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).
Thursday, July 31, 2008
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.
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