I have come to the conclusion that actually I am a pretty rubbish feminist. When I want to be, I can get on the highest of horses and expound the arguments with the best of them, however at heart, I realise that actually I am a 1950's housewife manquée.
I was having a chat with Dad while sat in traffic on the way to the Sistine Chapel while him and Mum were over (totally irrelevant, sorry) and we were commenting on the differences in the options that are open to me as opposed to when they were younger. It seemed actually rather lovely in their era - the done thing was to get a bit of a schooling but really this was just biding time until the main event: They left home, got married, had children. If you were a man, you got a job. If you were a woman, you had and then looked after the children. And practically, that was it for the next twenty years, at which point you cashed in your British Telecom shares, made a fortune when the Building Societies privatised, sold your house for an obscene profit and had a great time while you were still young enough to enjoy it.
The point was that it sounded lovely. All their friends were doing the same thing, the kids were all around the same age so could play and grow up together and there was no restless quest for something better because that was your life. I am sure that there are plenty of my friends and peers who would run vomiting and screaming from the room to hear me say this - but I envy that life. I have heard Russians and Romanians lamenting the loss of the State-controlled lives they had - there were no options, and life was so much more certain. Not that I am comparing the pre-feminist woman's lot with Communist Russia, we weren't sent sent to gulags if we didn't fancy popping out a couple of sprogs and knocking up a stew every now and again for supper. Hopefully you get the point I'm making, however.
Now we have so many options and possibilities that the fact that you haven't done anything spectacular or worthy by the age of 40 is just another reason to beat yourself up. With expectations come responsibility and I am not sure my feminist sisters in the '70's actually realised that for someone like me, taking away some options is not really a bad thing. In fact, it is positively beneficial and doesn't leave me feeling like a total failure for not living up to their hopes and dreams. Is it just me? It would suit me to go back to 1950, I have never really achieved anything noteworthy other than bum around having a good time and I think I would suit a pinny. I have seen lots of the world, which I do believe is a good thing, and would not have been thinkable in my parents' day. However, I would have had my children young and have my middle-youth to enjoy my sightseeing, with the added bonus of all the lovely windfall cash in my pocket.
It's a conundrum that has come into focus as part of my Passing Forty Epiphany, and one I am now really too old to do anything about. I can still get the pinny, though. Cath Kidston here I come.
Tuesday, 1 December 2009
Wednesday, 4 November 2009
Is There a Doctor in the House?
God, my head is splitting... I've had a stealth build-up of catarrh over the past couple of weeks which left me temporarily deaf in one ear necessitating a visit to the Doctor Disco Twins. Our doctor is an old friend of Enrico (who isn't in Monterotondo, let's face it) who started studying medicine at the same time as him. Unlike him, however, she managed past three years and actually graduated to become a Family Doctor. This is a bit of misnomer as children can't see the family doctor, they have to go straight to the pediatrician. No one-stop-shop health centre here in Italy, of course.
So the Doctor Disco Twins are our family practice - two sisters who seem to think that one clause of the Hippocratic Oath was 'thou must go to work dressed in 1980's disco attire on a daily basis'. Last time I was there, our doctor was dressed in her usual white coat but from underneath peaked her customary black fishnet stockings, finishing off in a fine pair of 5inch black stilettos with a striking gold spike heel. Her hair has it's own post code. Her sister followed her out of the surgery, again in a white doctors' coat but even more strictly adherent than her sister - she had gone the whole hog and was in full-on Studio 54 Bianca Jagger-era, scarlet sequins sparkling in the grim light of the pensioner-packed waiting room. It's flu jab season. Maybe it's a deliberate effort for the old folks, no-one likes needles, and who could think of the injection when you are being dazzled by a million tiny scarlet mirrors??
So I went in with a blocked ear and came out laden to the gills with prescriptions. I was given anti-biotics the size of horse pills; a steroid inhaler for the nebuliser we were guilted into buying for the children ('it's €130, but you're going to quibble about the price over the health of your children???'); a decongestant and something else, not sure what it was for but I am sure it was integral to the therapy. That was over a week ago and I have steadily got worse, to the extent that now the anti-biotics have finished I feel totally run down and am sure I have contracted some kind of yeast infection thanks to the devastating effectiveness of the drugs in killing all bacteria, good and bad, in their path.
The point is that in Italy, you expect to get properly dosed when you go to the doctors. Everyone knows what drugs do what and if you are not instantly running to the nebuliser at the first sign of a sniff, then you clearly don't know what's good for you. It is a nation of hypochondriacs and I frequently have to mentally rein myself in from shouting, ''how are you?' is a greeting, not a question!!', when I get dragged in to yet another discussion about someone's temperature and various symptoms. I never even knew what a good temperature to be was until I came here but now we have two thermometers and I actually have to stop myself constantly checking the kids when they are ill. Therein madness lies.
Enrico is actually a lot better than he used to be. I well remember and will never let him forget when we lived in Spain he had flu which, with the male-chromosome factored in, makes it double pneumonia: Every five minutes - 'I feel terrible. My temperature's going up again. I can't breathe properly. My ribs hurt. When I do this (breathes in deeply) it really hurts.' I could hear him in the bedroom from the lounge - our thermometer made a 'click click click ker-CHING' sound every time it was used. It sounded like he had a slot machine in there. He actually went to emergency because his temperature was 39° and he thought there was something really wrong. They told him to go home and take paracetamol. Ouch.
The funny thing is that most of our Italian friends are also aware of this, and there are many who are trying to fight the tide of antibiotics, in spite of all efforts to the contrary. Our pediatrician is also a qualified homeopath and is unusually laissez-faire - if the kids are generally OK, he will let them leave without a massive prescription, which invariably requires a second mortgage to pay for. I now beg for paracetamol and Calpol when anyone asks what they can bring from abroad for us. The last time I bought generic paracetamol, it cost me €8... The same packet I could buy in ASDA for 15p. Never again.
Efforts to avoid getting a chill are loudly bandied about and not just with one's own children. Taking a child out without a coat after September will earn you a chastisement in the street. A good friend brought her young daughter in balmy October and committed the sin of taking her out without socks. It was 25° at this time. She was practically publicly pilloried as an unfit mother. It takes a village to raise a child - and to make sure they are properly covered up against the elements, it seems. Many is the time I have heard parents shouting to their children - in playgrounds, and my favourite, actually before jumping in a ballpool - 'don't sweat, darling'. I mean. EH?!! A ballpool is specifically designed to make children sweat, and as for commanding a child not to sweat - well, how exactly do they do that?!!!! An Italian friend of ours recounted Springs spent in Sardinia, which never really gets cold anyway, and seeing foreign children enjoying the warm spring sunshine in shorts and t-shirts, 'and there were the Italian children, wrapped up as if for a polar winter.'
I am trying not to get sucked into this over-exaggerated worrying over health but it is hard as you really do start to feel that you are being careless and hard-hearted. In fact, against most of the common colds and flus, I know, logically, there is really nothing I can do but wait it out yet I still find myself nodding when being reliably informed that the nebuliser is the best way forward (by an old lady in the street) and then worrying that I haven't kept the children's necks/ backs/ tummies covered enough while they are out playing. Oo. Hang on. Could it be that Hypochondria is catching too?? Either way I will just have to carry on being the World's Worst Nurse - if I made it through a childhood where I had to be practically dying to be off school, then I am fairly sure my children will make it through too. Enrico, however, I'm not so sure about...
So the Doctor Disco Twins are our family practice - two sisters who seem to think that one clause of the Hippocratic Oath was 'thou must go to work dressed in 1980's disco attire on a daily basis'. Last time I was there, our doctor was dressed in her usual white coat but from underneath peaked her customary black fishnet stockings, finishing off in a fine pair of 5inch black stilettos with a striking gold spike heel. Her hair has it's own post code. Her sister followed her out of the surgery, again in a white doctors' coat but even more strictly adherent than her sister - she had gone the whole hog and was in full-on Studio 54 Bianca Jagger-era, scarlet sequins sparkling in the grim light of the pensioner-packed waiting room. It's flu jab season. Maybe it's a deliberate effort for the old folks, no-one likes needles, and who could think of the injection when you are being dazzled by a million tiny scarlet mirrors??
So I went in with a blocked ear and came out laden to the gills with prescriptions. I was given anti-biotics the size of horse pills; a steroid inhaler for the nebuliser we were guilted into buying for the children ('it's €130, but you're going to quibble about the price over the health of your children???'); a decongestant and something else, not sure what it was for but I am sure it was integral to the therapy. That was over a week ago and I have steadily got worse, to the extent that now the anti-biotics have finished I feel totally run down and am sure I have contracted some kind of yeast infection thanks to the devastating effectiveness of the drugs in killing all bacteria, good and bad, in their path.
The point is that in Italy, you expect to get properly dosed when you go to the doctors. Everyone knows what drugs do what and if you are not instantly running to the nebuliser at the first sign of a sniff, then you clearly don't know what's good for you. It is a nation of hypochondriacs and I frequently have to mentally rein myself in from shouting, ''how are you?' is a greeting, not a question!!', when I get dragged in to yet another discussion about someone's temperature and various symptoms. I never even knew what a good temperature to be was until I came here but now we have two thermometers and I actually have to stop myself constantly checking the kids when they are ill. Therein madness lies.
Enrico is actually a lot better than he used to be. I well remember and will never let him forget when we lived in Spain he had flu which, with the male-chromosome factored in, makes it double pneumonia: Every five minutes - 'I feel terrible. My temperature's going up again. I can't breathe properly. My ribs hurt. When I do this (breathes in deeply) it really hurts.' I could hear him in the bedroom from the lounge - our thermometer made a 'click click click ker-CHING' sound every time it was used. It sounded like he had a slot machine in there. He actually went to emergency because his temperature was 39° and he thought there was something really wrong. They told him to go home and take paracetamol. Ouch.
The funny thing is that most of our Italian friends are also aware of this, and there are many who are trying to fight the tide of antibiotics, in spite of all efforts to the contrary. Our pediatrician is also a qualified homeopath and is unusually laissez-faire - if the kids are generally OK, he will let them leave without a massive prescription, which invariably requires a second mortgage to pay for. I now beg for paracetamol and Calpol when anyone asks what they can bring from abroad for us. The last time I bought generic paracetamol, it cost me €8... The same packet I could buy in ASDA for 15p. Never again.
Efforts to avoid getting a chill are loudly bandied about and not just with one's own children. Taking a child out without a coat after September will earn you a chastisement in the street. A good friend brought her young daughter in balmy October and committed the sin of taking her out without socks. It was 25° at this time. She was practically publicly pilloried as an unfit mother. It takes a village to raise a child - and to make sure they are properly covered up against the elements, it seems. Many is the time I have heard parents shouting to their children - in playgrounds, and my favourite, actually before jumping in a ballpool - 'don't sweat, darling'. I mean. EH?!! A ballpool is specifically designed to make children sweat, and as for commanding a child not to sweat - well, how exactly do they do that?!!!! An Italian friend of ours recounted Springs spent in Sardinia, which never really gets cold anyway, and seeing foreign children enjoying the warm spring sunshine in shorts and t-shirts, 'and there were the Italian children, wrapped up as if for a polar winter.'
I am trying not to get sucked into this over-exaggerated worrying over health but it is hard as you really do start to feel that you are being careless and hard-hearted. In fact, against most of the common colds and flus, I know, logically, there is really nothing I can do but wait it out yet I still find myself nodding when being reliably informed that the nebuliser is the best way forward (by an old lady in the street) and then worrying that I haven't kept the children's necks/ backs/ tummies covered enough while they are out playing. Oo. Hang on. Could it be that Hypochondria is catching too?? Either way I will just have to carry on being the World's Worst Nurse - if I made it through a childhood where I had to be practically dying to be off school, then I am fairly sure my children will make it through too. Enrico, however, I'm not so sure about...
Tuesday, 27 October 2009
Get Yer Facts Right!
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.
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.
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...
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