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. ;)

Tube stops: Flaminio, EUR Magliana, EUR Sao Paolo, Piramede, Manzoni

MAXXI, MAX Factor & Mozal Tov!

Life has returned to normal in Rome, that is, the students have returned from their looong holiday breaks and the clanging of pans, banging of doors and dragging of chairs (not to mention laughing girl's Latin-American tribute band) have returned to my cosy quarter in Tiburtina. I have been spending my days with house mate M, who came back a few weeks ago, asking if all was ok when the frustrated shouts of a cabin-fevered student reached my ears. A fifteen minute break and the smell of glorious cabonara filled the marble-floored flat.

I had booked my flights to head home for another mason's meeting, and was planning to spend the weekend anticipating some dreary wet September weather - which lasted for about 3 hours one afternoon: it's now October and short-sleeve shirt temperature! Instead, I headed off to the MAXXI, Rome's leading contemporary art gallery, and was scribbling notes for my other art blog (watch this blogspace), when I got a text from Pi: an invitation to a mystery party in EUR! Senses buzzing, I sailed through the exhibition on Gio de Dominicis and wound my way back to Flaminio to get the tube.

The MAXXI: all you need is David Bowie, Jennifer Connelly and some crystal balls...

Fast forward through a well deserved power nap (I'm clearly getting old) and I dressed up to head to Sao Paolo to meet Pi & boyfriend Ri. One slight error. Rome loves Pauls - every man, son and dog might be called Paolo and when guessing which tube you might need to get to, remember there might be a few with this famous name. The police eyed me up suspiciously, trying to look inconspicuous in my waterproof jacket (read anorak) and shaved head. Hardly Baader Meinhof material... A call, and a correction and I head along two stops before being met by Ri. Seconds later, I'm heading to a party in an unknown location on the back of a scooter. A roman aspiration has come true - I am fearing for my life and seeing Rome at 40+ miles an hour - I could get used to this!

The party is rocking: Pi & Ri, with their friends who speak English (Thank God! too many "devo's" and "posso avere's" for even an English ear to put up with!) The setup: a pretty famous film director in Rome is a friend of Pi's. This is his massive roof-terrace on what must be pretty much the best looking flat I have EVER seen: all, modern breakfast bar, sliding doors onto terrace, bamboo garden trellis effect and currently filled with the about 60 beautiful persons. Comparisons to London are made and London is found wanting. Pretty soon, we're all entranced as the infamous Max (the host & director) puts on his own version of the X Factor: a panel of (disagreeing) judges, performances by "Lady Gaga", "Kylie" and others, interrupted by film shorts about a straight guy who realises that in order to win back his girlfriend, he needs to become gay. Even with my lack of knowledge of Italian gay slang, these shorts were so funny - all the creation of Max, clearly a compere par excellence! A fantastic bloody night thanks to Pi, Patron St. of Expats!

Interlude: five days in London: eating, catching up with Antipodean friends who live too far away (sorry Scott!) sleeping (too little), red wine with old friends and a long chat with my brother-in-law, dancing, dancing, dancing, feet aching, dancing, dancing, lodge meeting, Brothers!, lunch with Lou, old housemates reunion, rehearsing, writing, and back on the plane....

Back in Roma-ville, I realised I was on borrowed time - the coagulation of a level of wine in my body that I haven't been used to for a while was leading me towards a gratingly bad cold. My arrival into Fuimicino lead me to bump literally into Zeke, who appeared to be a Abercrombie & Fitch model, lost amidst a sea of battered baggage and lost New Zealanders. 6ft 5 (I note the additional inch to my height), sporting shaved sides of his head and a curled pate, I motioned that this guy should get on the bus to Termini; I was heading to Ostiense. A second later, sitting on the same bus as me, this pillar of Yankee exuberance is offering me mountains of white Toblerone and explaining that he is, despite ALL appearances, an orthodox Jew studying Hebrew and Jewish History in Israel. His voice boomed down the bus as he balanced a D&G pince-nez on his nose (the arms having broken off long ago.) I brace myself for what could be a clash of cultures taking place with the short, compact space of a mini-bus.

We arranged to hang out that evening at his hostel over on Via Merulana, but due to Z not having a mobile phone (did I hear Amish not Jewish?) , I missed him by half an hour. The next night proved successful: upon arriving at the hostel, and greeted by a grumpy old man pointing to the 'No guests' sign, I found Z with an off-the-shoulder blue tshirt with Hebrew writing on it, stubbled chin, and seemingly not quite on the planet - a hard night the night before. I whisked him off to Angelina, where we dodged the expensive aperitivo and bagged reasonable drinks from the restaurant downstairs, meeting our awesome waitress for whom I had to translate Z's attempts at chat-up lines. Two women eating next to us became friends - Z seemingly being able to speak to anyone & everyone - and gave us their aperitivo tickets.

We finished the night by stuffing our faces full of pasta, tuna, crostini, pastry parcels of spinach and cheese before smoking and admiring the crowd, putting the world to rights from our differing vantage points. We agreed to meet for coffee the next day but it never happened... with only six days in Rome, you have to make the most of it. And I'm pretty sure I know all about that now :)

Sol supastar

Tube stops: Colloseo, Tiburtina FS.

It's August - hot, hot, hot, Summer-time.

The landlord, on one of his unexpected visits with his wife - the previous time, I came back from food-shopping to find him changing the light fittings with no shirt on: it took me a few seconds to realise I wasn't being burgled by a member of the Italian cast of Auf Wiedersehn Pet - warned me that in August, nothing happens. Nada. Purgatory. Thou shalt not find a single Roman within the city walls.

Posso avere uno cappucino...anyone? Hello....?

And he's quite right: everyone is on holiday. The streets, whilst not being void of civilians, have a strangely hushed atmosphere about them. As the streams of sweat run down my back, there are less quizzical stares as if to suggest I shouldn't, as a human being, be able to contain so much water in my body. I even felt moved to visit a shoe shop on the Via Corso to equip my feet with a more suitable form of footwear for the day-time - my trainers identifying me as legal alien in the first few seconds of contact with an Italian native. All that remains is my wild beard and the hair starting to grow longer on my head - soon, I could pass for bello.

But why this wild savage appearance, I hear you ask? Well, with my flatmates at home for the Summer - leaving the flat empty - I've become a hermet, filling my days with learning about Western Esotericism, Renaissance Magic and the Cabala. I'm not training to become a wizard (yet) but these are deliberate connections to what I love about Italy: a city that beheld one of the greatest leaps forward of our civilisation, when man decided to take a rational decision about what to believe, what to follow, what to study and analyse and how to be a sceptic. An intelligent, scientific, independent animal.

Primavera: "It's Spring time, for Hitler" ... and philosophical enlightenment.
These kids knew how to party.

Locked up in my ivory tower, writing for a website every morning to keep the euros coming in, days sometimes pass when all I hear are the echoes of a mildy abusive relationship taking place between a couple a few feet from my window, the (now melancholic) sound of Abba being played in a student's flat (if no-one's dancing, or around to listen to it - trust me, 70's disco can be sad) and the barking of the dogs belonging to the white-trash couple on the first floor. Maybe I'm becoming an ascetic monk, relying solely on internet music for inspiration. Maybe I'm wearing my bed-sheets around my person, pretending to be Giordano Bruno (not yet) or I might have found the time and peace to write the book I've been dying to, for ages. First though, a new blog, about esotericism. If I'm dreaming about it, I certainly need to be writing about it. Watch this blog space.

Go on, you can say it. The resemblance is remarkable.

So, half an hour from now, a good friend will be arriving in Italy to break the spell and much chaos will ensue. A trip is planned to the supermarket to stock up on booze as well as a trip to my favourite beach to sweat out those deadly party toxins. The silence will be broken with portable speakers and conversation. But just in case someone's curious as to what will be going on in my ivory tower, I'll leave my new curtains just slightly ajar for the neighbours.

I have a little too much privacy now, a gift from Mrs. Landlord.

Gatto on a hot tin roof

Tube stops: EUR Magliana, Trastevere (overland), and almost split between Bologna & Tiburtina, Cristofo Colombo, Ostia

Summer has arrived and landed it's extremely over-sized bulk all over the Capital and being an Englishman, and therefore having a God-given right to talk indiscriminately about the weather for a good half hour, I feel righteous in my needing to let off steam. Literally. Like my travel-sized iron that *just* about makes my work shirts crease-free.

A great suggestion for keeping cool there, Google, but how do I
attach it to the inside of my face?

The heat makes people do crazy things and after half an hour of trying to explain what the phrase "Mad Dogs and Englishmen" means to P, I realised that everything is made simple in the heat. People snooze, talk less, arguments simmer down (rather than boil up) and laughing girl and her comrades-in-arms has been notably silent. Although I also put this down to the fact that someone might have simply pushed her out of the window (one can only hope.)

My classes at work are starting to die down for the Summer break now: my small-talk with the students has revealed quite a few good spots to visit around Italy, if I want to indulge in horse-riding, surfing and mountaineering. I half expect Rome to be full to the brim with party-goers in August, crazed ragazzi hitting the bars and having a festa in the streets but I think this is my projecting: as I will have less classes, that's exactly what I'll be doing. Someone has to do the drinking for the Romans, surely?

But the lack of people is proving fortunate. Donna and I took to the beach this weekend and for a moment, it seemed like we would never leave. Lying between the slumbering forms of exhausted middle-class couples, sculpted gay couples parading along the shoreline and the cries of the Indian refreshment sellers, we lay in the water and chatted, watching people pack up and leave until it was Shangria-time. Beside a shanty-town bar, playing chilled out beats and serving fried calamari and gamberi, we found nirvana and our conversation slowed to an absolute stand-still as we watched a fat, heavy pink ball of sun-light slip lazily into the ocean.

I quite forgot my troubles of the previous week where I faced the full front of the crowd-mentality of the Romans who were barging past each other to get out of the roasting tin-can tube car and ended up pushing me into the famous gap between the train and the platform. As I hung, knee-deep in empty space, hearing the beeping sound of the tube doors trying to shut, a wave of nostalgia hit me, and I longed for the sound of an announcer asking people to "mind the gap". My version would have been a bit stronger but I was soon hoisted back onto the train and was carried, shoeless and therefore fashionably disgraced to my next stop.

"Mind the gap between civilisation and your dooooooooooom....."

Donna and I, our minds erased by the utter tranquility of the beach, picked up our things and headed to the bus stop, only to realise the last bus had left at 21:28 (I will never forget those numbers.) What followed was a 2 hour walk down the row of beaches in Ostia at night, finding at drowsy restaurant secluded on the sands and asking for a taxi. Fortunately, whilst being drilled to pieces by tiger mosquitos, we were given a lift back to Rome by a kind waiter who was trying to learn English. It may be the holiday season soon, but students are everywhere.