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.
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