Flat out.

Having finally left my apartment in Tiburtina, your intrepid blogger is now living in a three-bed flat very near Termini. This fact has been announced with no small aplomb: having been sandwiched between a stoner student who intends to take some form of module about the history of narcotics, as part of his Theory of Communication degree (I kid you not), and the late night karaoke fans (of which the infamous Laughing Girl was clearly their tribal chieftain), I could not get out of there fast enough.


Some photos of the new flat and environs:


1) Hallway 2) Courtyard underneath balcony

3) Household goddess 4) Front door in the distance

5) My room

6) Kitchen

So the current location is very near Date, which used to be an advantage for obvious reasons. I made it very clear that I wouldn't turn up uninvited, with the pretence of borrowing a cup of tarelli. Maybe if I'd made it clear that if I intentions to be a stalker, I'd take the opportunity to turn up late one night, claim my housemates had deadlocked the door from the inside of my flat and claimed sanctuary/a warm snug-hole for the night. Pissed. At 2am. Which I, in fact, had to do.

Here, it is the 'Maria Celesta' (ref. Italian 'Marie Celeste' - see how well the language is coming along...). Housemate Lee was a phantom, a figment of my imagination: never in the flat and the doors to his room locked and bordered up with newspaper. I was promised his room next to mine, complete with french windows and balcony, and double bunk bed. But I never actually met the elusive stranger.

Apparently he had been living with his other half, although secretly I imagined that he was lying dead behind the door, murdered by an English language student whose last thread to sanity was learning the present perfect. Poor Lee might have met his end being bludgeoned to death with a copy of 'Headway: Elementary Business for Beginners" whilst one Giovanni screamed "Finite action in the past with result in the present, auxiliary verb, past participle." If we English can't really use this tense accurately in our native language (think about the difference between: 'I said to you' and 'I've said to you': If you said something to me and you remember it now, is that not the present perfect, dear reader?), then there's not much hope for the EU. Forget rescheduling post-recessional debt, just try explaining the difference between 'some' (toxic loans) and 'any' (attempt at rescheduling national debt)

Go on...try it.

This poor salty sea dog should be surprised:
the only way to leave the Eurozone, being billions
of euros in debt, is to Jump. Ship.

Which brings me round to one of my favourite classes. Late on a Tuesday evenings, I wind my weary way to the south of Rome, an area called EUR that was created by Mussolini as a tribute to the power and greatness of Ancient Rome. Think a vast open-plan landscape with the 2D quality of a American sitcom film set, coupled with sharp edges and a constantly brilliant atmosphere of crystal clear sunshine. And a smattering of fascism:

No, your eyes do not deceive you:
this does look as if a horse has fallen onto a soldier.
But an imperial looking soldier, mind.

This class is one of my favourites: all advanced level, so telling them why it is constitutionally impossible for Kate Middleton to become Queen of England is easy (because if I see one more poster with the words 'Sarò Regina' ('I will be queen') next to Kate's face, I'm going to lose it big time. In a very unEnglish way. Which will probably involve random gesticulation and half a packet of Malboro Red.)

Anyway, the class consists of a number of unmarried women above the age of thirty-five', in itself not a remarkable phenomenon in Rome. It's no surprise to learn that birth rates here are so low, when courting rituals habitually involve women fending off multiple male advances by pretending to be their mother and desexualising them. Or where teenage ragazzi will spray paint the pavement with long exclamations of affection, only to find their potential mother in law scrubbing the letters off the side-walk the next day. Love, it seems, ain't 'facile.'

After practising the 3rd conditional, past modals and regrets/speculations for the entire lesson, I noticed the energy in the class was distinctly lacking. Which will happen in 25 degree heat with no available water to drink. I pulled out a game, hoping to lift everyone's spirits and reluctantly everyone agreed to ask each other what their big regrets were in life, using the grammar taught for the past hour and a half. I stress that this is an educational game, but sometimes the irony of such exercises stick in my craw. Fun and the Third Conditional. Yeah right. If only there was a version of Twister that helped you practise pronunciation.

However much you think you could get away with
providing 'end-of-course tipples', don't.
No really, DON'T.

Antonia, a timid woman who had been remarkably quiet for the entire lesson, suddenly let rip:

"I wish I had been born in another country because if I had, I wouldn't have had to put up with this terrible form of Government that we have in Italy. It is disgusting how politics works here and I feel ashamed to be Italian."

Silence. It was word perfect (which was my first thought, followed by thinking that silence in a class = confusion or social death.) Sharon, a blonde-haired, 'Sex in the City' styled, self-proclaimed Jewess (and proud) turned to her and said: 'Well, I was going to talk about my English being better had I lived in London, but we'll go with your suggestion.'

You say 'Corazzo', I say 'Carozza' (let's call the whole thing off)

Pablos is the landlord and now my single flatmate, a bar-manager at a local Irish pub/watering hole near Santa Maria Maggiore. Of Sardinian and Greek descent, Pablos' accent lies somewhere between a giggly Graham Norton (when the bottle of sweet white wine in the fridge - that is ALWAYS on discount in the local supermercado - is getting empty) and Ariana Huffington. (Sorry, that's the real Ariana Huffington, but I couldn't resist the link!)

The first mystery upon moving in, aside from trying to determine who the other mystery housemate was, was connecting Pablos to the surname 'Carozza', which adorns the buzzer outside the big wooden doors into our communal courtyard. However, as I soon discovered, each dutifully paid monthly amount of rent is exchanged for a receipt, acknowledging payment made to the ''owner of the flat''. Who might just be, well, anyone's guess.

Aside from frequenting the local gym at the station (lovingly refitted with the monica 'Fitness Fist', due to...things I'm not sure I'm permitted to mention in this blog), Pablos remains squirrelled away behind the closed doors to his room, only reappearing to shuffle down the hall-way of our (what was recently described as a New York deli) apartment to leave his things in the large china, industrial sink in the kitchen. Without washing them up. Again.

A war of attrition has broken out over a plastic blue lemon squeezer that is now pale green with the remnants of citrus fruit from yesteryear. It has travelled from the drying rack back to the sink - where it waits to be washed up - and back to the rack (unwashed) so much, it feels like a familiar friend returning to visit us every so often. A friend that regularly sleeps in the street, face down, in a puddle of of its own shit.

Considering passive/aggressive note-leaving along the following lines:

A haiku seems too poetic for being faced with
a pan full of grease being left to soak INSIDE the oven,
at 7:15am on a Monday.

Muccaperitivo

Yesterday was the first of a series of events I'd like to instigate within the Italian capital called 'Muccaperitivo', based on the amount of booze and food I can get my friends to forcibly inhale before we set off for club Mucca where we throw ourselves around to the finest pop choons and generally cut loose. Mucca is an epic superclub, housed on Via Portonaccio, boasting three floors of music, 10 euro drinks made from 6 different types of alcohol, smoking (or a complete disregard for EU rulings) and go go dancers whose modesty relies on invisible string.



Our intrepid crew removed itself to Mucca with the help of two designated drivers and we arrived around 12:40 to be admitted with discount stamps on our hands. It was a matter of minutes before S, the Big V, Harmony, Andy and Addy and yours truly found ourselves getting our groove on to the sounds of Rihanna, Gaga and Bouncéy.

This truly is a superclub: no matter what colour, size, shape, sex or persuasion, all are welcome (to queue at the bar for an inordinately long length of time...oh! I forgot to get my receipt before paying again...whoops!)


Muccaperitivo. Part One :D

Sweaty, sticking to the floor and spilling vast quantities of strawberry alcohol all over ourselves, we tried out each floor's music, deciding to inhabit the second floor. However whilst searching for the others, and attempting to impress a group of dancers with my skills, I leapt over a block of glass, underlit steps only to send my cranium careering into a low part of the ceiling. Cue: pain and a flawless recovery, in much the same way that Olympic gymnasts perform when they royally fuck up a routine, only to spring-board themselves towards a finale with a perfect finishing position.

(above) "I've broken my ankle, sprained my calf muscle and damaged my pelvis but Christ! I look good doing it."

Now, there is only a small tramline red line across my head, a testament to the problems you encounter when you are 6ft 4 with no hair to act as whiskers. Low ceilings = new nemesis.

Having had our fill, we regrouped by the guardaroba and attempted to exit, only to have our way barred by several bouncers and a gathering group of partygoers. It seemed that some disgruntled parties that were trying to get into the club were denied and so decided to throw a metal railing at the glass windows onto the street. Which would have explained the enormous crack...evidence of the Rapture?

Eventually, we left via the emergency exit, and having got home and into bed by 4:30 am, I felt virtuous if not slightly concussed.

Ah well, I reasoned, all the better to sleep deeply ;)


(left) The Rapture: proof that even the shortest skirts have a chance of eternal bliss.

Pasqua phenomena

Tube Stops: Termini, Barberini, Spagna, Piramede

Easter came and went in a flash of pseudo-Bank Holiday rememberance: a weekend that stretched on for eternity, leaving you with that disgruntled, embittered edge going back to work, sure that you could have benefitted from at least another day's holiday. But the British cannot complain for as I was typing this by dull desk-lamp Sunday last, gli inglese were looking forward to having the next day off. And all because of *that* royal wedding.

Waity Kate gets her mate

I managed to crack open one of the computer's at work (not literally) to try and source a website with which to openly speculate on the proceedings from across Europe. The Telegraph Online obliged with crystal-clear quality and we gathered around to cries from Salvatore, one of our administrators at work, who was fearful that the couple hadn't kissed at the altar after exchanging vows. I'm not sure if he was expecting an open consummation of the marriage minutes after vow-exchange but then I'm not up to date with the differences between Italian and English marriage services...

He *might* also have been expecting Kate to show a little thigh as well but then weddings can be oh so different depending on your country/tradition/audience of several billion. But all in all, we saluted the taste decisions that were made, including Kate's dress, the several trees that lined the aisles inside Westminster Cathedral (minus London's continually defecating pigeons) and the camera angle that just about managed to hide Will's bald patch. A tip, Wills: Grade 1 trimmer.

Oh and it was with some bizarre psychological connection to fairy-tales, told to us in our youth, that we noted that both Princesses Eugenie and Beatrice had decided to come in costume as the two Ugly Sisters. When public ceremony calls for you to wear the desiccated carcass of an alien crab-type creature, by all means, wear it with pride.

I've since learnt that there's a Facebook group
dedicated to slating her tribute to Aliens 2/hat.

Pasquelettina

Oh Comparatives, oh superlatives...how hard you are to teach in English, let alone learn in another language. Point of interest, English really comes into its own when it has to rely on syllables and holding up its reputation as being a time-based language. What the exhausted of us English language teachers realise is that when we have to use more syllables, we actually compress our sentence speed, to keep our rhythm (and who said English wasn't musical...?) With comparatives, we only add beats to small words and use extra words for longer adjectives whilst compressing the sentence, hence keeping the speed. (Yes, don't worry, I bored myself a little there...)

At the same time, Italians, when they use comparatives and superlatives, they add endings to their adjectives which can be disproportionate to the comparison they are making. For example:

Poco = little
pochissimo = littlest (as in hobo).

I taught this lesson tonight with my Mondays and Wednesdays evening class, which involves Maria (suspected age 45, but hidden beneath bleakly coloured, matronesque sixties twin-set and dyed black hair in a bob that has the consistency of frightened starch), Patrizia (who bakes chocolate cakes with the intention of reminding her English teacher of which country has the better food reputation. Answer: Italy (no competition), Guilia (whose English sometimes astounds me/is better than my own) and Carlo (mild mannered, ex-Roger Moore double whose regular refrain to any question is 'I can confirm.')

After last lessons attempts to review comparatives and superlatives failed, Rosie decided to enlighten the class about her trip to New York recently, by writing up on the board several quotes she came across engraved on several plaques around the city. Unfortunately, seeing as some of these poems were written by Walt Whitman and other American poets whose use of the most metaphysical, trascendental and existential of topics meant we spent the entire lesson trying to work out whether rivers can flow backwards. Essential Business English learning.

In the face of learning the 3rd conditional for the fifteenth time,
Giovanni resorted to another, less complicated language.

And so on to Pasquetta and Pasqua. Pasqua is meant to be spent with families, being fed copious amounts of food and if you're a bambucino or mammino, there's usually not far to stumble until you reach your own bed. Upstairs.

Pasquetta is spent with friends and lies on Easter Monday. This is usually known to us Brits as 'Easter Monday/Bank Holiday Monday', and represents an opportunity to wake up late, go to bed late and rediscover what the French at the beginning of the 19th Century labelled 'ennui' or general house malaise. The rest decide to block motorways with motorhomes.

There is no Pasquelettina, although I make it my business to attempt any form of comparative and superlative with all kinds of nouns in Italian. In my opinion, Pasquelettina would be purely for little girls who demand that the main meal be followed by a doll's tea party. Or something.

I spent a glorious premature Easter meal on Saturday in the company of fellow teacher S, and her friends Harmony & Detto at their roof-top pad in Navigatori, near Piramede. Under the panopy of the grumbling thunder and darkening, humid twilight, we had a proper English roast chicken meal, lovingly prepared and fortified with copious bottles of vino. The only thing that could naturally follow, being quite a bit over my legal drinking limit in Italy (i.e., a glass of wine) was Glee karaoke followed by a dance Wii game where your new friend becomes a long, thin remote control in your fevered grip as you attempt to girate, body-grind, cut various pieces of rug and generally ensure that your actions match those of your onscreen dancing counterparts. Whilst not breaking the furniture.

Benvenuti a Coca Chola!

Two friends of mine, as a couple came to see me in Rome and to savour their first time in the Eternal City. We ate like kings (albeit before the reign of Vittorio Emmanuelle when Italy was made a republic soon afterwards...) and tried a different restaurant each night, culminating in visiting La Buca di Ripetta, a restaurant which housed a Vespa in the middle of its floor. We tried in vain to find our beloved Lacrime dell'Moro wine that we had tasted on Pasquetta at a restaurant called Braccio in Via del Pigneto but "settled" instead for incredible pasta all'amatriciana, suckling pig, pasta carbonara and other delicacies.


After one particular evening, after discussing how exactly my superhero task force would work (Coca being a dab hand at Judo and Chola at Karate), we decided to treat ourselves to some Il Padrino cocktails, involving at least three different types of alcohol.

Finding a relatively quiet watering hole off Via della Cancelleria, conversation returned yet again to the imminent visit that C & C would be making to the Santa Maria della Concezione dei Cappuccini where thousands of bones of Capuchin monks are nailed to the walls inside the church's crypt, forming macabre momenti mori about the fleeting time we have on earth before we shuffle off our mortal coils. So, you could see why we need the drink.

Chola was unpertubed by this morbid prospect and it was only later whilst ordering our evening meal in one of the restaurants towards the end of their stay that we realised the full impact this experience had had on Chola. At the slightest suggestion of trying 'Trippa alla Capuchin' (or Capuchin-monk stomach lining), Chola lost both her appetite and a little of her self-restraint which was keeping her from losing both a boyfriend and a good friend with a single blow.

Taking in the sights

On return from said night of drinking - I do not remember leaving the bar nor the taxi ride home - I found myself in Termini's barren, cubist puzzle. Futuristic jagged building designs, running parallel with neat tram lines dissecting the pavement, bold bollards lining the pavements and tall apartments filling the skyline.

Termini station: where bold, avant-garde architecture
meets taxi-driver turf wars

All was quiet, not a soul was around. Except for...

a Somalian man holding a length of metal chain, attempting to whip a transexual prostitute whilst they both howled at each other.

(I'll just let that image sink into your minds a little.)



Incidentally, whilst waiting for the above picture to load onto my blog, I just caught sight of an elderly woman walking up to the grotto in the courtyard, making the sign of the cross in front of a statue of the Virgin Mary and walk off without anyone noticing, except me. I'm like David Attenborough in the hive of the worker-bee Italians, or something.)

A frantic search on Google Images reveals nothing close to the image that I found that night, the vision that kept me checking that I still retained my powers of sight (my tears now being close to 87% alcohol to 13% saline might have melted my lens away, hence the Bosch-like 'end of the world' tableau vivant.) I stood powerless, just staring across the street at the spectacle, hopelessly trying to remember the phone number for the Carabinieri...

Just when I thought shouting and running around like an erratic duck with only one good leg would be a sensible course of action, I saw the prostitute, all 6ft 4, blonde wig, black leather dress, catch the end of the chain and yank it out of the Somalian guys hands. More howling (inhuman) and she began viciously to try to whip him.

"Vabbe" (fine), I thought. She/he looks like she/he can cope with things from now on. Italian women, whilst still anatomically being men, can more than handle themselves.