September is a time for new starts, and I always feel this rule applies more here in Italy than elsewhere because during the summer things wind down to a crawl. Here in Rome it can take up until mid-September for the city to creak to its feet, shake off the last of that summer dust kicked up by motorinos cruising along dry roads and get things up and running again.
In its annual state of sweaty lethargy was how I found Rome when I came back from England a month ago. Then I started a new job and things got very hectic. I've therefore only just noticed that life, in the meantime, has rediscovered its old rhythms. The traffic along my road is constant instead of trickling, small shops on side streets have reopened their shutters with a vengance, and there's the definite, delicious hint of a chill in the air early in the morning.
Raising my head above the parapet for the first time after three tiring weeks in my new job (more about that another time) I realise that while I have been spending my weekends in a daze of exhaustion I have been missing out on the lasts of the summer. Last visit to the lake or beach, last good peaches, last really, really cold beer, last chance to wear that cute red sundress. And worse still, it's last-chance saloon at the gelaterias, who are going down to weekend-only opening.
But that's ok, because autumn in Italy brings other joys. When you leave the house it means the sun warming your cockles instead of frying your brains. Autumn means the grape harvest and all its associated pleasures. It means being able to stay inside reading a book without feeling guilty that you should be doing something becasue it's such a beautiful evening. On the other hand it means strolls in the park, visiting museums, going on trips, and all those things you haven't been able to do during daytime hours for 3 months because the sun would have melted the soles of your shoes. It means starting to eat yummy soups again, and afterwards maybe allowing yourself the odd pudding or two, because, after all, that flesh'll be covered up soon.
How are you settling into autumn where you are?
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Thursday, September 9, 2010
You know you're getting older when....
Ah, flatsharing. You either hate it or, well, you hate it (or maybe I'm just a misery guts).
I remember when I was still living at home and about 18. I had an older boyfriend Dan who lived with his student friends, which seemed ever so exciting and glamorous until I realised staying over meant getting into a grimy damp-spotted shower in the morning and fighting my way through the pizza boxes to try and find some milk for my tea before leaving for work. And then there was the moaning. I swore to myself I would never rant boringly like him on the topic of whose turn it was to buy the toilet roll (don't moan at me, moan at THEM I wanted to shout but obviously, being British, he couldn't).
Ok, I accept that that particular house offered an authentic student house experience, and I happily spent three studenty years afterwards wallowing in a similar kind of grotty pigsty with likeminded people. Of course there were moans about things, there were always the moans, but there was a kind of unspoken pact that we would live in a godforsaken mess and no-one would care. It seemed almost expected of us.
The real problems started afterwards when the houseshares with 'real' people started. I didn't particularly want to share a house, and neither, I imagine, did they. There were no pally 'house dinners', no boozing the night away then bonding in the kitchen over burnt toast at 2am. 'Grown up' housemates weren't particularly looking for friends, they would have much preferred having their own place, thank you very much. They were also too used to sharing houses and weren't shy about telling you what they expected as good 'housemate behaviour'.
Maybe I've just had some bad experiences in the last few years,, but I really hope my time in houseshares is almost over. Friends my age have reported similar yearnings; one, after discovering that there were mice scratching away behind her bedroom wall sighed "aren't I too old for this now?". Another lives with a married couple who can't afford their own place, and frequently feels like a third wheel in his own home.
Sorry if this itself feels like a big old moan. Maybe I have finally ended up like poor old Dan. I've just moved house, so here's hoping the new year (September is like new year in Italy with everyone back from their month-long break) brings tolerable housemates and a non hair-clogged plughole...oh and plenty of riches so I can start saving for that deposit on a hosue!
On a side note, the last I heard from Dan he was an extremely successful management consultant being flown around the world to do management consultant-y type things. I imagine he doesn't have reason to moan about the loo roll any more. 
Above: Past housesharing memories.
I remember when I was still living at home and about 18. I had an older boyfriend Dan who lived with his student friends, which seemed ever so exciting and glamorous until I realised staying over meant getting into a grimy damp-spotted shower in the morning and fighting my way through the pizza boxes to try and find some milk for my tea before leaving for work. And then there was the moaning. I swore to myself I would never rant boringly like him on the topic of whose turn it was to buy the toilet roll (don't moan at me, moan at THEM I wanted to shout but obviously, being British, he couldn't).
Ok, I accept that that particular house offered an authentic student house experience, and I happily spent three studenty years afterwards wallowing in a similar kind of grotty pigsty with likeminded people. Of course there were moans about things, there were always the moans, but there was a kind of unspoken pact that we would live in a godforsaken mess and no-one would care. It seemed almost expected of us.
The real problems started afterwards when the houseshares with 'real' people started. I didn't particularly want to share a house, and neither, I imagine, did they. There were no pally 'house dinners', no boozing the night away then bonding in the kitchen over burnt toast at 2am. 'Grown up' housemates weren't particularly looking for friends, they would have much preferred having their own place, thank you very much. They were also too used to sharing houses and weren't shy about telling you what they expected as good 'housemate behaviour'.
Maybe I've just had some bad experiences in the last few years,, but I really hope my time in houseshares is almost over. Friends my age have reported similar yearnings; one, after discovering that there were mice scratching away behind her bedroom wall sighed "aren't I too old for this now?". Another lives with a married couple who can't afford their own place, and frequently feels like a third wheel in his own home.
Sorry if this itself feels like a big old moan. Maybe I have finally ended up like poor old Dan. I've just moved house, so here's hoping the new year (September is like new year in Italy with everyone back from their month-long break) brings tolerable housemates and a non hair-clogged plughole...oh and plenty of riches so I can start saving for that deposit on a hosue!
On a side note, the last I heard from Dan he was an extremely successful management consultant being flown around the world to do management consultant-y type things. I imagine he doesn't have reason to moan about the loo roll any more.
Above: Past housesharing memories.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
A Disjointed Return
Hello? Anybody out there? I know I deserve to have NOBODY read this blog after my exceptionally haphazard approach to updating, but I hope there might be one or two who have kept the faith.
I'm just back from a damp but enjoyable few weeks in England seeing friends, doing daughterly chores and trying to make inroads into a teriffically dull online teaching course (example question: "Is there a best seating arrangement for a class? Discuss the advantages and disadvantages of various seating plans." No really, I'm serious).
Yesterday evening, after a suspiciously incident-free journey I disembarked and waited at the luggage carousel, getting to the front and adopting an aggressive wide-legged stance in the midst of all those pushy Italians. On seeing my blue suitcase with the cheery polka dot ribbon tied round the handle I edged forward and prepared myself to lift the heifer off the belt. One, two, three, heeeave....and the handle came off in my hand. Cue friendly Englishman chasing it down the carousel and hauling down the case amid cascading bits of splintered plastic, the remains of my handle contraption. Despite the man's best efforts to help me fix it back on it was beyond repair so I set off slowly for the station, alternately attempting to carry the 20kg weight and folding myself in half and wheeling it along by holding the actual body of the case. Tragic. Twenty minutes later, having managed to get to the station, sweating in my English jeans and jumper, I pondered what to do. I umm-ed and ahh-ed for a while over calling the ex, worried that if he accompanied me home I might have to spend the rest of the evening with him being awkward. In the end I called him and he didn't pick up, which was probably better for all concerned. I hopped on the train (or, more accurately lugged myself and the sorry, bits-dropping-off excuse for a suitcase onto the nearest compartment) and decided to get off a couple of stops before mine where there's a taxi rank and take a taxi home. I managed to get off the train and luckily a kind boy saw me struggling and offered to take the case. I'd stuck the deficient handle into the front pocket and the look of comedy surprise on his face when he pulled on it and his arm, attached to the handle flew straight into the air, was hilarious). He deposited me in a taxi and looked like he was going to do something embarassing like ask me for a coffee, so I steadfastly ignored him, willing the driver to leave. The driver, not sure what the situation was ("er, maybe he wants a tip?"), stayed put while the guy waved, tapped on windows and mimed telephoning to try to get my attention. In the end we managed to establish through a crack in the window that I wasn't interested, but thanks for the help anyway and off we went. I tipped the driver enough at the other end to get the case as near to my door as possible. Finally inside the house I breathed a sigh of relief and got on with making a well-deserved plate of pasta. Ah, it's good to be home.
ps, This is my second suitcase broken in a couple of years when going through Fiumicino airport. Has anyone had a similar experience? Are the luggage handlers particularly "enthusiastic" there or buoyed up on one too many coffees?
I'm just back from a damp but enjoyable few weeks in England seeing friends, doing daughterly chores and trying to make inroads into a teriffically dull online teaching course (example question: "Is there a best seating arrangement for a class? Discuss the advantages and disadvantages of various seating plans." No really, I'm serious).
Yesterday evening, after a suspiciously incident-free journey I disembarked and waited at the luggage carousel, getting to the front and adopting an aggressive wide-legged stance in the midst of all those pushy Italians. On seeing my blue suitcase with the cheery polka dot ribbon tied round the handle I edged forward and prepared myself to lift the heifer off the belt. One, two, three, heeeave....and the handle came off in my hand. Cue friendly Englishman chasing it down the carousel and hauling down the case amid cascading bits of splintered plastic, the remains of my handle contraption. Despite the man's best efforts to help me fix it back on it was beyond repair so I set off slowly for the station, alternately attempting to carry the 20kg weight and folding myself in half and wheeling it along by holding the actual body of the case. Tragic. Twenty minutes later, having managed to get to the station, sweating in my English jeans and jumper, I pondered what to do. I umm-ed and ahh-ed for a while over calling the ex, worried that if he accompanied me home I might have to spend the rest of the evening with him being awkward. In the end I called him and he didn't pick up, which was probably better for all concerned. I hopped on the train (or, more accurately lugged myself and the sorry, bits-dropping-off excuse for a suitcase onto the nearest compartment) and decided to get off a couple of stops before mine where there's a taxi rank and take a taxi home. I managed to get off the train and luckily a kind boy saw me struggling and offered to take the case. I'd stuck the deficient handle into the front pocket and the look of comedy surprise on his face when he pulled on it and his arm, attached to the handle flew straight into the air, was hilarious). He deposited me in a taxi and looked like he was going to do something embarassing like ask me for a coffee, so I steadfastly ignored him, willing the driver to leave. The driver, not sure what the situation was ("er, maybe he wants a tip?"), stayed put while the guy waved, tapped on windows and mimed telephoning to try to get my attention. In the end we managed to establish through a crack in the window that I wasn't interested, but thanks for the help anyway and off we went. I tipped the driver enough at the other end to get the case as near to my door as possible. Finally inside the house I breathed a sigh of relief and got on with making a well-deserved plate of pasta. Ah, it's good to be home.
ps, This is my second suitcase broken in a couple of years when going through Fiumicino airport. Has anyone had a similar experience? Are the luggage handlers particularly "enthusiastic" there or buoyed up on one too many coffees?
Sunday, July 11, 2010
All Change Please
For a while my life in Italy seemed to be like a runaway train. Not because unmentionably exciting things happened to me, but becasue life seemed to speed by the window as I sat neatly in my compartment watching the landscape pass me by. Opportunities to jump off came rarely and to be honest I didn't really consider taking the leap, comfortable as I was gazing out the window from my cosy compartment.
I am, of course, talking about my life with my ex-boyfriend E. He had been my stability, my constant, almost from the moment that I arrived in Italy. All of my 'firsts' were experienced with him. First ride on a scooter in Rome, first Italian sunday lunch, first shared electricity bill, first friends, first grin-and-bear-the sweat-patches summer in Rome. First sense of belonging.
Hard as it has been, in the last couple of months I have come to the decision to leap of the train and explore the landscape, hopefully discovering a few new firsts of my own. I'm hope I'll be telling you all about them soon.
I am, of course, talking about my life with my ex-boyfriend E. He had been my stability, my constant, almost from the moment that I arrived in Italy. All of my 'firsts' were experienced with him. First ride on a scooter in Rome, first Italian sunday lunch, first shared electricity bill, first friends, first grin-and-bear-the sweat-patches summer in Rome. First sense of belonging.
Hard as it has been, in the last couple of months I have come to the decision to leap of the train and explore the landscape, hopefully discovering a few new firsts of my own. I'm hope I'll be telling you all about them soon.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Rocky terrain
So I hauled myself out of biscuit-induced stupor in order to accept a date. "A date?" I hear you cry! "This one doesn't hang around!" Before you start giving me old-fashioned disapproving looks let me explain myself.
A large part of the reason E and I are on a break is that I'm not sure I can marry him because I still feel young and want more experiences. This includes romantic experiences. This particular experience was offered to me on a plate so I decided to grab it with both hands, hoping that it could help me understand my feeling for E a bit more, or at the very least that I could have an interesting evening.
This was the kind of date everyone expected me to have when I arrived in Italy, when I flummoxed them all by hooking up with an Albanian pizza maker instead. Fabio is tall, good-looking, well-dressed and speaks passionately on a wide range of subjects from philosophy to architecture to Beethoven. He asked me many questions about myself and was charm personified. He made me a beautiful dinner and got me a bit tipsy on good wine.
Almost perfect. Almost. But (and you knew there had to be one) the thing was, he expected me to have an opinion on everything. And while I am not stupid, I am most definitely lazy and tend to acquire knowledge only if it finds its way to my white matter by accident. I knew I was in trouble from the start ("so Francesca, which is your favourite Renaissance city"? Errr..). I tried to blag it but the questions just got more and more specific and more ridiculous so that in the end when he asked me what my favourite Germanic names were, things came to a head. I couldn't contain myself any more and burst out laughing.
Fabio looked confused and hurt. "What's so funny? Are you making fun of me?"
"Yes!" at the sight of his outraged face I laughed even harder "I'm sorry Fabio, but you can't ask a girl out on a date and then interrogate her on which are the most rocky landscapes in England or if she prefers Germanic or Latin names"
Fabio looked put out "Well, I find it interesting".
So that was my first date in 3 years. I haven't seen Fabio since although he's been in touch. Only time will tell if my lack of knowledge of Britain's rocky landscapes is an unimpeachable barrier between us or if it is the start of something beautiful.
A large part of the reason E and I are on a break is that I'm not sure I can marry him because I still feel young and want more experiences. This includes romantic experiences. This particular experience was offered to me on a plate so I decided to grab it with both hands, hoping that it could help me understand my feeling for E a bit more, or at the very least that I could have an interesting evening.
This was the kind of date everyone expected me to have when I arrived in Italy, when I flummoxed them all by hooking up with an Albanian pizza maker instead. Fabio is tall, good-looking, well-dressed and speaks passionately on a wide range of subjects from philosophy to architecture to Beethoven. He asked me many questions about myself and was charm personified. He made me a beautiful dinner and got me a bit tipsy on good wine.
Almost perfect. Almost. But (and you knew there had to be one) the thing was, he expected me to have an opinion on everything. And while I am not stupid, I am most definitely lazy and tend to acquire knowledge only if it finds its way to my white matter by accident. I knew I was in trouble from the start ("so Francesca, which is your favourite Renaissance city"? Errr..). I tried to blag it but the questions just got more and more specific and more ridiculous so that in the end when he asked me what my favourite Germanic names were, things came to a head. I couldn't contain myself any more and burst out laughing.
Fabio looked confused and hurt. "What's so funny? Are you making fun of me?"
"Yes!" at the sight of his outraged face I laughed even harder "I'm sorry Fabio, but you can't ask a girl out on a date and then interrogate her on which are the most rocky landscapes in England or if she prefers Germanic or Latin names"
Fabio looked put out "Well, I find it interesting".
So that was my first date in 3 years. I haven't seen Fabio since although he's been in touch. Only time will tell if my lack of knowledge of Britain's rocky landscapes is an unimpeachable barrier between us or if it is the start of something beautiful.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
On pause
Sorry I've not been writing too frequently, the thing is the above-mentioned Albanian and I have decided to take a 'pausa'. Yes, we're going on the famous 'break'. During the break I need to decide whether I'm going to make an honest man of him. Because that's what they do you see, in Albania-land. They get married young, have babies, and the women make cheese by draining socks of yogurt over the sink for 2 days. Whilst I'm not sure I'd be capable of making sock-cheese from scratch, the other two I have to at least consider as possibilities if I love E as much as I claim to. But this is a decision I want to make da sola, with lots of English objectivity and a fair bit of Italian heart-following thrown in too.
So, back to the pausa. So far I haven't had any life-changing revelations. It's gone something like this:
Day 1: Got out of bed only for two reasons: unfortunate necessity of work, get packet of biscuits to eat in bed.
Day 2: Moped into work. Went for dinner with friends, got horribly drunk before the meal was put on the table and couldn't eat any of it.
Day 3: General moping and squalidness. Trying to sleep on top of two inches of biscuit crumbs becoming uncomfortable.
Day 4: Today. Pro-activeness! Blog! Lesson-planning! Room-blitz coming up!
I'm hoping the pro-activeness will continue (although maybe with a bit less mania. I'm quite scared I'll give myself a heart-attack). I'll keep you updated and if you don't hear anything please send out a rescue squad to come and dig me out of my biscuity hovel!
So, back to the pausa. So far I haven't had any life-changing revelations. It's gone something like this:
Day 1: Got out of bed only for two reasons: unfortunate necessity of work, get packet of biscuits to eat in bed.
Day 2: Moped into work. Went for dinner with friends, got horribly drunk before the meal was put on the table and couldn't eat any of it.
Day 3: General moping and squalidness. Trying to sleep on top of two inches of biscuit crumbs becoming uncomfortable.
Day 4: Today. Pro-activeness! Blog! Lesson-planning! Room-blitz coming up!
I'm hoping the pro-activeness will continue (although maybe with a bit less mania. I'm quite scared I'll give myself a heart-attack). I'll keep you updated and if you don't hear anything please send out a rescue squad to come and dig me out of my biscuity hovel!
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
In famiglia
It's been a busy and emotional time here at casa mia. I live in a house which belongs to a Puglian family. There are an Aunt and Uncle who live in the mini-appartment below, whilst their two nephews live in the house above, along with me and another housemate, Yasar.
I've been here since October, and we've all ticked along well together. Occasionally the aunt would offer me a homemade goody in passing, or the uncle would come upstairs to deliver fresh milk for the youngest nephew (apparently 21-year-old males aren't capable of keeping themselves in milk). I'd often hear voices raised in argument from down below or the aunt shouting up to her nephew Michele to come and get a nice hot plate of pasta.
Then one day a couple of weeks ago the boys' mamma Maria arrived from the South, along with various bags of produce, 3 different varieties of homemade cake...and a suitcase. Yes, it turned out Maria was planning on staying a few days. Never having had a controlling Italian-style mamma I groaned inwardly at the thought of the inevitable interference that would ensue. In fact it started immediately, with Maria taking issue with Michele's new girlfriend and banning her from the house while she was staying on Michele's floor (quite rightly too). This immediately caused a rift between son and mother, and Maria was left to the company of me and my Syrian housemate Yasar.
However despite my reservations, she turned out to be the best thing that could have happened to the house! If there was a problem, she'd sort it, if there was an old tomato, she'd make it into a pizza, if we were sad or stressed she'd sit us down for a chat over a limoncello.
While she was here the downstairs bathroom was being repaired and the boiler broke, leaving us with only one bathroom and no hot water for the whole easter break. What could've turned into a disaster zone with hysterics and a full-scale war against the aunt and uncle who refused to call the emergency plumber, was neatly averted by Maria who played mediator and even got us invited to easter lunch downstairs. After a few moments of tension all was fine and we happily stuffed ourselves, shouted along with the rest of them (it turned out the shouting wasn't arguing, it was just normal conversation at top volume), and admired the family photo albums.
Now Maria's gone back to Puglia, Michele's girlfriend is firmly re-instated in his room, and me and Yasar feel just a little bit lost without out Italian mamma. On the plus side, we're left feeling much more in famiglia than before, with the aunt bringing us some fresh jam tart, or even popping up for a quick chat. And mamma Maria has promised to come back soon to help us reorganise the kitchen and make some homemade jam. Now to work on those conversational shouting skills...
I've been here since October, and we've all ticked along well together. Occasionally the aunt would offer me a homemade goody in passing, or the uncle would come upstairs to deliver fresh milk for the youngest nephew (apparently 21-year-old males aren't capable of keeping themselves in milk). I'd often hear voices raised in argument from down below or the aunt shouting up to her nephew Michele to come and get a nice hot plate of pasta.
Then one day a couple of weeks ago the boys' mamma Maria arrived from the South, along with various bags of produce, 3 different varieties of homemade cake...and a suitcase. Yes, it turned out Maria was planning on staying a few days. Never having had a controlling Italian-style mamma I groaned inwardly at the thought of the inevitable interference that would ensue. In fact it started immediately, with Maria taking issue with Michele's new girlfriend and banning her from the house while she was staying on Michele's floor (quite rightly too). This immediately caused a rift between son and mother, and Maria was left to the company of me and my Syrian housemate Yasar.
However despite my reservations, she turned out to be the best thing that could have happened to the house! If there was a problem, she'd sort it, if there was an old tomato, she'd make it into a pizza, if we were sad or stressed she'd sit us down for a chat over a limoncello.
While she was here the downstairs bathroom was being repaired and the boiler broke, leaving us with only one bathroom and no hot water for the whole easter break. What could've turned into a disaster zone with hysterics and a full-scale war against the aunt and uncle who refused to call the emergency plumber, was neatly averted by Maria who played mediator and even got us invited to easter lunch downstairs. After a few moments of tension all was fine and we happily stuffed ourselves, shouted along with the rest of them (it turned out the shouting wasn't arguing, it was just normal conversation at top volume), and admired the family photo albums.
Now Maria's gone back to Puglia, Michele's girlfriend is firmly re-instated in his room, and me and Yasar feel just a little bit lost without out Italian mamma. On the plus side, we're left feeling much more in famiglia than before, with the aunt bringing us some fresh jam tart, or even popping up for a quick chat. And mamma Maria has promised to come back soon to help us reorganise the kitchen and make some homemade jam. Now to work on those conversational shouting skills...
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