of logic, but is nevertheless followed by almost everyone. Breakfast consists of some type of coffee and a sweet cake or pastry, and that's just the way it is. I'm only talking about breakfast here, but many aspects of life in Italy seem to be shaped by invisible sets of rules that are set in stone and extremely puzzling for the outsider.
With that in mind here's a troubleshooting guide to breakfasting in Italy:
Help! I am currently living in Italy and am fed up of being treated as a mad eccentric foreigner at the local bar. Can you advise me on breakfast bar etiquette?
Certianly. Firstly, unless you are elderly or it is the weekend you must always stand at the bar to eat your breakfast. This is also beneficial for your digestion. Secondly, don't let the locals push in when you are ordering, they will lose all respect for you. It's each for their own out there. Thirdly, make sure you are ordering the normal breakfast items- coffee and cornetto should be fine. It's as simple as that!
I don't have a particularly sweet tooth; is it acceptable to have one of those delicious looking sandwiches instead of something sweet?
Of course! Sandwiches are allowed after about 10am.
Last time I tried to order a sandwich and a coffee for breakfast I was scolded like a child. Now I am scared of trying this combination again. Please can you explain?
This is important: you must never combine coffee and sanwiches. You will have death-inducing digestion problems. Coffee and cornetti are SWEET, sandwiches and fruit juice (the only acceptable accompanying beverage for sandwiches) are SAVOURY.
(Just to let you know, it is ok to have an espresso (but no other type of coffee) after a sandwich, but now we're getting into lunch territory).
If I don't sweeten my coffee am I allowed both a sandwich and a coffee?
This is a pointless question, because as you should know everybody takes sugar in their coffee. You are destined to remain forever a mad eccentric foreigner at your local bar.
With that in mind here's a troubleshooting guide to breakfasting in Italy:
Help! I am currently living in Italy and am fed up of being treated as a mad eccentric foreigner at the local bar. Can you advise me on breakfast bar etiquette?
Certianly. Firstly, unless you are elderly or it is the weekend you must always stand at the bar to eat your breakfast. This is also beneficial for your digestion. Secondly, don't let the locals push in when you are ordering, they will lose all respect for you. It's each for their own out there. Thirdly, make sure you are ordering the normal breakfast items- coffee and cornetto should be fine. It's as simple as that!
I don't have a particularly sweet tooth; is it acceptable to have one of those delicious looking sandwiches instead of something sweet?
Of course! Sandwiches are allowed after about 10am.
Last time I tried to order a sandwich and a coffee for breakfast I was scolded like a child. Now I am scared of trying this combination again. Please can you explain?
This is important: you must never combine coffee and sanwiches. You will have death-inducing digestion problems. Coffee and cornetti are SWEET, sandwiches and fruit juice (the only acceptable accompanying beverage for sandwiches) are SAVOURY.
(Just to let you know, it is ok to have an espresso (but no other type of coffee) after a sandwich, but now we're getting into lunch territory).
If I don't sweeten my coffee am I allowed both a sandwich and a coffee?
This is a pointless question, because as you should know everybody takes sugar in their coffee. You are destined to remain forever a mad eccentric foreigner at your local bar.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Bella Frattura
To be honest I didn't know I was getting a leg cage when I went into the operating theatre (I never remember the official name of it in Italian so it was christened and remains 'leg cage'). Due to my poor understanding of medical Italian I had a few communication troubles, but seeing as I managed to damage myself in seemingly the most hypochondriac country in Europe (more of that another time) I was fairly trusting of the doctors' ability to put me right.
I knew I wouldn't have a cast due to the fact that I sustained, as the doctor told me, a 'bella frattura'. This does not, as one might assume mean a beautiful fracture, but on the contrary a bloody bad fracture (oh, the complexities of understanding this strange language). Instead there were mutterings around my bedside about 'ferro' (that would be iron to me and you), and it was explained to me that a rod would be put inside my leg to reconnect the bones. So far, so good. I explained to everyone what would be happening, and a few days later was wheeled into the operating room under local anaesthetic expecting to be wheeled out with some kind of long incision down my leg where they'd inserted the rod. They put a screen up in front of my face so I couldn't see what was going on, and I lay in a fair amount of discomfort for four hours while I heard them drilling and cutting, and felt strange sensations of tugging, hammering and screwing. Hang on, hammering and screwing? What the hell were they doing down there? 'Ah, whatever' I thought, tranquillized to the teeth 'who cares'.
Outside the theatre I waited with a sheet over my leg waiting to be taken back to the ward when along came my doctor. '"It went really, really well. Are you ready to see it?" he asked me, eyes full of excitement. He pulled back the cover and revealed to me for the first time my leg cage. He smiled, "quanto e bella?" he asked me- “isn’t it beautiful?” 'Ok' I thought, understanding, 'he’s slipped in another of those confusing, sneaky ‘bella’s’', and I started to agree how terrible and hideous the cage was. Then I realised that it wasn’t a sneaky bella; his face was shining with pride as he gazed in admiration at his work. "This technology is modern-issimo, isn't it great? Hang on, let me take a quick photo". He then proceeded to take out his mobile phone and take photos from several different angles. "Cool, now I can show all my friends" he informed me enthusiastically. A nurse came over and asked “can’t we take her away yet?” The doctor finished off his photography, took one last loving glance at the cage before re-covering it gently, and allowing the nurse to wheel me away.
I knew I wouldn't have a cast due to the fact that I sustained, as the doctor told me, a 'bella frattura'. This does not, as one might assume mean a beautiful fracture, but on the contrary a bloody bad fracture (oh, the complexities of understanding this strange language). Instead there were mutterings around my bedside about 'ferro' (that would be iron to me and you), and it was explained to me that a rod would be put inside my leg to reconnect the bones. So far, so good. I explained to everyone what would be happening, and a few days later was wheeled into the operating room under local anaesthetic expecting to be wheeled out with some kind of long incision down my leg where they'd inserted the rod. They put a screen up in front of my face so I couldn't see what was going on, and I lay in a fair amount of discomfort for four hours while I heard them drilling and cutting, and felt strange sensations of tugging, hammering and screwing. Hang on, hammering and screwing? What the hell were they doing down there? 'Ah, whatever' I thought, tranquillized to the teeth 'who cares'.
Outside the theatre I waited with a sheet over my leg waiting to be taken back to the ward when along came my doctor. '"It went really, really well. Are you ready to see it?" he asked me, eyes full of excitement. He pulled back the cover and revealed to me for the first time my leg cage. He smiled, "quanto e bella?" he asked me- “isn’t it beautiful?” 'Ok' I thought, understanding, 'he’s slipped in another of those confusing, sneaky ‘bella’s’', and I started to agree how terrible and hideous the cage was. Then I realised that it wasn’t a sneaky bella; his face was shining with pride as he gazed in admiration at his work. "This technology is modern-issimo, isn't it great? Hang on, let me take a quick photo". He then proceeded to take out his mobile phone and take photos from several different angles. "Cool, now I can show all my friends" he informed me enthusiastically. A nurse came over and asked “can’t we take her away yet?” The doctor finished off his photography, took one last loving glance at the cage before re-covering it gently, and allowing the nurse to wheel me away.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Drying Out
I was thrown a lifeline last night. E's friend was celebrating his birthday in Rome and I had already resigned myself to the fact that I wouldn't be able to go and had sat E down and in a very mature and non-martyrish fashion told him he should go without me as Giorgio is a close friend. (But only on the condition that he spared a thought for me every now and then, spending the night sitting in on another couples' relationship breakdown).
Luckily for me Giorgio and his girlfriend offered to pick me up from my village outpost and escort me to the bar in Rome. I got so excited I was ready and waiting an hour before they were due to arrive. And they, following Italian time-keeping rules turned up an hour late, so I watched a bit of 'Tempesta D'Amore' (dubbed German soap of choice in this house) and tried to ignore Sonia's occasional death stares.
It was my first 'Italian' birthday, and very civilised it was too. We passed a relaxed few hours chatting, eating and drinking. No-one ordered more than two drinks the entire night, and many weren't even drinking alcohol. Having purposely avoided the painkillers in order to enjoy a few drinks I felt a bit put out, but I really should have known. I've been to a pub with a bunch of Italians on another occasion and it was exactly the same- on the table I spotted two lonely glasses of wine, a dozen cokes, and two pots of tea (TEA? In the pub on a saturday night?). Here, in the gaps where perhaps in England we'd refresh our pint glasses, they summoned the waitress to give a detailed descrition of the different antipasti on offer, or went on a mass exodus outside to smoke. Having had in my hand the same glass of warm, half-flat coke for half an hour (I started wobbling on my crutches after the first drink) I got a bit hopeful when, after the cake, the waitress brought out 12 glasses. 'Oh goody' I thought, 'here comes the prosecco'. But no, it turns out the birthday boy had asked her to bring us a big bottle of mineral water, which was eagerly poured and passed around. I can only assume this is some absurd part of the digestion maintenance routine which seems to be an obsession here.
A bit later we all left together, lingering outside to chat a bit more, and finally going through the double kiss on cheeks rigmarole with every other person present. The birthday boy, who'd hit nothing harder than a coke all night, drove us home.
Luckily for me Giorgio and his girlfriend offered to pick me up from my village outpost and escort me to the bar in Rome. I got so excited I was ready and waiting an hour before they were due to arrive. And they, following Italian time-keeping rules turned up an hour late, so I watched a bit of 'Tempesta D'Amore' (dubbed German soap of choice in this house) and tried to ignore Sonia's occasional death stares.
It was my first 'Italian' birthday, and very civilised it was too. We passed a relaxed few hours chatting, eating and drinking. No-one ordered more than two drinks the entire night, and many weren't even drinking alcohol. Having purposely avoided the painkillers in order to enjoy a few drinks I felt a bit put out, but I really should have known. I've been to a pub with a bunch of Italians on another occasion and it was exactly the same- on the table I spotted two lonely glasses of wine, a dozen cokes, and two pots of tea (TEA? In the pub on a saturday night?). Here, in the gaps where perhaps in England we'd refresh our pint glasses, they summoned the waitress to give a detailed descrition of the different antipasti on offer, or went on a mass exodus outside to smoke. Having had in my hand the same glass of warm, half-flat coke for half an hour (I started wobbling on my crutches after the first drink) I got a bit hopeful when, after the cake, the waitress brought out 12 glasses. 'Oh goody' I thought, 'here comes the prosecco'. But no, it turns out the birthday boy had asked her to bring us a big bottle of mineral water, which was eagerly poured and passed around. I can only assume this is some absurd part of the digestion maintenance routine which seems to be an obsession here.
A bit later we all left together, lingering outside to chat a bit more, and finally going through the double kiss on cheeks rigmarole with every other person present. The birthday boy, who'd hit nothing harder than a coke all night, drove us home.
Friday, April 11, 2008
Friday night is medicate-your-leg night!
It's been all go here today. First there was a 7-hour powercut while I was alone at home. I had to take to my bed through boredom; I have become sadly reliant on atrocious Italian TV. Later Marco and Sonia came home and had a blazing row in which Sonia threatened to leave. I tried to avoid the row by doing a few circuits of the bedroom on my crutches, and by the time I braved the sitting room again they had magically made up and decided to head out to buy some scratchcards.
Now I'm waiting for E to come home from work to medicate my leg (my Friday nights really have come to this). I have to do it at home once a week in addition to going to the hospital once a week to have it done. At the hospital I usually see the no-nonsesne doctor Pierro who has, as he put it 'been my butcher since the beginning'. Most of his family live in New York, and as a result he speaks English with an Italian-American gangster accent straight from the movies. My favourite day in hospital was when he appeared at my bedside and said "hey little girl, how ya doin?" (look, nothing much exciting happened in hospital ok?). Last visit he was asking me questions, probably trying to distract me from the antispetic he was wiping liberally over my leg, when he got round to asking about E. "What does ya boyfriend do?". "He's the manager of a pizzeria. OW, what are you doing now?". "Pulling out your stitches" yank "well, that's interesting, my family have a pizzeria in Long Island" yank "stay still, I'm not gonna hurt ya".
Five minutes of yanking and vicious swabbing with antispetic later Pierro says "why don't we call your boy in, he can keep you company while I finish up". E is summoned and looks puzzled, unsurprising given that on several occasions he has been forcefully ejected from my bedside when leg medication has been in process. But it turns out Pierro wants to chat pizza. I lie helplessly on the hard bed, pizza talk swirling around my head while Pierro, losing any sembelance of bedside manner he may have had through lack of concentration, pours on some more antispetic for good measure and slaps on bandages with his meaty hands while my boyfriend, sent to 'keep me company', gesticulates excitedly on the other side of the room about pizza varieties. They end the visit in high spirits, with Pierro promising a visit to E's pizzeria soon. I wearily lower myself and my throbbing leg from the bed.
On the way home E is full of chat about Pierro "isn't he such a cool doctor? Did you hear he said I could go and work for his brother in Long Island?" Yes, I thought, reaching into my bag for my painkillers, very cool...just you wait until he treats your wounds and then we'll see how cool you think he is!
Now I'm waiting for E to come home from work to medicate my leg (my Friday nights really have come to this). I have to do it at home once a week in addition to going to the hospital once a week to have it done. At the hospital I usually see the no-nonsesne doctor Pierro who has, as he put it 'been my butcher since the beginning'. Most of his family live in New York, and as a result he speaks English with an Italian-American gangster accent straight from the movies. My favourite day in hospital was when he appeared at my bedside and said "hey little girl, how ya doin?" (look, nothing much exciting happened in hospital ok?). Last visit he was asking me questions, probably trying to distract me from the antispetic he was wiping liberally over my leg, when he got round to asking about E. "What does ya boyfriend do?". "He's the manager of a pizzeria. OW, what are you doing now?". "Pulling out your stitches" yank "well, that's interesting, my family have a pizzeria in Long Island" yank "stay still, I'm not gonna hurt ya".
Five minutes of yanking and vicious swabbing with antispetic later Pierro says "why don't we call your boy in, he can keep you company while I finish up". E is summoned and looks puzzled, unsurprising given that on several occasions he has been forcefully ejected from my bedside when leg medication has been in process. But it turns out Pierro wants to chat pizza. I lie helplessly on the hard bed, pizza talk swirling around my head while Pierro, losing any sembelance of bedside manner he may have had through lack of concentration, pours on some more antispetic for good measure and slaps on bandages with his meaty hands while my boyfriend, sent to 'keep me company', gesticulates excitedly on the other side of the room about pizza varieties. They end the visit in high spirits, with Pierro promising a visit to E's pizzeria soon. I wearily lower myself and my throbbing leg from the bed.
On the way home E is full of chat about Pierro "isn't he such a cool doctor? Did you hear he said I could go and work for his brother in Long Island?" Yes, I thought, reaching into my bag for my painkillers, very cool...just you wait until he treats your wounds and then we'll see how cool you think he is!
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Another Day at the Ranch
We live with a disaster couple Marco (cousin of E) and Sonia who argue from morning to night. Marco is here without documents and waiting to marry Sonia (who is Romanian) so that he can live here legally. She is refusing to marry him because according to her he treats her like a skivvy while he goes out gambling with his friends spending all their money. But anyway, that is a story for another day.
Returning from work this afternoon Sonia, as usual, switched on the TV, made us a coffee, started chain smoking, and launced into a tirade against Marco. Being trapped as I am in the house I have become her unwilling confidante. (Not wanting to get involved in their disputes, I have learnt to employ a wide range of my newly-acquired Italian-style non-commital grunting noises and indifferent shrugs.) Just as today's tirade was coming to a climax ("I do everything for him, I even took my lawyer to get him out of jail the last time the carabinieri came, and what does he do for me? Asks me why his dinner's not on the table. Well vaffanculo!") the doorbell rang.
Enter a sheepish looking Marco...followed by two carabinieri. "We need to see all of your documents" said the fat one, taking a cigarette from the packet on the table. "Listen, I'm English, what do you want from me?" I asked (a bit of Italian assertiveness coming through). "Ok, nothing, you're fine" said the fat one, and started asking about my leg. Meanwhile the thin one with the bumbag disappeared with the others into their bedroom. Wondering what was going on, I made small talk about my leg cage with the fat caribiniera, and after a bit the others reappeared. The thin one with the bumbag picked up an empty shoebox, opened it and peered inside. "Ok" he said after a moment "let's go." And then to Marco: "we'll let you go this time, but hurry up with the wedding".
So what the hell happened? Turns out they were anti-drugs squad who go around searching out people who they think look shifty (foreigners, especially Albanians, would be at the top of the list) and then accompany them to their houses to look for drugs. Marco just got lucky that they were more interested in searching through old empty shoeboxes than enforcing immigration laws. This one should keep Sonia and I busy for the next few afternoons...
Returning from work this afternoon Sonia, as usual, switched on the TV, made us a coffee, started chain smoking, and launced into a tirade against Marco. Being trapped as I am in the house I have become her unwilling confidante. (Not wanting to get involved in their disputes, I have learnt to employ a wide range of my newly-acquired Italian-style non-commital grunting noises and indifferent shrugs.) Just as today's tirade was coming to a climax ("I do everything for him, I even took my lawyer to get him out of jail the last time the carabinieri came, and what does he do for me? Asks me why his dinner's not on the table. Well vaffanculo!") the doorbell rang.
Enter a sheepish looking Marco...followed by two carabinieri. "We need to see all of your documents" said the fat one, taking a cigarette from the packet on the table. "Listen, I'm English, what do you want from me?" I asked (a bit of Italian assertiveness coming through). "Ok, nothing, you're fine" said the fat one, and started asking about my leg. Meanwhile the thin one with the bumbag disappeared with the others into their bedroom. Wondering what was going on, I made small talk about my leg cage with the fat caribiniera, and after a bit the others reappeared. The thin one with the bumbag picked up an empty shoebox, opened it and peered inside. "Ok" he said after a moment "let's go." And then to Marco: "we'll let you go this time, but hurry up with the wedding".
So what the hell happened? Turns out they were anti-drugs squad who go around searching out people who they think look shifty (foreigners, especially Albanians, would be at the top of the list) and then accompany them to their houses to look for drugs. Marco just got lucky that they were more interested in searching through old empty shoeboxes than enforcing immigration laws. This one should keep Sonia and I busy for the next few afternoons...
Precious Wound
We have come to accept that the staff in the local village pharmacy are pretty useless. While you stand (uncomfortably, on crutches) in the queue they will gossip blithely with locals, place coffee orders with the staff from the bar across the road, and occasionally leave the counter altogether and disappear mysteriously behind a curtain into some back room. When your turn comes they will ask for a detailed account of your accident (out of pure nosiness one assumes), at which point the others in the queue will suddenly stop tutting and cursing under their breath at the slowness of the service, and all remember that they too have a friend/relative/greengrocer who had an accident similar to yours. After listening to a polite amount of stories, advice and well wishing you will make a 'I'd love to talk more, but you know, the queue is now 50 people long and I don't like to keep people waiting' face and finally hand your prescription over.
The woman behind the counter will put on her glasses and stare at it confusedly. She will call over the other staff. They will confer for 5 minutes. They do not stock this product apparently (at this point you will turn to your boyfriend in bemusement because you thought you were only asking for bandages, not treatment for a rare tropical disease). One pharmacist will disappear into the mysterious room. One will get on the telephone to try and source the elusive bandage. The other, inexplicably, will go and start stacking the shelves with baby food. Now there are no staff left to serve the queue and people don't seem so eager to be your new best friend any more. You will leave the pharmacy empty-handed half an hour later, having declined the offer to order in the product and wait 2 weeks for its arrival.
Another week, another prescription. This morning our task was to buy a special giant plaster for the wound on my leg. I elected to stay outside ('um, my leg hurts, I need to sit down'- surely you've got to milk it sometimes) and sent E in, face set in a grim mask of determination. Fifteen minutes later he's back outside; "they've just looked it up on their computer. We'd have to order it in and it costs 150 Euros". I laugh, tell him to forget about it and to just go to the pharmacy in Rome near where he works to pick it up. We go for breakfast at the bar across the road and snigger over our cappuccinos about incompetent pharmacists, wondering which other outlying villages they send the university drop-outs to.
E departs for work and I, out of curiosity and boredom search for the plaster online. To my surprise our incompetent pharmacists got it right- it does cost an unbelievable 150 Euros. A bit more digging reveals that it works using the 'sustained use of hydroactivated silver'. The doctors have asked me to buy one silver plaster a week. Obviously I can't. Any advice?!
The woman behind the counter will put on her glasses and stare at it confusedly. She will call over the other staff. They will confer for 5 minutes. They do not stock this product apparently (at this point you will turn to your boyfriend in bemusement because you thought you were only asking for bandages, not treatment for a rare tropical disease). One pharmacist will disappear into the mysterious room. One will get on the telephone to try and source the elusive bandage. The other, inexplicably, will go and start stacking the shelves with baby food. Now there are no staff left to serve the queue and people don't seem so eager to be your new best friend any more. You will leave the pharmacy empty-handed half an hour later, having declined the offer to order in the product and wait 2 weeks for its arrival.
Another week, another prescription. This morning our task was to buy a special giant plaster for the wound on my leg. I elected to stay outside ('um, my leg hurts, I need to sit down'- surely you've got to milk it sometimes) and sent E in, face set in a grim mask of determination. Fifteen minutes later he's back outside; "they've just looked it up on their computer. We'd have to order it in and it costs 150 Euros". I laugh, tell him to forget about it and to just go to the pharmacy in Rome near where he works to pick it up. We go for breakfast at the bar across the road and snigger over our cappuccinos about incompetent pharmacists, wondering which other outlying villages they send the university drop-outs to.
E departs for work and I, out of curiosity and boredom search for the plaster online. To my surprise our incompetent pharmacists got it right- it does cost an unbelievable 150 Euros. A bit more digging reveals that it works using the 'sustained use of hydroactivated silver'. The doctors have asked me to buy one silver plaster a week. Obviously I can't. Any advice?!
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