I really should hang my head in shame. I have been taught a valuable lesson and one which I really really do intend to keep. For as long as I remember to.
There was a blog entry just below this one, and like a tribal warrior who collects tattoos and brandings as a sign of their maturity, I am leaving the messed up remains in order to remind myself that occasionally, I need to get a grip and breathe before opening my big mouth.
The title of the blog was 'Celtic Africa?!' and herein is the explanation why.
It is coming up to Hallowe'en and we are rather getting into the spirit of things in Casa Colleoni. The boys are old enough now to enjoy the fun and as I am teaching at their nursery I am also right there in the bat-cutting-out, pumpkin-sculpting, scary-spidery thick of things. I think of it like Christmas-lite, good fun but without the presents. And a God-send for people with small children, parents and teachers alike. There are so many things you can do/ make for Hallowe'en, we ought to invent a few more, just to fill up the schedules a bit for parents like me who are struggling to think up the next afternoon activity that doesn't involve Thomas the Tank Engine track-making (NOT AGAIN) or turning on the TV.
So last week me and the kids were traipsing up the stairs to our flat (second floor - I hate them but my bum will be sad to see them go when we move to a ground floor flat next year) when our nephew who lives on the floor below us poked his head out of the door, as is his custom whenever he hears footsteps. He's an only child, bless him. Well for some reason we were all talking about Hallowe'en as we were staggering up, when Alé chipped in with, 'we're not celebrating Hallowe'en this year'. I immediately felt my Italy-Is-Still-In-The-Dark-Ages antenna twitching and could feel my lungs inflating in indignation before I even asked the fatal question - 'and why would that be?' His reply of, 'because it's an African festival' as we were carrying on walking up confirmed all my worst fears. Not only were the poor suffering children to watch their friends having great fun and larks over the Hallowe'en festival, but they were being forbidden from joining in due to the fact that the festival was tainted by African (read Black) origins and therefore yet another confirmation of the racist heart of Italy.
Enrico was walking up with us so I started practising my rant, as soon as we came through the door. The teacher should not be in charge of young, impressionable minds. She is spreading her misguided-at-best views when she had no right to. Another school struck off my (admittedly non-existent as yet) list. God help me, I even searched out the origins of Hallowe'en on Wikipedia and emailed them to him.
And so I continued, my indignation being given free rein at every possible opportunity.
Until. A couple of days later, Enrico called me saying that he had the other 'nano' (our two are the 'dwarfs' and the cousin is an honorary dwarf - oh God, see the state of me. Should that be 'Little People'?!!) in the car. I said hi and thought no more of it. Enrico returned later at lunchtime.
'You know that teacher who was forbidding the kids from participating in an African festival?'
'It's a DISGRACE!!'
'It was an American festival'.
'Uh??'
'She said it was an American festival. That there wasn't much money in the pot this year, so they would do a minimal Hallowe'en celebration, with it being a largely American commercial festival, and save the big money for Christmas'.
Mortified. He sniggered. I deserved it. We haven't discussed it, he's been very big about the whole thing really, but it could also be because he doesn't realise how far and wide my indignation really did spread. Let's hope he never finds out...
So from this I learn:
1. Don't leap to conclusions. Not all Italians are the racist half-wits that Silvio Berlusconi would have us believe. ('Hey Michelle! Great tan, where's your bronzed hubby?!')
2. Get your facts together before criticising - especially if you are going to be doing it to all and sundry and could look a right berk afterwards.
3. I have been somewhat blinkered up to now in my view of Italy. It is backward in sooo many areas, however I need to be alot more open in my opinions, otherwise I am in danger of slipping into the 'all (insert population/ ethnic group/ religion here) are like this' attitude which I am so keen to denounce in others.
Go on, have a good laugh. I deserve it.
Tuesday 27 October 2009
Thursday 22 October 2009
Wine into Water
A couple of weeks ago, we went to a dinner party at a friends' house. They have an 18 year old son, Matteo, an intelligent and mature chap who also joined us for dinner, along with another couple and their children, a boy of 13 and a girl of 10 years old. It was a lovely meal, lovingly prepared by Paola who is a great cook and was composed of the usual four course affair which I can now cope with by leaving half of everything on my plate, much though it pains me...
We started the dinner with a glass of prosecco. Then there was a bottle of wine. For seven adults. For the whole of the dinner, which effectively meant most of the evening. I found myself nervously glancing around as the single bottle got lower and lower, eking out a couple of drops at a time so that I wouldn't be left totally bereft of booze. I have to say it was a lovely evening, everyone was chatting and as is typical at a dinner with Italians, often all at once. It wasn't by any stretch a subdued affair. At the end of dinner, Paola served dessert and brought out a bottle of frozen crema di limoncello, a creamy lemon liqueur which is delicious but so sweet it was impossible to drink more than a couple of sips. The parents of the younger children offered them a drink, both accepted but without the hint of forbidden fruit which often accompanies such a gesture with British kids.
I write this this morning after just having my habitual morning scan through The Sun online (what can I say? There is no defence...) and seeing a photo of a young girl in some street-lamp lit high street in Britain somewhere, in a skimpy dress, arms waving in the air, and with her underwear round her ankles. It really brought home the differences in our two cultures, and is something I have been thinking about recently as my 17 year old niece recounts tales of her terrible hangovers in Facebook. In a book called 'Watching the English' by Kate English (what are the chances?), the author notes that the staggering belligerence that often happens with British drunks is a phenomena rarely seen in other cultures - that it appears that we have conditioned ourselves to behave in a rowdy, leery, often aggressive manner more because that is what we believe the effects of alcohol should be rather than their true effects. Younger and younger children think that going out and getting hammered is the norm. I am feeling like a pot calling a kettle black, of course and from here in my glass house, I am in great danger of getting more than a few panes broken. However, my 'Fortieth Birthday Epiphany' has made me look back and see my years and years of, truthfully, heavy drinking as totally unnecessary and actually rather tragically wasteful. At the time I thought I was having a ball, going out nearly every night after work with friends and not going home until the bottle of wine was finished, or the cocktails downed. It was fun, but there was no sense of proportion.
I believe that this is what we are missing. Towards the end of the dinner with Paola and Gianfranco, Matteo leaned over to take the limoncello from his father. Gianfranco turned to Paola and said, 'you know, he's had nearly four [small] glasses of wine - without any water - this evening!' Her horrified face said it all. That was not the way for young people to drink at the dinner table. The younger children tried the limoncello with little comment and their parents barely gave them a second glance. This is the way to bring children up to have respect for alcohol and to see it as merely part of a whole. It is a nice accompaniment with dinner or a couple of 'drinks' as long drinks, e.g. gin and tonic are called here, with friends over a loud conversation on an evening out.
The few times we go out to our local 'cocktail bar', there will be groups of up to 10 - 15 younger people, 16 - 25 years old maybe, and it is not unusual for some of them to be drinking alcohol while others have a tea or coffee, or often, an ice-cream, instead. They are just as loud and raucous as a group of English kids out for an evening together, but there is no desperate need to get drunk with these kids, they are just having a good time with their friends and that is sufficient. Maybe because the Italians already have the innate lack of self-consciousness that English people have, they have no need for alcohol to take away their inhibitions. In my opinion, most Italians have few enough inhibitions in public as it is, thank you very much.
This is one lesson I hope my children do learn from growing up in Italy. To have a sense of proportion and control over alcohol and to realise that, honestly, getting blind drunk all the time isn't that great. It really ain't big and it ain't clever. It has taken me many many years to reach this point and for this I know I deserve the label of hypocrite, however I have finally managed to save alcohol for occasions when I can enjoy it and hopefully enjoy it with far more moderation than I used to. And with any luck, my kids will grow up to do what their mother says and not what their mother did...
We started the dinner with a glass of prosecco. Then there was a bottle of wine. For seven adults. For the whole of the dinner, which effectively meant most of the evening. I found myself nervously glancing around as the single bottle got lower and lower, eking out a couple of drops at a time so that I wouldn't be left totally bereft of booze. I have to say it was a lovely evening, everyone was chatting and as is typical at a dinner with Italians, often all at once. It wasn't by any stretch a subdued affair. At the end of dinner, Paola served dessert and brought out a bottle of frozen crema di limoncello, a creamy lemon liqueur which is delicious but so sweet it was impossible to drink more than a couple of sips. The parents of the younger children offered them a drink, both accepted but without the hint of forbidden fruit which often accompanies such a gesture with British kids.
I write this this morning after just having my habitual morning scan through The Sun online (what can I say? There is no defence...) and seeing a photo of a young girl in some street-lamp lit high street in Britain somewhere, in a skimpy dress, arms waving in the air, and with her underwear round her ankles. It really brought home the differences in our two cultures, and is something I have been thinking about recently as my 17 year old niece recounts tales of her terrible hangovers in Facebook. In a book called 'Watching the English' by Kate English (what are the chances?), the author notes that the staggering belligerence that often happens with British drunks is a phenomena rarely seen in other cultures - that it appears that we have conditioned ourselves to behave in a rowdy, leery, often aggressive manner more because that is what we believe the effects of alcohol should be rather than their true effects. Younger and younger children think that going out and getting hammered is the norm. I am feeling like a pot calling a kettle black, of course and from here in my glass house, I am in great danger of getting more than a few panes broken. However, my 'Fortieth Birthday Epiphany' has made me look back and see my years and years of, truthfully, heavy drinking as totally unnecessary and actually rather tragically wasteful. At the time I thought I was having a ball, going out nearly every night after work with friends and not going home until the bottle of wine was finished, or the cocktails downed. It was fun, but there was no sense of proportion.
I believe that this is what we are missing. Towards the end of the dinner with Paola and Gianfranco, Matteo leaned over to take the limoncello from his father. Gianfranco turned to Paola and said, 'you know, he's had nearly four [small] glasses of wine - without any water - this evening!' Her horrified face said it all. That was not the way for young people to drink at the dinner table. The younger children tried the limoncello with little comment and their parents barely gave them a second glance. This is the way to bring children up to have respect for alcohol and to see it as merely part of a whole. It is a nice accompaniment with dinner or a couple of 'drinks' as long drinks, e.g. gin and tonic are called here, with friends over a loud conversation on an evening out.
The few times we go out to our local 'cocktail bar', there will be groups of up to 10 - 15 younger people, 16 - 25 years old maybe, and it is not unusual for some of them to be drinking alcohol while others have a tea or coffee, or often, an ice-cream, instead. They are just as loud and raucous as a group of English kids out for an evening together, but there is no desperate need to get drunk with these kids, they are just having a good time with their friends and that is sufficient. Maybe because the Italians already have the innate lack of self-consciousness that English people have, they have no need for alcohol to take away their inhibitions. In my opinion, most Italians have few enough inhibitions in public as it is, thank you very much.
This is one lesson I hope my children do learn from growing up in Italy. To have a sense of proportion and control over alcohol and to realise that, honestly, getting blind drunk all the time isn't that great. It really ain't big and it ain't clever. It has taken me many many years to reach this point and for this I know I deserve the label of hypocrite, however I have finally managed to save alcohol for occasions when I can enjoy it and hopefully enjoy it with far more moderation than I used to. And with any luck, my kids will grow up to do what their mother says and not what their mother did...
Wednesday 21 October 2009
Autumn Ramblings
What a lovely day. I am revelling in the sunshine which comes without the fry-an-egg-on-the-pavement quality that makes life a living hell here in the summer. The days are so blue and clear at the moment you feel they could slice straight through the brown and green leaves which are starting to fall to the ground now in earnest. We wake up with a chill in the air which slowly leaves when I put the kettle on for tea - another small pleasure which has returned now I am not dashing round the flat closing the shutters once we get to 9.30am - the time the air begins to boil here from June - Sept.
All things considered, life is fairly sweet. The boys are happy at school, despite the odd spate of teary farewells which are never pleasant for anyone concerned. They last week started a dance and music class and can sing the name of their teacher like pro's, 'AN-TON-ELL-AAAAA' whilst clapping and doing a little dance. I feel the need to grab the video camera every time they do it and indeed, they are probably already fed up with me getting them to 'do it again, the dance'. They are at a great age, nearly 3 and 4, and when they are not beating each other up and/ or biting, scratching and generally trying to maim each other, they are lovely to be around.
My English lessons with the littlies are going well, after a bit of a nerve-wracking start, I am slowly getting into it. Although I only do two hours a week, it has taken up a dis-proportional amount of my time, not just the doing of it, but also the preparation, the coming up with an idea for a lesson stuff. It's great when they get it though. Those times when we are doing a lesson we did last week, and more than one - what am I saying - when even just one of them, remembers something, it's a great feeling. I am also working out my own system of justice and am getting more confident about asserting my authority when things start getting out of hand, which with nine 3-5 year olds can happen in the blink of an eye. Turn your back for a second and they turn feral without warning. So they are getting used to me as I am getting used to them. None of them run and hide (yet) when I come to collect my two so I am assuming this means I haven't been too heavy handed with them. Either that or they are too scared to move when they see me approaching. I jest, of course...
Otherwise, things are dandering along relatively smoothly. We went to an architect today to get started on the plans for the new flat which we are hopefully moving in to towards the middle of next year, which is sooo exciting. We have a blank canvas and the architects, two women, seemed to have a good idea of what I want... E has, wisely, given me carte blanche. When we came out of the meeting, I asked him what he thought of my ideas, what opinion he had of some of their suggestions and his answer, which I would have written for him given the chance, was, 'What do I care? As long as it has a kitchen for me to cook in and a TV for me to slump in front of, I'm happy'. Ahhh, we are happy chickens both at the moment!
All things considered, life is fairly sweet. The boys are happy at school, despite the odd spate of teary farewells which are never pleasant for anyone concerned. They last week started a dance and music class and can sing the name of their teacher like pro's, 'AN-TON-ELL-AAAAA' whilst clapping and doing a little dance. I feel the need to grab the video camera every time they do it and indeed, they are probably already fed up with me getting them to 'do it again, the dance'. They are at a great age, nearly 3 and 4, and when they are not beating each other up and/ or biting, scratching and generally trying to maim each other, they are lovely to be around.
My English lessons with the littlies are going well, after a bit of a nerve-wracking start, I am slowly getting into it. Although I only do two hours a week, it has taken up a dis-proportional amount of my time, not just the doing of it, but also the preparation, the coming up with an idea for a lesson stuff. It's great when they get it though. Those times when we are doing a lesson we did last week, and more than one - what am I saying - when even just one of them, remembers something, it's a great feeling. I am also working out my own system of justice and am getting more confident about asserting my authority when things start getting out of hand, which with nine 3-5 year olds can happen in the blink of an eye. Turn your back for a second and they turn feral without warning. So they are getting used to me as I am getting used to them. None of them run and hide (yet) when I come to collect my two so I am assuming this means I haven't been too heavy handed with them. Either that or they are too scared to move when they see me approaching. I jest, of course...
Otherwise, things are dandering along relatively smoothly. We went to an architect today to get started on the plans for the new flat which we are hopefully moving in to towards the middle of next year, which is sooo exciting. We have a blank canvas and the architects, two women, seemed to have a good idea of what I want... E has, wisely, given me carte blanche. When we came out of the meeting, I asked him what he thought of my ideas, what opinion he had of some of their suggestions and his answer, which I would have written for him given the chance, was, 'What do I care? As long as it has a kitchen for me to cook in and a TV for me to slump in front of, I'm happy'. Ahhh, we are happy chickens both at the moment!
Tuesday 6 October 2009
Guillermo Senz' Amici
I have moved around ALOT. Do not think I am exaggerating. From the age of 18 to 30, I did not live in the same place for more than a year at a stretch. On average, I probably moved every 10 months over that period. Of course, that included the university years, featuring a stint in Paris, and another on and off one in Luxembourg then after university - London, Manchester, Wilmslow, Lincoln, Bermuda, London again, a good long jaunt round South America (which lasted several months longer than it was supposed to and several months shorter than I would have liked it to), then Marbella and finally here in Italy, where we have been now for just over two years.
This is just so that you understand I am not a shrinking violet who knows nothing of the world and has been pitched up in a place far beyond her depth. I have travelled around and I can truly say that I have never had such a hard time meeting like-minded people. Of course, the answer to this is that I am a stay-at-home mum - er, the reason for my isolation is in the job title. However, even though I don't work and therefore have a ready-made bank of colleagues from which to develop friendships, I have really found it a long slog to meet anyone due to the almost complete lack of activities for mothers and babies. In Marbella, I met a great group of mums and babies at a local group who I am still friends with today. It provided untold relief to get together with them on a regular basis and share/ dump/ moan/ howl about our new lives as mums and what the children were getting up to - and the blokes too, for that matter. I need people to talk to to get my own life into perspective and frankly, it is just not healthy for me to be on alone too much - I have a run away imagination which can be just plain evil if left to its' own devices, so the function of talking to another human being who may be (even if only vaguely) in the same situation as me is safer for all concerned.
So imagine the situation I was placed in, moving to a commuter town on the outskirts of Rome. Just far enough outside to get in but also just far enough outside for it to be a bit-of-a-pain to get in. Rome and its' civilised mum and baby groups, nice ex-architects turned stay-at-home mums in the park and hell, the fact that there are large parks at all, is a major step forward. Monterotondo has none of the above. What it does have are Chinese shops, shop after shop selling cheap clingfilm, garish fake sunflowers and beige bras. Between the Chinese shops, there are the One Price and 99c shops and the Outlet clothes shops. I am told that Monterotondo was a place where the elegant women who lived here - Enrico's mum for example - could easily buy clothes without having to go into Rome. Not any longer. It is not a desperately ugly place, as I probably make it sound, however the level of sophistication definitely leaves something to be desired, even for this rather unsophisticatated person...
In its' defence, the Old Town is lovely. I remember walking up a cobbled street with my parents on a lovely sunny afternoon on one of their first visits (when they still thought it was 'quaint' and 'full of character') and it was as if Fellini, on a bored day off, had put on a show just for us. From one of the shadowy doorways, an old chap in a blue knitted cardigan ran out brandishing a broom and proceeded to clobber a mouse which was desperately trying to escape under his closed garage door. Walking on a little further, the sound of someone singing opera wafted from an open first floor window. We rounded the corner and there at the top of the hill was the Commune, the local town hall - which is actually a 15th palazzo which has been owned by the Orsini, the Borgias, Garabaldi woz 'ere too I believe - in short, a stunning old building against the backdrop of the deep blue sky. So, no, it is not an altogether unpleasant place to live.
However, the best place in the world without friends is also the loneliest and especially having left behind a thriving cosmopolitan centre like Marbella, and before that, London, I have had a challenging couple of years.
BUT there is light at the end of the tunnel!! The children are now both in nursery till 2pm, Enrico no longer goes into Rome at 8.30am only returning at 8pm every day, and I can now scramble a sentence together in Italian. This means communicating with the locals is finally a practical possibility. The free time I have now is great. I am fighting a daily battle to stay away from the siren call of wall-to-wall internet browsing, because therein lies wasted time and a big fat arse. There are a couple of mums at the school with whom I am exchanging relatively mutually understood conversations and I am now feeling alot more optimistic about a (five years max) future here...
This is just so that you understand I am not a shrinking violet who knows nothing of the world and has been pitched up in a place far beyond her depth. I have travelled around and I can truly say that I have never had such a hard time meeting like-minded people. Of course, the answer to this is that I am a stay-at-home mum - er, the reason for my isolation is in the job title. However, even though I don't work and therefore have a ready-made bank of colleagues from which to develop friendships, I have really found it a long slog to meet anyone due to the almost complete lack of activities for mothers and babies. In Marbella, I met a great group of mums and babies at a local group who I am still friends with today. It provided untold relief to get together with them on a regular basis and share/ dump/ moan/ howl about our new lives as mums and what the children were getting up to - and the blokes too, for that matter. I need people to talk to to get my own life into perspective and frankly, it is just not healthy for me to be on alone too much - I have a run away imagination which can be just plain evil if left to its' own devices, so the function of talking to another human being who may be (even if only vaguely) in the same situation as me is safer for all concerned.
So imagine the situation I was placed in, moving to a commuter town on the outskirts of Rome. Just far enough outside to get in but also just far enough outside for it to be a bit-of-a-pain to get in. Rome and its' civilised mum and baby groups, nice ex-architects turned stay-at-home mums in the park and hell, the fact that there are large parks at all, is a major step forward. Monterotondo has none of the above. What it does have are Chinese shops, shop after shop selling cheap clingfilm, garish fake sunflowers and beige bras. Between the Chinese shops, there are the One Price and 99c shops and the Outlet clothes shops. I am told that Monterotondo was a place where the elegant women who lived here - Enrico's mum for example - could easily buy clothes without having to go into Rome. Not any longer. It is not a desperately ugly place, as I probably make it sound, however the level of sophistication definitely leaves something to be desired, even for this rather unsophisticatated person...
In its' defence, the Old Town is lovely. I remember walking up a cobbled street with my parents on a lovely sunny afternoon on one of their first visits (when they still thought it was 'quaint' and 'full of character') and it was as if Fellini, on a bored day off, had put on a show just for us. From one of the shadowy doorways, an old chap in a blue knitted cardigan ran out brandishing a broom and proceeded to clobber a mouse which was desperately trying to escape under his closed garage door. Walking on a little further, the sound of someone singing opera wafted from an open first floor window. We rounded the corner and there at the top of the hill was the Commune, the local town hall - which is actually a 15th palazzo which has been owned by the Orsini, the Borgias, Garabaldi woz 'ere too I believe - in short, a stunning old building against the backdrop of the deep blue sky. So, no, it is not an altogether unpleasant place to live.
However, the best place in the world without friends is also the loneliest and especially having left behind a thriving cosmopolitan centre like Marbella, and before that, London, I have had a challenging couple of years.
BUT there is light at the end of the tunnel!! The children are now both in nursery till 2pm, Enrico no longer goes into Rome at 8.30am only returning at 8pm every day, and I can now scramble a sentence together in Italian. This means communicating with the locals is finally a practical possibility. The free time I have now is great. I am fighting a daily battle to stay away from the siren call of wall-to-wall internet browsing, because therein lies wasted time and a big fat arse. There are a couple of mums at the school with whom I am exchanging relatively mutually understood conversations and I am now feeling alot more optimistic about a (five years max) future here...
Monday 5 October 2009
By the way - I have no idea what I am doing
This is just a short little note I wanted to add just to make sure, in case anyone was in any doubt, that you know I have really no idea what I am doing here. I have just had a look at some of the options open to me to do with publishing this and just before my eyes started glazing over and rolling back into my head, I realised that although they are probably in English, I have no idea what any of them mean.
So if anyone has any hints or tips on what to do with this thing, I would appreciate it. The idea is that if I get enough stuff together - i.e. if I can maintain my own interest and find enough bits and bobs to blah on about - eventually I will put together a website which I am thinking of creating. So, yep, any ideas appreciated.
R x
So if anyone has any hints or tips on what to do with this thing, I would appreciate it. The idea is that if I get enough stuff together - i.e. if I can maintain my own interest and find enough bits and bobs to blah on about - eventually I will put together a website which I am thinking of creating. So, yep, any ideas appreciated.
R x
Coffee - Italian Cocaine
I was never a fan of coffee until I came to Italy. My only real involvement was when I needed a break from my desk and 'going for a coffee' was a convenient euphemism for 'I'm so hungover, I'm going to fall asleep on my keyboard if I don't go out and get some fresh air and caffeine'.
Most of us non-Italians use the phrase 'do you fancy a coffee?' as a way of saying, 'I fancy a break', or, 'do you want to sit down and natter for a bit?' - it doesn't even have to really involve coffee. Many's the time when I've 'gone for a coffee' and had tea. It's like using the word 'Hoover'. You may not even use an actual Hoover - but I never say 'I'm just going to do the Dyson-ing'. I may be going for a coffee, but it rarely used to mean I was actually going for a coffee.
I initially came across the culturally diverse attitude to coffee when Enrico and I first started seeing each other. These were the days when he was still trying to impress me (the very early days indeed) and would come shopping with me. We would be going for half an hour when he would invariably say 'I need to get a coffee'. This never failed to irk me - once I start shopping I am not keen on being interrupted. And my understanding of 'let's stop for a coffee' was that we sit down over a steaming mug and have a chat for half an hour. I now understand that what he was actually saying was 'help, I'm shattered already, I need an intravenous shot of caffeine and then I'll be good to go again'. In fact, Italian coffee cannot possibly be used for the purpose of time-wasting. Mainly because the least amount of coffee served in your teeny cup, the better.
You see, Italian coffee is not used for social purposes. It is more a stimulant of the masses, a little chemical pep to get you through the day. It is also used to aid digestion after a large meal. There are rarely many seats and tables in a coffee bar, as the custom when buying a coffee is to remain standing up - go in, go to the till to pay, get the receipt, take your receipt to the bar, get served your three atoms of coffee, shoot them down and leave. The whole process takes maybe five minutes, absolute maximum.
Italy is rightly famous for cappuccino, which is coffee and frothy milk - only served with cocoa dusted lightly on top if you ask for it. It is not to be taken after 11am and never before or after eating: The milk in a cappuccino precludes good digestion. Apparently. However, don't be lulled into a false sense of security by the cappuccino. The fact that there are more than three atoms of coffee in the cup does not mean that you can safely sit back and have a little pause and a chat over a hot beverage. Unless you specifically ask for it to be served hot, it will be served tepid and frequently even if you ask it makes little difference. It will most likely be warm, at best. I am maybe more of a stickler for this than most as I have what is medically known as an 'asbestos mouth' and I am not happy unless my drink, if it is supposed to be hot, is boiling hot. A tepid cup of coffee is just not acceptable to me, however here this is how it is served in order to be gulped down in a matter of seconds. Ask for 'bollente' and you will be served a nice hot cup of coffee. Probably...
I have really taken to Italian coffee though, and we have a Nespresso coffee machine which is probably the most used electrical gadget in the house. It helps that I don't have to go through the ritual of making the traditional coffee on the stove, the Nespresso working with capsules and the touch of a button. But this is also because I now appreciate the 'pick-me-up' abilities of a little shot of caffeine-charged coffee and I have to say that I am hooked.
Actually, an Italian espresso has less caffeine in it than an 'Americano' - what most of us would think of as a coffee, i.e. brown-coloured cup of hot water with some milk in it. The theory is that this is because the coffee grounds are steeped longer in the water so pick up more of the caffeine. Whatever, call me a coffee snob, but I know I will never be able to go back to what I used to think was coffee - boiling water poured onto crinkling brown powder from a jar. Maybe this was actually the reason I never liked coffee much in the first place.
I am not ashamed to say that I have totally 'gone native' where coffee is concerned. Once we step outside Italy, I am right beside Enrico criticising, rolling our eyes in smug despair, when we are handed a 4cm full espresso cup. 'Tchsk,' he says 'I asked for a LEETLE coffee', 'bleurgh', I say in sympathy. Us addicts need the good stuff.
Most of us non-Italians use the phrase 'do you fancy a coffee?' as a way of saying, 'I fancy a break', or, 'do you want to sit down and natter for a bit?' - it doesn't even have to really involve coffee. Many's the time when I've 'gone for a coffee' and had tea. It's like using the word 'Hoover'. You may not even use an actual Hoover - but I never say 'I'm just going to do the Dyson-ing'. I may be going for a coffee, but it rarely used to mean I was actually going for a coffee.
I initially came across the culturally diverse attitude to coffee when Enrico and I first started seeing each other. These were the days when he was still trying to impress me (the very early days indeed) and would come shopping with me. We would be going for half an hour when he would invariably say 'I need to get a coffee'. This never failed to irk me - once I start shopping I am not keen on being interrupted. And my understanding of 'let's stop for a coffee' was that we sit down over a steaming mug and have a chat for half an hour. I now understand that what he was actually saying was 'help, I'm shattered already, I need an intravenous shot of caffeine and then I'll be good to go again'. In fact, Italian coffee cannot possibly be used for the purpose of time-wasting. Mainly because the least amount of coffee served in your teeny cup, the better.
You see, Italian coffee is not used for social purposes. It is more a stimulant of the masses, a little chemical pep to get you through the day. It is also used to aid digestion after a large meal. There are rarely many seats and tables in a coffee bar, as the custom when buying a coffee is to remain standing up - go in, go to the till to pay, get the receipt, take your receipt to the bar, get served your three atoms of coffee, shoot them down and leave. The whole process takes maybe five minutes, absolute maximum.
Italy is rightly famous for cappuccino, which is coffee and frothy milk - only served with cocoa dusted lightly on top if you ask for it. It is not to be taken after 11am and never before or after eating: The milk in a cappuccino precludes good digestion. Apparently. However, don't be lulled into a false sense of security by the cappuccino. The fact that there are more than three atoms of coffee in the cup does not mean that you can safely sit back and have a little pause and a chat over a hot beverage. Unless you specifically ask for it to be served hot, it will be served tepid and frequently even if you ask it makes little difference. It will most likely be warm, at best. I am maybe more of a stickler for this than most as I have what is medically known as an 'asbestos mouth' and I am not happy unless my drink, if it is supposed to be hot, is boiling hot. A tepid cup of coffee is just not acceptable to me, however here this is how it is served in order to be gulped down in a matter of seconds. Ask for 'bollente' and you will be served a nice hot cup of coffee. Probably...
I have really taken to Italian coffee though, and we have a Nespresso coffee machine which is probably the most used electrical gadget in the house. It helps that I don't have to go through the ritual of making the traditional coffee on the stove, the Nespresso working with capsules and the touch of a button. But this is also because I now appreciate the 'pick-me-up' abilities of a little shot of caffeine-charged coffee and I have to say that I am hooked.
Actually, an Italian espresso has less caffeine in it than an 'Americano' - what most of us would think of as a coffee, i.e. brown-coloured cup of hot water with some milk in it. The theory is that this is because the coffee grounds are steeped longer in the water so pick up more of the caffeine. Whatever, call me a coffee snob, but I know I will never be able to go back to what I used to think was coffee - boiling water poured onto crinkling brown powder from a jar. Maybe this was actually the reason I never liked coffee much in the first place.
I am not ashamed to say that I have totally 'gone native' where coffee is concerned. Once we step outside Italy, I am right beside Enrico criticising, rolling our eyes in smug despair, when we are handed a 4cm full espresso cup. 'Tchsk,' he says 'I asked for a LEETLE coffee', 'bleurgh', I say in sympathy. Us addicts need the good stuff.
Saturday 3 October 2009
Barak Obama's Suntan, Anyone?
I worry endlessly about the children growing up here, and I know I am not alone. My neurotic French friend is as bad if not worse than me - although, you know, she is neurotic, so perhaps I shouldn't set much store by her as an ally. It is always good to know that your worries are shared, though...
Last week, President Berlusconi complimented Michelle Obama on her suntan. This is after general approbation following his remark about Barak's suntan last year when Obama became the first black US president. Words absolutely FAIL me. The sad truth of the matter, however, is that I have no doubt that if you questioned most Italians, while they may realise that people outside Italy could take issue with this and that it probably isn't the done thing - crucially, they won't actually understand why it is a bad thing.
This brings me to the reason for my post today. My OH and I had a 'discussion' this week. Every morning our two boys - almost 3 and just 4 yrs old - come into our bed and we have a chat and cuddle and a play that sets us all up for the day. This morning, the smaller one started singing a little song he'd learnt at the Montessori nursery they both attend for mornings till 2pm. It involved some very woolly words and hand motions which the older one got frustrated with and took over. Now, the song, it turns out, was about a 'little china girl' on a porcelain jug - and involved (in the immortal words of our own dear Prince Philip) making their eyes 'go all slitty-eyed'. I was horrified - yet I got a blasting from OH about it being totally harmless, I was going over the top about nothing and what was wrong with it anyway?? As an aside - there happens to be a three year old Chinese girl in the class who was adopted by Italian parents. Alone, the fact that the teachers think nothing of teaching small children this kind of careless disrespect for other nationalities based on how they look is bad enough. Added to the fact that this little sweetie has to sit there while the rest of the class make fun of her difference - well, I just find it rather disturbing.
I would love to say that this is the first time I have seen this kind of thing, however I well remember the first time I was at a little one's birthday party and, after having sung happy birthday in Italian ('tanti auguri') and then in English (''aappy burffday-e'), they were then led in a chorus of happy birthday in Chinese - eyes pulled wide and 'tanti auguLi' sung at the the tops of their voices.
Italians as a whole do come across as racist and it has been said before that this is mostly due to the fact that, unlike the Brits for example, there has been no empire, no foreign colonies bringing in an interesting and varied mix of people from all over the world, so they are just not used to having to co-exist with other nationalities. This engenders confusion and a perhaps understandable fear of the unknown. The teachers at my sons' school are not racist per se, I believe, they just don't have the slightest awareness of the offence that this innocent-enough seeming little song might cause. I haven't done or said anything - yet. As the opportunity arises, I will say something though because I don't think the fact that no-one means any harm is really a good enough defence. I am always mindful of the fact that just not saying anything is not good enough. I remember very well a programme about how easy it is to creat the conditions for a total rejection of one ethnic group from a society and it starts with people like you and me just not saying something when an opinion is expressed that encourages intolerance.
I am proud of the fact that my parents have brought me up to be open-minded and to try to never judge just by race alone and also I believe that coming from the UK where there is such a mix of races and cultures is to our huge benefit. I hope that my boys grow to understand this too and do not go down the route of casual racism because the people they are surrounded by don't know any better.
Last week, President Berlusconi complimented Michelle Obama on her suntan. This is after general approbation following his remark about Barak's suntan last year when Obama became the first black US president. Words absolutely FAIL me. The sad truth of the matter, however, is that I have no doubt that if you questioned most Italians, while they may realise that people outside Italy could take issue with this and that it probably isn't the done thing - crucially, they won't actually understand why it is a bad thing.
This brings me to the reason for my post today. My OH and I had a 'discussion' this week. Every morning our two boys - almost 3 and just 4 yrs old - come into our bed and we have a chat and cuddle and a play that sets us all up for the day. This morning, the smaller one started singing a little song he'd learnt at the Montessori nursery they both attend for mornings till 2pm. It involved some very woolly words and hand motions which the older one got frustrated with and took over. Now, the song, it turns out, was about a 'little china girl' on a porcelain jug - and involved (in the immortal words of our own dear Prince Philip) making their eyes 'go all slitty-eyed'. I was horrified - yet I got a blasting from OH about it being totally harmless, I was going over the top about nothing and what was wrong with it anyway?? As an aside - there happens to be a three year old Chinese girl in the class who was adopted by Italian parents. Alone, the fact that the teachers think nothing of teaching small children this kind of careless disrespect for other nationalities based on how they look is bad enough. Added to the fact that this little sweetie has to sit there while the rest of the class make fun of her difference - well, I just find it rather disturbing.
I would love to say that this is the first time I have seen this kind of thing, however I well remember the first time I was at a little one's birthday party and, after having sung happy birthday in Italian ('tanti auguri') and then in English (''aappy burffday-e'), they were then led in a chorus of happy birthday in Chinese - eyes pulled wide and 'tanti auguLi' sung at the the tops of their voices.
Italians as a whole do come across as racist and it has been said before that this is mostly due to the fact that, unlike the Brits for example, there has been no empire, no foreign colonies bringing in an interesting and varied mix of people from all over the world, so they are just not used to having to co-exist with other nationalities. This engenders confusion and a perhaps understandable fear of the unknown. The teachers at my sons' school are not racist per se, I believe, they just don't have the slightest awareness of the offence that this innocent-enough seeming little song might cause. I haven't done or said anything - yet. As the opportunity arises, I will say something though because I don't think the fact that no-one means any harm is really a good enough defence. I am always mindful of the fact that just not saying anything is not good enough. I remember very well a programme about how easy it is to creat the conditions for a total rejection of one ethnic group from a society and it starts with people like you and me just not saying something when an opinion is expressed that encourages intolerance.
I am proud of the fact that my parents have brought me up to be open-minded and to try to never judge just by race alone and also I believe that coming from the UK where there is such a mix of races and cultures is to our huge benefit. I hope that my boys grow to understand this too and do not go down the route of casual racism because the people they are surrounded by don't know any better.
Thursday 1 October 2009
Lunch at an Agri-tourismo
Do not move to Italy if you have ever come here on holiday and loved it. If that is the case, Italy is not for you. All the things that you loved about Italy when you came here are the very things you will begin to loathe once you live here.
The Food: Ah, this is actually a whole book in itself. There is an image of Italy as a relaxed, take it as you find it kind of place when in fact the opposite is true. In reality, it is Germany without the clean streets and organised politics. There are rigid and hard-adhered to rules regarding food, the ingestion and digestion of which is strictly controlled. Everyone knows the Capuccino rule (never after 11am), however where else is it possible to not be able to buy food at lunch hour because the shops have shut, it being lunch time? Lunch, or 'il pranzo', occurs between 1 - 3pm and you will generally, outside of the larger towns, not find a soul in the street as they are all at home having lunch. This includes the purveyors of lunchtime fare - well, they have to eat too, right? Dinner is 8pm unless it's a special occasion. Lunch these days is not the long drawn-out affair it used to be, however if you are invited to a birthday or celebration lunch, if you are lucky at an agri-tourismo, this will generally take the same form.
An agri-tourismo is a restaurant in the countryside which provides the kind of food in the kind of setting that liberal media people rave about when they go back to their north London buddies. They can also be bed and breakfast establishments and the best ones are worth the grinding down pot-holed tracks and bramble scratches all over your car paintwork to get there. They will grow and produce their own food, being organic food without the big smug Organic label - it is just how the animals and vegetables have always been grown and reared. There is no menu other than the set menu - you get what you are given and unless you refuse, you are going to get the lot.
This begins with bread, which if you have small children is hopefully placed on the table as soon as possible to stop them moaning they are hungry, and often some delicious dark-green fruity olive oil to dip the bread in. Then come the anti-pasti - proscuitto crudo, cheeses, bruschetta, olives, some kind of cold or warm bean stew - to which you try to restrict yourself to just a couple of spoonfuls - and various other local specialities. This is a trap set for anyone who doesn't realise that they are in for a marathon, not a sprint. You will be delighted with this array of delicacies and will happily be picking away until the many dishes are empty not realising that you will be eating for another three hours when you are already full up after the first dishes - which don't even truly represent a first course. You will live to regret all the bread you dipped in the delicious olive oil before the anti-pasti were even served...
Next the primi piatti - the first course. 'First course' is a mis-nomer. In fact, there will generally be two courses of the first course, which is the pasta course. There will be two different kinds of pasta, for example fettucine with funghi porcini and THEN maltagliatti with chinghiali - pasta with wild boar sauce. Both will be delicious and if you were brought up to eat everything on your plate, then you will be starting to get into real trouble by the end of the fettuccini.
This is a leisurely lunch, so there is no rush - and thankfully for parents of small children and smokers, there are plenty of pauses in between dishes. As the restaurant produces its own livestock there will be plenty of animals to keep the children occupied, chasing the chickens or going to say 'baa' to the sheep, avoiding the anti-social sheep dogs which are like St Bernards crossed with Labradors and rarely respond well to kindness. The agri-tourismi are in the countryside and if you have picked well, there will be lovely views to admire and swings and a slide for the children - often rickety and with exposed nails in unexpected places, however Italy is a land that Health and Safety has not yet breached, so it is up to you the parent to assure your child's safety, which seems a rather savage thing to do after so much hand-holding and scolding from a nanny state.
After your cigarette/ run in the garden with the kids, it's time to go back to table for the next round. The segundi piatti. This is the meat course - and again, there will be lots of it. It could be a slices of beef, or chunks of home-bred lamb, or pork chops - or indeed it could be all three. The waiter will drop meat onto your plate until you ask him to stop. Once he is done throwing meat at you, he will come round again with vegetables, although really by this time your stomach will be protesting so much that the thought of ingesting even one of the fatty roast potatoes, oven-cooked with rosemary, will be just too much.
The ancient Romans must have been eating along the same lines when they came up with the 'vomitarium' - in between courses they would retire to regurgitate all the food that they had just eaten so they could carry on with the feast. Although it is unlikely you will have been served any blackbirds, you will by the end of lunch be feeling that Romans actually had exactly the right idea. Your groaning and distended stomach will be begging to be shown to the vomitarium.
Another pause ensues which should be used for lifting your sated bones into the garden and moving about a bit to start the digestion process - something which is extremely important to the Italians. 'Digerire' is a subject which is talked about at length - everything can be placed either into categories of food which can be digested easily or with difficulty. Even after such a preposterously large lunch, there will still be complaints that this or that is hard to digest. Not the fact that you have eaten enough food to keep a family of four going for a week, of course. That has nothing to do with it.
So finally one or two desserts will be served for the troopers still able to force a mouthful more down and then - the 'digestivi' - a grappa or other such stong liquor will be served 'to aid digestion'. Coffee is also served, tiny tiny mouthfuls, which are also aids to digestion.
You will finally stagger back to your car, several kilos heavier than when you arrived declaring that next time you will not pig out on the anti-pasti. Which, of course, is what you always say...
The Food: Ah, this is actually a whole book in itself. There is an image of Italy as a relaxed, take it as you find it kind of place when in fact the opposite is true. In reality, it is Germany without the clean streets and organised politics. There are rigid and hard-adhered to rules regarding food, the ingestion and digestion of which is strictly controlled. Everyone knows the Capuccino rule (never after 11am), however where else is it possible to not be able to buy food at lunch hour because the shops have shut, it being lunch time? Lunch, or 'il pranzo', occurs between 1 - 3pm and you will generally, outside of the larger towns, not find a soul in the street as they are all at home having lunch. This includes the purveyors of lunchtime fare - well, they have to eat too, right? Dinner is 8pm unless it's a special occasion. Lunch these days is not the long drawn-out affair it used to be, however if you are invited to a birthday or celebration lunch, if you are lucky at an agri-tourismo, this will generally take the same form.
An agri-tourismo is a restaurant in the countryside which provides the kind of food in the kind of setting that liberal media people rave about when they go back to their north London buddies. They can also be bed and breakfast establishments and the best ones are worth the grinding down pot-holed tracks and bramble scratches all over your car paintwork to get there. They will grow and produce their own food, being organic food without the big smug Organic label - it is just how the animals and vegetables have always been grown and reared. There is no menu other than the set menu - you get what you are given and unless you refuse, you are going to get the lot.
This begins with bread, which if you have small children is hopefully placed on the table as soon as possible to stop them moaning they are hungry, and often some delicious dark-green fruity olive oil to dip the bread in. Then come the anti-pasti - proscuitto crudo, cheeses, bruschetta, olives, some kind of cold or warm bean stew - to which you try to restrict yourself to just a couple of spoonfuls - and various other local specialities. This is a trap set for anyone who doesn't realise that they are in for a marathon, not a sprint. You will be delighted with this array of delicacies and will happily be picking away until the many dishes are empty not realising that you will be eating for another three hours when you are already full up after the first dishes - which don't even truly represent a first course. You will live to regret all the bread you dipped in the delicious olive oil before the anti-pasti were even served...
Next the primi piatti - the first course. 'First course' is a mis-nomer. In fact, there will generally be two courses of the first course, which is the pasta course. There will be two different kinds of pasta, for example fettucine with funghi porcini and THEN maltagliatti with chinghiali - pasta with wild boar sauce. Both will be delicious and if you were brought up to eat everything on your plate, then you will be starting to get into real trouble by the end of the fettuccini.
This is a leisurely lunch, so there is no rush - and thankfully for parents of small children and smokers, there are plenty of pauses in between dishes. As the restaurant produces its own livestock there will be plenty of animals to keep the children occupied, chasing the chickens or going to say 'baa' to the sheep, avoiding the anti-social sheep dogs which are like St Bernards crossed with Labradors and rarely respond well to kindness. The agri-tourismi are in the countryside and if you have picked well, there will be lovely views to admire and swings and a slide for the children - often rickety and with exposed nails in unexpected places, however Italy is a land that Health and Safety has not yet breached, so it is up to you the parent to assure your child's safety, which seems a rather savage thing to do after so much hand-holding and scolding from a nanny state.
After your cigarette/ run in the garden with the kids, it's time to go back to table for the next round. The segundi piatti. This is the meat course - and again, there will be lots of it. It could be a slices of beef, or chunks of home-bred lamb, or pork chops - or indeed it could be all three. The waiter will drop meat onto your plate until you ask him to stop. Once he is done throwing meat at you, he will come round again with vegetables, although really by this time your stomach will be protesting so much that the thought of ingesting even one of the fatty roast potatoes, oven-cooked with rosemary, will be just too much.
The ancient Romans must have been eating along the same lines when they came up with the 'vomitarium' - in between courses they would retire to regurgitate all the food that they had just eaten so they could carry on with the feast. Although it is unlikely you will have been served any blackbirds, you will by the end of lunch be feeling that Romans actually had exactly the right idea. Your groaning and distended stomach will be begging to be shown to the vomitarium.
Another pause ensues which should be used for lifting your sated bones into the garden and moving about a bit to start the digestion process - something which is extremely important to the Italians. 'Digerire' is a subject which is talked about at length - everything can be placed either into categories of food which can be digested easily or with difficulty. Even after such a preposterously large lunch, there will still be complaints that this or that is hard to digest. Not the fact that you have eaten enough food to keep a family of four going for a week, of course. That has nothing to do with it.
So finally one or two desserts will be served for the troopers still able to force a mouthful more down and then - the 'digestivi' - a grappa or other such stong liquor will be served 'to aid digestion'. Coffee is also served, tiny tiny mouthfuls, which are also aids to digestion.
You will finally stagger back to your car, several kilos heavier than when you arrived declaring that next time you will not pig out on the anti-pasti. Which, of course, is what you always say...
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