Thoroughly Modern Bride

At 7am the morning of the wedding, I was on the phone, making sure E was awake. I would have been delighted with up-and-about, but awake was the minimum I was hoping for. No answer. I started to get myself ready, get the kids up, organise them and point lovely helpful Mum in the right direction to help me with them, still no call. Finally, as we are getting to be about half way ready, he rings, all fine, all going to Schedule...

Did I mention I can be a total control freak? I subscribe little to horoscopes but I do like the duality of the Libra sign - I am either micro-managing or SERIOUSLY couldn't give a toss. This morning, I was micro-managing on crack. My main fear was the horror that is the Gibraltar border crossing. Getting out seems to be no major problem but they really don't like to let you in there. It's not like you're getting into the garden of Eden, ffs, in fact quite the opposite. Gib is a strange place where the locals speak a strange Welsh-accented (what's that all about?) English that's organically intertwined with Spanish, which gets chopped and changed around according to no particular logic that I can establish. It's like Blackpool (sorry Blackpudlians) with mangy monkeys, sunshine and bloody great tankers parked in the sea. Not a pretty place. So why they feel the need to build up so much anticipation with hour-long queues is quite beyond me.

SO. The plan is we all leave at 8am to get there for 10am. In theory, an hour and bit away but I have made lots of allowance for traffic jams, always a possibility as it was nominally rush-hour. We are a little way behind E as - as tradition dictates! - he has stayed, at my suggestion, at a friends' house for the night, in order not to 'see the bride' in the morning. Did I mention this friend of his is a notorious party animal, famous for his ability to cajole E into most anything?? His sweet gf was there too but I had my doubts, let's put it like that, as to her efficacy with the pair of them.

We are all to Schedule, in the car, heading down the mountain from Mum and Dad's house. Time for another call, just to make sure they are keeping to the Schedule too. 0815hrs. THEY HAVE STILL NOT LEF THE HOUSE!! Claudia is putting her make-up on!!!!! Total freak-out. What if the traffic's bad? What if we can't get into Gib?? What if we miss our slot??

My pep talk left something to be desired, consisting as it did with, 'dump her, get in the car, you're ruining everything!!!!!!'. Hmmm..... I think a touch of subtlety was the main lacking ingredient, perhaps with a hint of moderation, could have been useful. All the way to the border I had sweaty palms - I seriously have not felt that stressy for so long, my life consisting as it does of doing nothing really important, just getting myself around on a day to day basis.

Despite my doom-laden predictions, we got there - and it was empty. There were a couple of cars in front of us and that was it. I have NEVER, in all these years of doing UK supermarket runs over the border, ever, ever, ever seen so few cars. It was clearly meant to be. So, we took the car over instead of dumping it and making a run for a taxi once through the border crossing, and parked in a large multi-storey carpark not far from the grotty main street, at the end of which was our destination. Most brides probably prepare in their homes, not far from the venue and then enter serenely in some appropriate mode of luxury transport. My first time was with a horse and carriage, as it happens. I hadn't actually changed before leaving as I didn't want my dress to resemble a used paper bag. So I got changed in the carpark. I am nothing if not adaptable. We then headed down through Bhs into Main Street to have a leisurely stroll past the unloading lorries and early-bird tourists out for a bargain.

I was keeping my eye out the whole time for E's little party of three: Our total guest list consisted of Mum, Dad, our boys and Claudia and Gigi, at whose house he'd stayed the night before. Walking towards the registry office, I spied them all at a café just ahead. So we made a quick detour into Marks and Spencers and hid out until Dad cried, 'Cave chaps!', at which point we made the final stretch.

Dad was walking ahead and by now, my hat was on and my bouquet was in place. Mum was slightly behind walking with the boys, bemused and already with their white shirts smudged with oil. I rounded the corner and Enrico was waiting - what a lovely memory, all in white with his hands to his mouth and tears in his eyes.

Anyway, there was lots of hanging around as the fastidious to the -nth degree registrar ('Your usual signature here please. What does that represent?', 'it says your father is a managing director - was? What kind of company was that?' SHEESH already) ensured the couple before us took happy memories away.

Then it was our turn. I can't really say I remember much about the ceremony, other than hoping that the fastidious to the -nth degree registrar wouldn't object to E's accented English and cancel the ceremony. And I had Gigi mugging and clowning around just in my eyeline by E's side. It was over quickly, but the registrar was a sweetie, very Old Skool, like a little red-haired vicar-y character from a 1950's farce. He smiled alot and wanted to make sure that we didn't feel rushed, there were lots of pics and it was all relaxed and just how we wanted it really. The boys, still bemused, handed over the rings and then it was over. We are husband and wife.

One problem with this kind of informal ceremony is just that - there is no pattern to follow, no reception to head to, nobody waiting for the photos to be taken, just the reason we did it like this of course, but it hadn't even occured to us what we were going to do between the end of the ceremony and the lunch we had booked at a Thai restaurant on the beach in Estepona. So we headed to a pub and Dad had a pint of John Smiths (and took a photo of it) and then we moved on to the restaurant.

The venue for lunch could not have been more stunning and more suitable. A gorgeous Thai restaurant by the Kempinski in Estepona, giving right onto a practically deserted beach with a glass-calm sea. The food had yet to arrive - when Enrico stood up to make a speech, which took us all by surprise. Before he even started to speak, I could feel a lump in my throat. When he started to speak about how his Mum would have loved to be there, he had to sit down to compose himself and Mum and I were already in full flow. He did a very traditional 'thanking everyone, so happy to be part of a new family' speech - but it was so full of emotion, so heart-felt that even Claudia, who doesn't speak English, was blowing into a hankie.

We ate, we went for a drink on our own then we went back to Mum and Dad's to see the kids and return to real life. It wasn't a traditional day. But frankly, as it's our second time for both of us, I would have felt faintly embarrassed and a bit of a fraud to stand up in front of a load of people repeating words I've said once before but with little conviction. This time, it was a ceremony for Enrico and I, making promises in public that we had made in private when the boys were born. Enrico's emotional words made it so special. Our lives haven't changed since, of course, it was more of a formality than anything but what a lovely, sentimental husband I have, I'm lucky and grateful for him, for better and for worse.

Dum dum di DUUMM!

It's 12.30am and today I'm getting married!! So bizarre, we envisioned the whole thing as an ironic paper-signing event conducted in the most un-romantic fashion possible: 10.30am in the Gibraltar registry office. If you haven't been to Gibraltar, let me tell you - there are few more unromantic places in the world. We have been telling ourselves, and everyone else, that it's just a formality, nothing important, just a legalisation of the life we have been living for the past six and a bit years.
That said, I have no idea why I should be here, typing, with snakes slithering in my stomach. I have also spent the better part of the past three days traipsing round shopping centres and boutiques in Marbella (air conditioning, anyone?? No, fine, I'll be the one sweating like a stuck pig then) trying to find shoes and a dress and earrings and etc etc... For a five minute service in a lime green registry office with rising damp and plastic flowers.
I think logically that it isn't a big deal and it isn't, not really. Nothing changes, we just have rings on our fingers and all the legal bells and whistles that go with that. But I am actually excited! I am looking forward to all the usual things that brides look forward to - when he sees me in my dress (Barbarella-style shift, white of course, ha!), when we say the words (what they will be, I have no idea, but I know there aren't many of them cos the service itself actually lasts about 5 minutes) and the throwing of the bouquet (Claudia, get ready, luv!). I need to sleep as we have to get up at the crack of dawn to get there but I find that I am too agitated. Playing it down so much, I have come to believe my own hype. You can't fool your heart though. I am marrying a lovely man who is a fantastic father to our children. He takes over when I need him to, looks after me so well in so many ways (a particular episode of gastro-entiritis when I was pregnant comes to mind. I know I couldn't have cleaned that bathroom...) and who makes an effort to make me laugh - although I could have done without the image of him in my bikini bottoms he gave me today, thanks all the same. We have had some rotten times but we both believe in the same things: being there for the children and working hard at what you've got. I am enough of a realist, and a divorcée, to realise that things can always change, but I hope to goodness they don't. And I hope that we both continue to work hard to make sure that we are as happy now in the future. Things aren't always perfect but sometimes they go your way and we are lucky to have each other. Unusually soppy for me, but in this case, I feel the occasion justifies the sentiment! Wish us luck!!

Footloose and Fancy Free

Due to the great fortune and inspired suggestion (mine) that the Grandparents take the children back with them from our holiday in the Dolomites, Enrico and I have been having a nice time 'dating', doing stuff that we couldn't normally do with the little ones in tow. So we went to a couple of concerts, stayed out till 5.30am after going late-night swimming at a friend's house (seemed like a good idea at the time. Not so good by about 3pm), having dinner out and even just walking out to get a bottle of water together. It's been lovely really, and a bit of a relief that it's so, to be honest. As the day for the children going drew closer, I have to admit hearing a little whisper in the back of my head which asked me, 'What on EARTH are you going to talk about/ do with yourselves without the kids??' after their constant presence for the past 5 years. Nearly six if you fancy counting in vitro.

It is a common problem, I think, in parents with young children, to find that their whole lives are just taken up with, consumed with, the little ones and not much else. I have noticed that even when I go shopping for our meagre two-people rations while they're away, I am having to consciously not buy things that have free gifts in them cos the boys might like them. Or that by far the majority of stuff I buy is bought with the boys in mind. 'Meagre rations' is not an exaggeration - for two little boys, they really do seem to require unfeasibly large amounts of groceries.

All our conversations revolve around the children too. A large part of Enrico's repertoire is taken up with impressions of the boys, so it was a worry that we would be left bereft of things that make us laugh together. But no, we are lucky, we are laughing just fine without the, 'Mummy!' or 'Daddy!' noise buzzing in the background.

I am starting to notice how boring the days are though. I find myself wanting to sleep for large portions of it (boredom, but also because it gets the hottest part of the day out of the way with the least discomfort, I think) and have little motivation or structure to my week. Where normally I would be getting breakfast ready, tidying the kitchen, general 'getting on with stuff', I'm not. I'm having lie-ins, doing bits and bobs till lunch then gearing myself up for a snooze with the aircon on.

I am sooo going to look back at this entry in about 3 months time and wonder what in heavens could possibly be wrong with such a blissful scenario! However, at the moment, I am rather looking forward to seeing their little faces and hearing all their stories in their stuttery, stumble-y voices. Only four more sleeps...

The Summer Tussle

Last year, summer started in May here. It was hellish and in fact, I think I may have been a bit scarred for life. I know that by the end of it, I was a leeetle beeet crazy. I was longing, desperate for a bit of rain and to feel a chill on my bones when I walked out of the door. It started at 40° in May and pretty much carried on that way till October, apart from our annual respite in August at Mum and Dad's in Spain. I used to love the hot weather - that first warm, damp intake of air as you get off the plane at the start of your holiday.

Well, let me tell you - that heat when you have to live in it can drive you insane. It's as bad as having rain all summer because you sure as hell can't go out and do anything. So, as I think I have previously mentioned, summer here is Not Fun. This summer is better, though. We got AIRCON. Praise be to Heaven, we have little white units delivering pure bliss in the flat that mean that I can hunker down all day, praying for Winter (Autumn's still a bit too warm for me these days) and the walls to stop burning my hands when I touch them.

To me, aircon units are a divine gift. To others, they are the Devil's work, sent to deliver pestilence and plague unto the population. Well, a sore throat and a bit of a sniffle actually, but you would think it was the former by the conversations that go on. And in fact, now I think about it, Italy isn't the only place where you'll hear this conversation. I'm remebering conversations when I lived in Bermuda fairly similar to the ones we have here. Or the ones I am forced to smile along, nodding my head to, if I don't want to get scoffed out of town. Aircon dries your throat, you see, amongst many many other horrors it delivers. A friend came round for one of the World Cup matches and we had to switch the aircon off for him as - no word of a lie - it was 'making him sweat'. He'd come out of the 30° evening air, and my lovely cool air was making him sweat. This in turn would give him a bad back. I am not kidding!!! My step-mum-in-law came out with a similar thing the other day while we still in the mountains - it was in the high 20°'s and I said, 'for Heaven's sake, take your shirt off', (she was in a t-shirt with a shirt over). She said no, don't think I will, 'because the sweat will dry on my neck and I'll get a chill'. The body doing it's natural cooling-mechanism-thing seems to be a terrible burden to Italians.

Of course, my dearest other half is Italian and not immune to the fear of the aircon. He is better than most - and indeed, mostly tolerates my need to have frost on the end of my nose in the car, for example. But the Summer Tussle gets down and dirty in bed of a night. It's the Tussle over who does what - with the airconditioner. My secret fantasty? It's to be in pj's in the middle of summer, tucked up in a quilt with the aircon on FULL blasting out freezing cold air all night. Of course, it's never going to happen: Economically, we'd be bankrupt after a week with the high energy prices here, and ecologically, I am fully aware (though don't care as much as maybe I ought) that there is a hefty price to pay for my frosty nose. Enrico could well sleep in the stifling heat, no probs. He could probably sleep through a nuclear war balanced on a high beam, to be honest, so the heavy stifling nights don't really bother him. Before Aircon, I would sleep on the cool(er) tiled floor, now though, we have the discussion: At what speed does it go on? What is the lowest temp I can get it on while he's negotiating the maximum? Do we go for automatic (of COURSE we don't, it would never get the place cool enough to reach the cut-off point due to the 3 foot thick bricks that are super-heated all day) or do we keep it just on Low Fan? Should I, ethically, economically and just to keep the old sod happy, switch it off once I start to feel a bit nippy? So many considerations. It's the same argument and it will probably be the same every night of every summer of our lives, because it seems that men don't feel the extremes of temperature like women do and because it isn't affecting them, it isn't happening. Enrico will actually tell me that I am feeling cool when of course I am not, at all, feeling cool, as if I am suffering from the heat just to spite him. I KNOW when I am feeling hot or when I am feeling cold, thanks, you telling me that I can't possibly still feel hot does not alter my body chemistry in the slightest.

Anyway, I've just hopped out of bed to write this while it was still fresh in my mind (from this night's Tussle: 26°, Low Fan, switched off once need for quilt kicks in, in case you're wondering). He should be asleep by now though, so I'll just be grabbing this remote control....

Lord, Give Me Wisdom

I wish I'd had a girl. Two boys are lovely but I wish I'd had a girl. I have lots of things I want to pass on and I don't think that boys are the right recipients for, ''Celebrity' is NOT a job description.' Or, 'he's just not that into you' is a phrase you should hold dear. Or, 'relationships are like success and can only work with 90% perspiration, 10% inspiration.'

I never really wanted children in the first place, but once persuaded by my handsome Italian boyfriend that it would be a good idea, we started trying. I reckoned it would take ages, if at all, for me to get pregnant, due to some gynae probs when I was younger. It took that month for me to fall pregnant. So, it was a boy and I was OK, no worries, if I'm going to have children, I'll better make the next one a girl. Another boy. I am now getting long in the tooth to be searching for the illusive female progeny, and the way things are looking, it's more than likely it would be another boy. Statistically, it's an interesting one: There's always a 50/50 chance of boy or girl. But after two boys, there's more of a chance of having another boy. Even though there's still a 50/50 chance of boy/ girl. I am not a mathmetician, it's a conundrum I don't get.

So anyway, here we are with two boys and all this stuff I've been storing, subconsiously, for years waiting for a person to hand it over to. I do know that this mythical daughter would probably have far too many of her own ideas for her own good - she is my mythical daughter after all - but as long as she liked shoes and books, I think we could get along. I want to say that once you get older, you realise that all that glitters is not gold. That being famous is not a good thing to be - it just means that someone follows you everywhere you go and every mistake you make is set down in perpituity. Being stupendously rich is not generally as great as it's cracked up to be too - rich and famous is probably one of the most hazardous occupations there is. Unless you have a VERY good head on your shoulders and a great group of sensible people around you, generally you will go off the rails and do too much of something harmful.

I want to say that you should go out and travel, most importantly of all. This I can give to the boys. I didn't achieve all that work-wise, but I've seen lots of the world and I don't think I've ever been disappointed. I have a full album when I look back. Sometimes I daydream that I never left Lincoln, got married and had kids. The kids go to Scouts and we have a nice holiday every year somewhere. I maybe have a nice little job but am mainly there as mum and wife. It's a lovely little daydream and I find it really comforting. But it's not me. I wanted to leave home from the minute I realised that I could, not because I was running away from something, but because I wanted to see what else there was that I could run to. Regret the things you don't do, never the things you do do, because everything you do makes you what you are. Something else that occurs to me though on this theme is that you need to be good in your own skin - one thing you always always take with you when you travel is yourself. You can be in the most wonderous place in the world but you will only ever see it through your eyes and process it with your brain. You will never escape yourself so make sure you like who you are.

I have always loved those films and books where the lead character just comes out with these amazingly instructive aphorisms or stunningly pithy truisms, and would love to just throw a few out here now. However, I am English and therefore have been born with a fully developed sense of irony - I would make myself laugh, never mind any one else. I will be trying to covertly slip the odd bit of wisdom into my conversations with the boys as they are growing and hopefully they will take them on board, although as is the way of the world, they will no doubt either not listen or just dismiss me out of hand. From my own Mum, amongst other things, I have learnt empathy and from Dad, well, the deepest lesson of all is 'The Higher The Fewer'. Thanks, Dad. It means alot.

Going Native

Maybe it's the weather, maybe it's because I have been on lots of holidays recently, or even it could be that Enrico's work is finally going well, but I have to admit that - ooo, it hurts, it's so hard to do - I think I am going native. A little bit. Just a smidge.

Aieee. There, I've set down in black and white what I haven't admitted to anyone so now it's out there. I don't know when I began to realise it but it's slowly dawning on me that I am totally used to eating seasonal, regionally specialised ingredients - that don't have, 'locally sourced!', 'Seasonally produced!', 'Only organic products used, don't worry!', 'Feel free to be smug about your diet to your friends!' 'This will cost you twice as much as a normal product!' (I made up a couple of those) stickers all over them. I am truly blessed having a wonderful cook as a partner and I am conscious of this on a daily basis - 'cos he cooks most meals on a daily basis. Because of him, I've got used to eating high quality produce and recognising anything inferior. Italian people really do eat so well, yes, it's regional, seasonal and limited in scope to an English person used to eating a huge variety of international cuisines, however, the meals cooked in our house could easily win awards. The food is often very simple - we had spaghetti with olive oil and truffle today for example, simplicity itself - but E had bought the truffles from a friend who had a friend go over his land in Tuscany with a dog to get the fresh truffles, the olive oil we get by the jerry can from a mill down the road - simple, seasonal and delicious.

I can't believe it's possible, but I am even getting used to the driving. I don't like it any more than I did, but I am wise in the ways of the Italian driver now. Returning from a week in the UK recently, after a smooth, worry-free, civilised drive on the M25 to Stansted Airport, E picked us up at Ciampino and we headed home. I actually laughed. It was like a scene out of Grand Theft Auto (I imagine) or grown-up bumper cars at the very least. Don't try to tell me that UK drivers are bad either, until you have driven in Italy. The rule to driving in Italy is that there are no rules and once you get used to it, you are fit to drive here. On a journey recently I saw a beautiful example of this - an articulated lorry blocking a slip road because the lorry driver had clearly realised he'd taken the wrong direction, so instead of carrying on and coming off at the first opportunity, he was going to reverse back up the slip road and head on down the right way by hook or by crook. In his articulated lorry. I see so many cars parked, hazards flashing, on the chevrons between motorway junctions, I could well believe that in Italy, they are taught in their Highway Code that the chevrons are actually another symbol for Parking. Last minute swerving is commonplace too. I don't get it - is everyone just really indecisive ('Ooo, this way this way this way NOOOO, I'm going to go THIS WAY!!'), or just so busy talking on their mobile phones while driving that they are paying no attention to the road signs? I'll go for the latter - it's 5 points and a fine for talking on mobiles while driving, not that anyone cares less. Children apparently should be strapped in at the back too but again, it's normal to see kids stood chatting to parents in between the two fronts sears. Yikes.

I am falling deeply in love with the Italian countryside and the amazing variety it holds too. There are still so many areas to visit, but so far I am loving the opportunity to see more. My latest favourite place is the Dolomites, where we recently spent a week near Cortina. Wow. Probably one of my all-time favourite places at the moment, actually. Beautiful, clean, breathtaking scenery, an amazing wealth of things to do. I'm looking forward to seeing it in the winter and hopefully getting some skiing in too. Of course, there's Tuscany, and Puglia, and Umbria, Lazio too has some really special places. We are so lucky to be able to explore them and as soon as the kids are old enough, I am hoping they will appreciate us carting them around with us. I am really hoping that they don't turn into the kind of adults who say, 'well our Mum and Dad made us go on route marches up mountains at the age of three', which while technically is true, doesn't capture the beauty and splendour of the mountains they were being route-marched up...

So, there. It's out in the open and I can finally say it. I am happy in Italy. At the moment. I have to attach caveats because, by it's very nature, Italy is transient, volatile and prone to throwing curveballs at you from no-where. Come over and see for yourselves. We'd love to have you. Just, I still wouldn't recommend coming to this actual spot. It's full of dog-crap and graffiti, but for all that, it's finally starting to feel a bit more like home...

Here Be Dragons.

Any time I see anything on t'internet about and/ or for expats living in Italy, I always click on the link and join straight away, whatever it is. I therefore get spammed on a regular basis by expat journals a 6th former would get ridiculed for and have yet to find something that really reflects my experience of living here. Maybe I am just too old and cynical, however my take on it is that actually I have travelled alot more than many people and crucially, have actually lived in alot more countries than many people, so feel more qualified to comment than most. I heard a quote the other day from Somerset Maugham, 'One never knows one's own country until one has lived in at least two others', which I feel is entirely true. Studying Antropology at University, one of the very few things that got through my fuddled, addled, above all, young and inexperienced, brain was that you should never look at things through your own cultural spectacles. You must always try to see things through a local's perspective.

I try to bear this in mind living here but I find that all the things that drive me potty also drive our friends here potty too which is somewhat reassuring. Some of them. Well, a couple of them. But at least I am not alone. At least my other half agrees with me. For instance, we met a very good friend of ours today with his son and daughter at the tennis club. We had arranged to go to see some other friends and to let our kids play together, it being lovely weather. Turns out that the lovely weather was the problem. It was too hot. The children would SWEAT, for the love of GOD what were we thinking??? Our friend started low and then carried on complaining until it got to the point where he just couldn't cope with it any more, scooped his daughter up and took her to the car. Got her settled, then came back to fetch his son, who was by now very dirty and sweaty. Which meant that he was wide open to 'get sick'. I tried - not subtly at all because I was incredulous by this point - to inquire what form of illness sweating during a hot day playing with little friends could take, but he was incable of coming up with anything other than, 'well, he'll get sweaty and... well, we're off, you always choose rubbish places for the kids to play'. The latter comment was because the last time we arranged to meet up was at the Piazza del Duomo when there was a 'do' on. There were too many people and too much noise on this occasion. And a couple of gypsies and have you heard that a child was found in a supermarket toilet with its' hair cut after being stolen by a gypo so it wouldn't be recognised? Actually, I've heard the same story repeated as truth in the UK, Spain and now Italy. I keep meaning to check out Snopes but have yet to get round to it.

The point is that this is one of the many great bloody irritations of living here. Your choices and actions are always commented on and an opinion is freely expressed whether it's wanted or not. And generally the opinions are negative ones. For every, 'what gorgeous little boys you have,' you can bet there will be at least two, 'you're sending them outside in THAT?? But they'll catch their death/ get too hot/ develop a severe speech impediment if they go outside like that!!'. We were dicussing this with friends, all Italian and local, yesterday and they were also coming up with 'advice' they'd been given, or heard from other parents to their kids. They ranged from the classic, 'now go and play but don't sweat'!, to the surreal, 'Mario! Mario! Shout quietly!!!!!'.

This along with the incessant traffic, ubiquitous smoking, triple-price everything seems to be my experience alone because every other expat I read appears to be meeting charming, cultured, interesting locals. We clearly got landed with the crappy end of the stick because frankly, our part of Italy sucks and I feel that finally I am able to speak my mind without fear of someone accusing me of not having given it a chance. I have given it a chance and now I've had enough, thanks! We are all - including my Italian, local born and bred other half - longing to get away from here and be able to breathe more freely again. Everything we do is noticed and commented on. And not in a good way. All these bloody glossy, glowing views of Italy just aren't true - in my experience. Yes, the food is great, but the people are generally opinionated and in Rome and around Rome at least, just plain rude. I suppose if they were Yorkshiremen, they would say they 'speak as they find', but we are not in Yorkshire, Toto, and I have had a bellyful today. Can you tell? I think I am hiding it quite well...