Anecdote

I heard this through a friend of a friend: (imagine 'Vicky, Cristina, Barcelona' voice-over)

A woman is talking to her Italian confidentes over brunch, in a pleasant apartment outside of Rome, filled with unusual paintings, the smell of coffee and a large number of cats.

She is bemoaning the fact that she has become recently divorced and is fairly certain that she is 'over' men and will not find another guy to share her life with. The friends cajole her about this, claiming that of course she will meet someone.

As the cats start to climb all over the woman as she tells her story, the friends ask her if she minds this somewhat unexpected attention. Is she a dog or a cat person, they ask. Either way, they suggest, she might want one or two of either animal as companions in the future.

She replies that she is more of a dog person but that, all she really sees herself with in the future, is an apartment filled with birds and fish.

The women laugh hysterically.

.....

NB: In Italian, there are many, many, many common words which are a euphemism for reproductive organs and various secretions produced during sex. Here are a selection:

1) Uccello = "bird" or "penis"
2) Pesce = "fish" or "penis"
3) Tubelo = "potato" or "vagina"
4) Pane = "bread" or "vagina"
5) Borra = "butter" or ... I think you get the (word) picture.

Proud to be...Italian?

Tube stops: a meandering vista past Via Giovanni Giolitti, Via Cavour, Piazza dell’Esquilino, Largo Visconti Venosta, Largo Corrado Ricci, Via dei Fori Imperiali, Piazza del Colosseo, Via Celio Vibenna, Via di San Gregorio, Piazza di Porta Capena e Via del Circo Massimo.

This year was a very big year for Italian politics.

(sorry, I was tempted to use politics with a big 'P', to illustrate the magnitude by which Governmental/Parliamentary/constitutional politics in Italy has pervaded every aspect of normal everyday actions and intentions or 'politics' with a small 'p'. What with all the peeing, I'll have to keep going to lav every 5 mins, and I'm definitely not drinking enough water this Summer to afford to do that. Error.)

I'd heard about the phenomenon that is Berlusconi. Or 'He who must not be named' (in articles or reports that his media companies will just refuse to print anyway.) His comparison to Voldemort is considerably apt because in lessons, we tend to steer clear of politics or religion as topics to break the unbearable silence created, when at 6:55pm, a student has categorically refused to accept that there is no rule for when we should use the gerund of the infinitive in English. (incidentally, it has something to do with intrasitive verbs but future teachers be warned, this attempted explanation does not satisfy personalities that crave order and logic in their universe.) So Berlusconi is rarely mentioned, except in trusted company, i.e., students who aren't afraid to reveal political allegiances. Loudly.

(Silvio himself, above)
Mumble, mumble, something about knowing a person
by the company they keep, mumble, mumble

So aside from the Roman orgyesque 'Bunga Bunga' parties, which initially sounded to me like 'Jenga Jenga' parties, where sharp-suited politicians are publicly ridiculed for failing to build the highest tower of Jenga blocks and so lose their positions (party games meets Darwinism), why are a large percentage of the Italian people waiting for Berlusconi to just...die?

Despite controlling the majority of the country's media - to the extent that demonstrations against his winning a vote of 'no confidence' in the country's recent apprisal of his scandalous affair with Ruby the prostitute (et al) just never appeared in the press or on tv - Berlusconi helped usher in an era of the Italian "macho-man". (You can almost imagine a Bunga Bunga party in full swing, to the tune of 'So Macho', in which Berlusconi decides that every Italian ragazzo should aspire to being 'big' and 'strong' with 'big blue eyes'. Except that most of them are, well, not that.

And so to gay rights, which have become irreparably damaged by a growing culture of machoistic power-suiting and money-hoarding, where those that control the Government and the media saturate it with images of botoxed women, big-lipped women, women wearing not a lot but somehow still smiling through big-lips and botox, and the occasional advert for a gay helpline that appeared for about two months and has not been seen since. If women look beautiful, men might just sleep with them (see recent comments made about Italy having the lowest birth-rate in the EU...) If you are gay, old, young, or not pretty, you might as well have money as a form of social empowerment.

A recent Parliamentary resolution was turned down that would have, in a subtle yet significant way, created that little bit more freedom in society for gay people to exist in: any action or incident deemed anti-gay would have become prosecutable to the appropriate extent of the law. Insert plausible rationale for turning down this most basic of civil rights.

Monica Bellucci: a good example of how best to
turn attention away from a less than credible acting
career and towards what the pundits really
want to touch, stroke, feel, "respect" (ahem)!

Berlusconi's riposte to the overwhelming evidence of his soliciting the then underage "Ruby" for a night of wild depravity (and one would guess viagra - Silvio is 75 years old): "At least I'm not gay." Because being born a homosexual obviously rates at an all-time zero, whilst being adulterous in the public eye and ensuring your country becomes the laughing stock of Europe, nay the world, is somehow excusable as power-player hijinks. Where are my taxes going again?

So whilst there is an assumption that the men of Italy might not be "real" men (i.e., having copious amounts of extra-marital sex with prostitutes) and might be effeminate/gay and therefore less than 'real' men, they are somehow expected to prove their masculinity by bagging a botox beauty, raising a family when the Government no longer financially supports you with the money to buy a house, money to start a family and to support them yourself. Suddenly staying at home and being a bamboccioni sounds like your only credible, post-recession option.


Going GaGa

11th of June. I've been to many London Pride marches and one Europride event held in the capital myself but nothing prepared me for Rome's first ever Europride event: as the temperature started to soar and expectations were running high, a number of events held at Piazza Vittorio Emmanuelle were held, opening up the public's consciousness about LGBT culture. Which seemed daunting. How much exposure of the celebrating, diverse rainbow of LGBT people would this land of the Vatican be able to tolerate? I pictured bemused priests mingling with drag-nuns, labourers with lady-boys, top-less muscle Marys and ... well, the virgin Mary (again in drag.) Liberation. Fingers up at repressive tradition.

The reality? Better.

My friend TQ had come over to visit and together we met up with our American friends and ventured over to piazza dei cinquecento, which was packed with what looked like demonstrators, the torch-wielding villages but actually turned out to be citizens taking this as their opportunity to support 'the cause' whilst simultaneously defying Italy's dogmatic authoritarianism: the Vatican, the politicians, even the Carabinieri! The street quickly filled and with a reduced police presence, the crowd took formation and started to meander down Via Cavour to the chirping accompaniment of whistles and whoops. No riding on a float above the crowd or standing at the side, watching the colourful brigade of organisations pass by, everyone was together, marching down the street, dancing and celebrating freely. How very Communist.



Various people were recognised amidst the thong (or should I say thong) - hard to spot past the thrusting, gold g-string crotch of some Ancient Egyptian dressed go-go boy, making its way through the masses, a parade of Abercrombie and Fitch models, let loose for the weekend from their plastic factory. We made firm friends with one of the many barrow-boys wheeling through the madness, flogging dodgy German beer and then spraying all of us with water to keep us cool, and when we later stood in the shade of a bar to catch our breath, the surging, non-stop crowds continuing down the street meant our break was short-lived: there was dancing to be had.



We danced behind a float that wound its way in the blistering midday sun towards Circo Massimo, stopping briefly outside the Colosseo as part of a snake-like chain of party wagons. Taking the opportunity, we danced in the street and drew a crowd of Venezuelen transexuals and ravers and a friend of Date's that lived in the area, the actress from Il Pesciolino: it was her turn to see my "performance", instead of Date's which she's had the good fortune to share a stage with each time the two get together to perform the play almost every year. A thespian's thumbs up.

And finally, Circo Massimo at dusk. The stage was set and the crowd seemed to be several hundred thousand strong. We stumbled past people of all description, eyes sagging under the day's events, skin browned from the heat of the day. The atmosphere was still and then, pushing ourselves up against the bodies in front of us, we heard Lady Gaga give a speech about governments around the world that do not yet fully support gay rights. Italy was not mentioned.

Apparently, it later turned out that she didn't have permission to mention Italy as one of these governments - a condition of her appearing at Europride. And so, Gaga has become an almost empty symbol of gay rights in our modern context: money controls even the ability to express the (somewhat controversial) idea that every person on this planet has rights and that those that actively repress those rights should be named and shamed.

Date mentioned that he would have preferred to see gay families camped out in front of the Vatican, sharing a picnic, as symbol of acceptance and forward-thinking: anything but what happened earlier in the day when a gay porn star was invited on stage at Circo Massimo and showed off his arsehole to the assembled masses.

However we all choose to get the basic message of pride and a fight for equal rights across - via celebrities, sex stars or families - there has never been a more important time to push on and remind the world that whilst we've all come so far, there still remains much to be done and that money cannot take away our collective voice.

Paradise and Pride

Tube stops: Termini, Repubblica
Train stops: Civitavecchia
Ferry stops: Olbia (Sardegna)

The revolution has started: with the advent of the Summer heat reducing us all to the working potency of melted jellybabies, yours truly has completed the first of his big adventures outside of Rome.

Thanks to a fellow teacher at Linguarama, me and S found ourselves equipped with a small dog, en route to Sardinia/Sardegna for a short four days excursion to Paradise. Already Puppy was causing swathes of travellers and tourists alike to swoon with affection as we sat on board the train, enscounced in 2nd class cabins with the gentle rocking of the train and low scorched sun-set sending everyone in a trance.

The plan: to head to Civitavecchia by train and from there to take the ferry across to the Olbia on Sardinia, a trip that would be completed under cover of darkness as, in order to save money, me and S decided to board the ferry at 22:00 and sleep through the 8 hours the slow trip takes to arrive on the mysterious island.

After failing to score some legitimate cocktails on board the ferry, we settled for experimenting with a new cocktail the barman introduced us to, that we quicky renamed "Sardinian Lemonade": Cointreau, Lemoncello and Sprite. Surprisingly this did the trick, a little too way as I proceed to recline on the cinema-style arranged rows of seats and snore the entire night through - a trend that was to continue throughout our stay...

The colours in this picture don't do Sardinia justice.
If they did, I would actually be crying right now. And packing.

The first impact that Sardinia has on Joe Tourist is smell. Or the most intense undercurrent of healthy vegetation that an island can boast, seperated as it is from inland pollution. The nasal assault in this case was due to 'Mirtos' or myrtle, which grows in abundance all over the island and is collected to produce the national tipple of choice: 'mirtos', which isn't to everyone's preference: mine being to prefer eating coal laced with vinegar than this. I was more than happy to stick to Casanou wine though, again being locally produced wine.

I slept, dozed under the intense heat on the white sand beach, subjected my pallid complexion to intense radiation in an attempt to turn a shade darker than off-milk. We were joined by two friends of our hosts, making our party literally the Secret Seven, one of which I'm sure included a dog...

Over the course of our stay, I was bitten around 15 times by zinzarri, ate an incredible variety of sea food including sea urchin eggs, normal fish eggs, normal fish (even) pork kebabs (cooked in a primeval, manly way by yours truly), as well as the most amazing tub of local icecream, a special kind of local desert called sebadas, made of pastry and cheese cakes, served with honey and the local bread, which is a bit like a popadom, in that it is as flat as a sheet of paper and brittle. I was in seventh heaven and even though daily bouts of swimming out to a nearby rock inhabited by fiercesome looking sea birds were undertaken, the growth of pancetta around the waistline was slightly unavoidable.

Late night conversation conducted at a roughly-hewn wooden table under the canopy of heaven flitted between the differences between our two cultures: Italian and English. Arguments lubricated with copious amounts of Casanou red-wine included the punctual, organisation-based, community-driven prowess of the English versus our inability to express how we feel ro to relate without alcohol. On the side of the tricolore: a rich, intoxicating quality of life brought down by the single-mindedness and egotism of the Italians. Tutti i due: I'll take both in equal measure.

Out trip came to an end and it was contained within the travelling lounge/apartment of the ferry, that I realised that going back to Rome wouldn't be half so bad than reversing time, waking out of a waking dream and realising I was back in London: half the things I wanted to do undone, half the goals unachieved. Travelling is a matter of parabollas: you never really go from A to B, you just find yourself closer to it or further away from it but never with your back to it.

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.

Birthday blues and Springtime rag

Tube stops: Termini, Ottaviano, Colosseo, Baldo degli Ubaldi, Laurentina, EUR Fermi


Doesn't time fugit when you're having fun? It's been a while since the last blog entry: life got in the way as it invariably does and before you know it, you're trawling through your faithful aide memoir or diary, trying to stave off middle-age alzheimer's by remembering what you were doing three weeks ago or even two months ago.

Me, I can't remember what I did yesterday (although it did involve some students at the English language.)

Rome, the mega-leviathan of sprawling cobbled path-ways, clashing fashionistas and tumbling archaic brick-work is brightening up: the sun is shining and the weather is decidely Spring-like. On arrival at my new class down in EUR Fermi, I commented on how Summer-like the recent clime was. Already, I was dehydrated, sweating like supermarket cheese in its wrapper, and we hadn't even touched on the 2nd Conditional (If I taught private lessons at home, I wouldn't have to trek all the bloody way here... etc. etc.) When I looked up, three of my class were wearing at least three layers, two of which looked distinctly thermal.

...and I can shave my hair if I want.

In March, we celebrated my birthday in an epic way. Ever a fun of Glee, I opted for a karaoke-fuelled night, with fancy dress and obligatory spumante and cake. My character was Puck and before you could say 'juvenile detention centre', I was at Date's flat shaving off my hair only to hair a fine strip of it painted black like a mohawk. Oh, if only the Civil Service could see me now:

Imaginary scenario:
PERMANENT SECRETARY: 'Excellent, so you've arranged for the car to pick the minister up from the conference and bring him to the meeting with the Trade Unions, correct?'
ME: 'Absolutely. Although there is one small problem.'
PS: 'What is it?'
ME: 'Tiny, tiny problem.'
PS: 'What?'
ME: 'I took the limo for a joyride and wrapped it round Westminster Cathedral.'

I might not know how to conjugate Italian verbs
but I do know how to open a car door without the key

It was a great night at a bar near the Vatican: a heady mix of English language teachers (on the razz, the old rascals), Italians (who showed remarkable self-restraint until the early hours of the morning when mysterious bandanas appeared from no-where and everyone was singing what sounded like the national anthem. With a bass beat) and friends from home. I felt so lucky to have three of my boys from ol Blighty come and see me that weekend. I might have put them off ever coming back, my I felt blessed. The slowest version of 'Proud Mary' ever released, a few Glee tribute songs, several Spanish and Italian songs (one involving the translated lyrics: "mad mad mad on the terrace, bring bring bring me a butterfly" - I shit you not) and some good old fashioned clubbing tracks later and we all trekked across town to bed, fearful of waking up his Holiness.

The following week proved to be just as epic. I was enjoying my time with my new bed-fellows - literally, I was splitting my friends between my room and Date's, both of us accommodating roughly seven people at intervals over the course of ten days! With Matteo and Date in tow, we ventured forth to the Maxxi to investigate some quite antagonistic 'modern art'. I use the term briefly because I spent too much time being outraged at the petty, moralistic and child-like exploitation of the notion of modern art that this particular artist was using, much to the amusement of Matteo and Date.
A night on the (mosaic) tiles

My friend S, arrived the following Thursday and being a long-standing fan of all things exercisey bundled me into Fitness First with a day pass so that my liver could take an additional pounding and we did some rough site-seeing. By Friday, friends T & C had arrived and the games could begin.

Fast forward to Goa: hard-house music blaring, already steeped in quantities of alcohol previously unexplored and served in plastic cups at a nearby 'Happy Hour/Day' bar, hundreds of empty portraits hang on the wall of this twisted electric-lounge location. T had managed to become better acquainted with a fellow teacher at my school and C & S had had enough before the lights came up. We procured a lift home and whilst trying to tiptoe through the courtyard of my apartment block, we discovered where Tina Turner gets her amazing bandy-legged dancing abilities from: crazy tiptoeing.

Scenario: your house is on fire and you have
to evacuate it wearing ten-inch heels.
Tina Turner, what do you do?

Storm-clouds had gathered by now over the tropical horizon of the Eternal City... Me and Date split up. For a full breakdown of information, see my autobiography, circa 30 years time (I wish!)

And so to the present day: Good Friday. Getting towards the end of April, there is a time of expectation: the Summer seems like an actual possibility - although my years in England always taught me to be cautious. Easter or Pasqua itself represents a sense of surviving the Winter and being regenerated, being given a time to sort things out, spring-clean your life and think properly about the opportunities that the rest of the year will bring. For some, these opportunities are massive milestones in their life: my sister is due to give birth imminently (thanks to the cartons of pineapple juice that have just been delivered to her flat...) and S & M announced that they are now engaged, creating the perfect excuse for a much needed Prosecco or three in a cosy enoteca in Monte.

Auguri tutti e buono Pasqua e Pasquetta :)

Who knew? An October 2010 onwards review to Buon Natale e Capodanno

"What you do on New Year's Day, you'll do for the rest of the year..."

Tube Stops: Termini, Tiburtina, Vittorio Emmanuelle, Waterloo, Victoria, Tooting Broadway, New Cross

It's been a long time since I've written in the blog: the typical bloggers excuse - "I was too busy living my life to write about it!! But then again, it has been an epic end to 2010 and the start of 2011!

But first, highlights from October 2010 onwards:

• A visit from Ma & Pa (Clampett!)

My parents came to Rome at in the middle of October when the weather was still warm and everyone wasn't (yet) winding down for the Winter season. I can't tell you how happy it made me feel to have the folks come over and sample Roma life for themselves. Armed with a list of restaurants that had been compiled by a native to Rome, we ventured from one eaterie to another: the days spent exercising between cultural destinations before filling our bellies in the evening. And how those bellies thanked us!

THURSDAY: Osteria Constanza (epic steak fuelled night w/ ravioli to die for)
FRIDAY: Barnums Cafe (to meet friends with a glass or two) before heading to Il Boom in Trastevere (sixties themed restaurant w/free bottle of wine giveaway!)
SATURDAY: Gusto (great food & wine served by nervous newbie waiter)
SUNDAY: Lunch in Frascati at Cantina Simonetta (see earlier post about first visit!)

I think my attempts to convince Mum and Dad that they should move to Rome for my convenience were bolstered by Dad's attempt to eat his way through the menu at Cantina Simonetta. The owner's wife walked me through the various courses & through our Englitalian conversation, she realised what she and chefs were in for: just before eating pudding, my Dad had to try a Roman speciality: "trippa" or tripe.

Owner's wife: (In Italian) He really wants the tripe?

Me: Yes. He's hungry and loves food. Alot.

Owner's wife: takes her finger puts it against her cheek & twists it repeatedly whilst laughing.

Owner's wife returns a ten minutes later with a platter of bread and a bowl of tripe in a tomato sauce.

Dad: Aaaah! this is some kind of a joke really, isn't it?

Me: Because they don't think you'll be able to eat the tripe?

Dad: No because they don't think I'll be able to eat the tripe AND the bread.

Which he promptly did.

• The weather...or more importantly the RAIN

The rest of the Winter months here in Rome were spent in a cool stream of watery days, of torrential rain and thunderstorms slamming and crashing overhead, lighting up the evening and imposing silence on the student revelries going on around me. Laughing Girl was still. The evenings got colder and on one afternoon, it snowed for about half an hour - a record, possibly. But still the feeling that you'll never get too cold in Rome.

If you look closely, you can see the ark with two of every animal...

• Halloween

There's a witch called Befana that visits children on the Feast of Epiphany (or January 6th), bringing them presents after having flown into town on a broomstick. Halloween meets Santa Claus and a predominantly Catholic country entrusts the material happiness of their children to a pagan hag. Paradox, thy name is inexplicable tradition.

I accompanied my relatively new date to a Halloween bash at an apartment in the Termini area and was met by an impressive array of costumed freaks and ghouls, spinning and frolicking to sparkly poptastic Italian tunes before chowing down on polente, fantastic cakes and mouth-watering food. Dressed as an eighties hobo, meets a particularly ungroomed teen-wolf, I supplied Mama's homemade mulled wine which was confused for sangria and let to one party-goer having to sit down for a long period of time. Not sure the weed helped him there.

You say in need of strong meta-stabilisers, I say "Teen Wolf"

• Eighties night at Barnum's Cafe

A midnight oasis of partying in the centre of Rome at Barnum's cafe, where I, fellow Celtees, U.N. officials and an inordinately large number of Scandinavians gathered, in 80's dress and regalia to strut their stuff and munch an aperitivo buffet. Along came the eighties mullet wig again, accompanied by date's tinsel-creation: just astonishing. Photo opp's spring up at every moment and offers were made to buy the tinsel-wig. The chance to shake my stuff to an eighties track = an awesome experience.

Wigs-a-go-go

• Christmas Eve & Capodanno

Each trip back to England (both London & Suffolk) feels a little torturous each time. Not only do I have to get used to apologising all the time and excusing myself, but I find myself standing patiently in queues and rereading adverts and billboards, as if I've had a stroke.

This Christmas and New Year's was truly amazing because I got to catch up with those people whom from the beginning supported my moving here with more peppy motivation than Mr. Motivator himself. I also reminded myself about how much I love English Winter food: pies, ale, roasts etc. And pubs - the once thought slightly stale smell of polished wood, salt n vinegar crisps and beer lines seems glorious now.

Christmas consisted of revelling in the company of my family, drinking too much (as my Mother's new tradition of rose-petal vodka cocktails once again earnt her the title of Ipswich's "Desperate (read Glamorous) Housewife". A neapolitan (card) game of "Morto" descended into chaos: my Dad, in attempts to get back into the game was trying to get my sister to speak to him. As "the dead", players are out of the game only as long as someone doesn't speak to them. Only then can they redeem a lost life and take a new hand.

His objective: convince said sister that her one year old was crying and needed her help.

Result: Sister visibly squirming as Dad did his best to trick sister's maternal instincts, commenting that said toddler was crying and needed rescuing and that the baby intercom was ON and CRIES WERE COMING FROM IT. Bad Dad. Bad bad home-made Limoncello-fuelled parent. I'm in admiration of the panache.

New Year's proved to be a smash-hit. Literally. A night of mixed Italian & British merriment came to an abrupt halt when an open-ended bookcase was fallen into and antique china lay smashed on the floor. There's a lucky tradition in Naples that involves throwing old china out of a window at New Years. But no-one dared mention it because the china has to be old but not *that* old. Still, if it's breaking china or breaking your balls (literally) by wearing a pair of lucky red underpants for (Italian-style) luck, I know which I might resort to. I have Anglo-Saxon man-hips and... well...if you've been wearing boxers for an eternity, the change is like having someone microwaving your groin at intervals. In an optimistic for 2011 way.

Buon prepositi:

1) Two Italian lessons a week.

2) Start up my oil painting and drawing again.

3) Find a better apartment in Rome.

.....

Now that I'm back, the language seems easier. I'm able to converse steadily and with self-identifiable systematic errors by using the following conversation structure:

Maybe; now; today; tomorrow; yesterday
+
I, you, he/she/it, we, they, you
+
verb (likely to be "devere" - to must...which I use without any form of self-restraint. It seems there are regulations my life must comply with.)
+
(laughable) attempts at conjugation; frequently forgetting how many people I am talking about: groups of people doing an action are suddenly reduced to a single entity.
+
perché
+
I, you, he/she/it, we, they, you
+
attempts to use "devere" again; lip-biting; selection of another verb
+
attempts at conjugation (usually met with confused expressions, people turning away, babies crying etc.)
+
some sort of nouns thrown in. Usually the wrong ones, and the wrong collocations, e.g., talking about the emergency services when you're referring to lounge furniture.

So...bear with me Italy, soon you won't be able to shut me up. ;)