My life in an Italian village

Vegetable Steamer

2009-09-29T13:57:00.000-07:00

After a lot of heartfelt thinking and standing on my balcony one night looking up at a star studded sky on my third glass of Montepulciano, I decidedly sadly that the relationship I had been in for about a year just wasn’t going anywhere and it was time to call it a day. It would be difficult and I knew it wouldn’t be easily accepted. Never mind, I sighed, time to move on. Well, anyway, the following day I relayed the message as gently as I could and left it at that, so far so good. This particular person has always kindly brought me offerings over the months from his carefully tended vegetable patch, his marrows are just spectacular. Anyway, it got to around 9pm and I had just arrived home from teaching English when my phone rang. Fishing it out of my pocket as I trudged back home clutching my grammar books and cassette recorder I saw his name flash up on the display. I bit my lip, should I answer....? ‘Pronto.....’. It’s me, listen, I was just up the road, are you home....? Err...well... nearly.....what do you want? He continued.....Can we meet, I just want to see you, that’s all. I sighed.....Look, this isn’t a good idea, I explained earlier, can we just go our separate ways.......? There was a silence. It’s just that I’ve got this bag of tomatoes for you, I picked them early this morning and it would be a shame to let them go to waste. ....I hesitated, he DID do good tomatoes. Cursing myself I answered...OK, but just for five minutes, that’s all. Within half an hour, he was standing in my living room sheepishly holding out a bag of plump tomatoes. I had an uncontrollable urge to rinse them and chop them up into a basil laden salad but held back on the temptation. I’ve missed you, he blurted, pulling out a bunch of spring onions from his jacket pocket. My eyes narrowed, hmmm, don’t think you can win me back with your prize vegetables, I warned him but I was beginning to weaken.... Well, readers, I’m sure you can guess the end of the story. Later on that evening just as he was leaving, he turned to me....oh, I almost forgot. I’ve got something for you. It’s special, I know you’ll love it. My fantasies turned to a delicate jewellery box with a tiny gem inside when opened, or perhaps a weekend away in Tuscany, a romantic dinner for two along the coast even.....I could hardly contain myself. It’s in the car, he encouraged. Walk up to the top and when I drive past, I’ll hand it to you. So there I was, standing under a lamppost with my woolly cardy wrapped tightly round me against the brisk wind that was whipping up. His car suddenly appeared, I felt excited, like a child at Christmas, I stood on tip toes and chewed nervously on the edge of my fingernail in anticipation. Here you are sweetheart he smiled and pushed this massive plastic bag through the car window. What the.....? I thought, grappling with it unceremoniously, barely able to hold its weight. He blew a kiss through the window and sped off into the night. I had to lower it to the ground as it was too heavy to carry. Peering in, I caught sight of a massive pumpkin. I stood there for several moments with a multitude of mixed feelings. Oh well, I reasoned, that’s plenty of soup for winter and Halloween will be a cracker. I had to drag the beast home as it was simply too heavy to carry and by the time I got it back, I was sweating and panting like nobody’s business. Oh well, it’s the thought that counts, I consoled myself, climbing the stairs wearily to bed, a number of pumpkin recipes already starting to crowd my mind.

Opera blues

2009-09-13T11:07:00.000-07:00

Aaaah, a typical Italian lunch, imagine the scene, a long table set up heaving with bottles of vino, locally produced cheese, salami, plump tomatoes, just idyllic. I had been invited by a couple for a leisurely lunch along with 10 others. My mother, being in attendance this summer, I thought I would bring her along too. So there we all were, tucking in heartily to the local delicacies when suddenly, fuelled by the vino and grappa, my Mum stands up and announces she is going to perform some Italian opera...as one does.....She then suddenly erupts into a heartfelt rendition of a Verdi opera piece. Silence suddenly reigned, forks poised mid mouthful, as this tiny figure belted out her rendition of a classic masterpiece. My dog started howling but I put that down to hunger pangs, immediately quelled by an offering of leftover BBQ bones....all gratefully received. The performance came to an end amid rapturous applause whereupon the focus of attention fell into a nearby chair and promptly fell into an alcohol induced sleep. I prised the glass out of her hand and thought, OK, I’ll let her sleep it off. An hour later I had her carried upstairs to the hosts’ bedroom where I thought, OK, I’ll let her sleep it off. An hour later she was manhandled into the front seat (passenger seat, I hasten to add) of my Panda, still relatively unconscious and now mumbling incoherently, something to do with Pavarotti and pancakes??? I thanked the bemused onlookers for their hospitality and apologised profusely, reassuring them that my mother didn’t normally get blind drunk and have to be carried home, the daughter, perhaps but luckily that subject wasn’t touched on, at least not this time round. So there I was, approaching the house. Best not park round the front, I thought. I was going to have to drag her indoors with one of her arms dangling round my neck. Please God let her cooperate because if she’s a dead weight, we’re both doomed. I parked round the back and grappled unceremoniously with the former opera singer now fallen from grace. Thank God she isn’t a drunk that lurches into unbridled and barely comprehensible profanity when someone tries to move them. I struggled down the side alley, so far so good. The door was metres away, just need to turn the corner and.....uh oh.....my next-door neighbour’s guests were leaving....now what do I do? This coincided with a sudden and momentary revival of the Sicilian opera, now horribly out of tune, more a Sicilian farce. Shhh, I pleaded, they’ll hear us! The prim elderly couple passed by and peered down the alley. I waved at them cheerily, my Mother now silenced and slumped of course didn’t wave. We’re just going for a walk....! I trailed off wishing they would do the same. They waved back hesitantly, momentarily confused by the scene before them. The dimness of the alley was the only good thing about our encounter. Once they’d gone I wrestled the dead weight to bed. Tut, drunks, no use to anybody, I muttered, pulling the door to her bedroom closed and making a mental note to keep her on the orange juice next time.

"traditional" dessert

2009-08-08T13:48:00.000-07:00

My delightful neighbours invited me to dinner last Saturday night so of course I offered to bring dessert…..guess what English sweet I decided to make (regular followers of this blog may have an inkling....), yes, the ubiquitous apple crumble, groan. I could make one with my eyes closed. So there I was in my kitchen, crumble cooked and I looked around for something to cover it with. I reached into the clean washing pile and grabbed hold of a dishcloth. Perfect!.... and draped it over the prize offering. Imagine the scene dear readers, two hours later, dinner finished, I made a big show of lifting up the still warm dish off the kitchen work surface and bringing it proudly to the table. I placed it squarely in the middle, a slight smile playing on the corners of my mouth. Ahhh, I thought, this one will really make an impression. Cooked to perfection, soft on the bottom and crunchy on the top, sprinkled with cinnamon and brown sugar (anyone’s mouth watering?). There was a tangible air of expectation, an electric silence among the 10 guests gathered. They were going to experience a true English dessert the likes of which had never been seen in these parts. I stood up and smirking to myself grabbed the corner of the tea towel and yanked it off and waited for their reaction. There was a gasp from an older member of the group and a giggle from the youngest, hmmm, not quite what I expected....strange.... Silence still.....frowning slightly, I looked down and there, to my horror, draped over the famous British pudding was.....a pair of leopard print, red frill trim knickers......!!!!! I had to give a double take as I could not, just could not, believe my eyes. Any minute now I was going to wake up, 1, 2, 3....nope, this was reality......What the......??? How.....? Clearly they'd been swept up from the clean washing basket along with the dish cloth. The room swirled momentarily and I grabbed the edge of the table to steady myself. Ten pairs of eyes narrowed on me, confusion reigned.....only the 90 year old grandfather seemed a little flushed, probably hadn’t had this much excitement for 30 years. I had to think fast, my reputation was on the line here, think, think.......I cleared my throat, the serving spoon trembling ever so slightly in my hand. “I want to thank you all for your kind invitation here tonight.....” – “ I consider you all my good friends and we in England have a time honoured tradition....to show our openness and as a symbol of intimate and eternal friendship, I present to you .......The Great British Crumble ....With Knickers...”. There was a stunned silence as my captive diners digested this excess of visual and verbal information. Then, after what seemed an eternal pause, the mother, a portly woman who could only fantasize of squeezing into what was blatantly displayed before her, broke into a sudden frenzy of clapping and suddenly everyone was joining in. I’d got away with it. Sweating profusely, I whipped off the knickers and with a deft swirl of the hand, inserted them into my jeans pocket before asking breezily “OK, who’s first.....?’ The crumble went down a treat, some even asked for seconds. By the way, the knickers were clean... I checked....My toes still curl at the memory. Hey, do you think I could start a new Brit tradition here? After all, it was well received......

Plumbing the depths

2009-08-08T13:47:00.000-07:00

Plum season has just finished. It’s like everyone’s got a tree and wants to get rid of their plums. You end up with this constantly never ending circuit of oval fruit that passes from one family to the next and in fact, it’s not impossible after passing through 10 sets of hands to end up with your original plums again. Here’s how it works. You pick your plums. Uhhh, I’ve got too many. If I eat them all, I may as well just sit on the toilet until Saturday. So you prepare your plastic bag containing 5 kilos of plumbs. Then you run into Giancarlo the plumber or Maria the seamstress and you say, here, have some plums. They of course accept them gratefully but probably groaning inside as they’ve probably done the same thing that morning, proferring their goods to Carlo the butcher and Franco, the village drunk. And so it goes on, the relentless ‘pushing’ of plums. I came home the other day after work and noticed a plastic bag slung over the railings in front of my house. Uhhhh, my stomach lurched, I know what those are.....Trembling, I reached forward, lifting the bag and lo and behold, it was full of plums. I groaned inwardly....visions of opening my front door and a cascade of plumbs tumbling out, stopping local traffic. Autopsy reports, yet to be confirmed, cause of death, excess consumption of plums..... The other day, in an attempt to escape the flood, I went out on my bicycle. Hmmm, a gentle evening cycle through the village, no plums, no acceptances, no rejections. And so I set off, pleasantly taking in the rugged green scenery. I take a bend and suddenly this guy dives out in front of me from nowhere. I slam on the brakes, eyes wide, heart pounding.....Julia, I’ve got some plums for you.....My heart sank. I’d failed in my mission. “But I can’t carry them.....” I indicated my humble form of transport. “But they’re from my land.....” He looked genuinely hurt. How could I resist? “That’s so kind of you....” and there I was, the lop sided cyclist, swerving all over the road, with 5 kilos of plums dangling precariously from the handle bars. I was already racking my brains as to who I could donate them to. I got home and saw a plastic bag left ceremoniously on my front step. No prizes for guessing what it contained......

Sticky issue

2009-07-13T09:39:00.001-07:00

There are a few chaps who hobble round the village on sticks. People have tried on numerous occasions to tell me their names and about their histories but I seem to lose track. There are at least 3 or 4 of them. I wonder if when they pass each other in the street, they give a salutary wave as do vintage car owners passing another such vehicle on the road, or motorcyclists or tandem enthusiasts as in ‘we’re in this special club’. Well anyway, one day, my next door neighbours happens to mention that so and so, the man with the sticks fell over outside the butchers, passed out and by the time the medics got to him, he was dead. ‘Oooh, that’s awful!’ I explained, struggling to decipher which one of the hobbling band it could be. It must be that one, I decided, given the description ‘the man with the sticks’ that it was Culprit A. So there I was on a Monday morning sat at the doctors surgery and happened to mention that this person had died. There was a collective gasp from the other eavesdropping patients. Yes, I elaborated, there he was, clutching his bag of sausages (well, you need to embellish a bit to make the story a bit more interesting, add a few more details here and there), I think the ham was on special offer that morning (as if this was a relevant detail in the poor man’s demise) and he tripped, whacked his head and that was it. There was a general murmuring as the news sunk in. Hmm, I thought, they’re going to think I’m well informed, not bad for an ex-pat, finger on the pulse, hot bed of information. I nodded back knowingly. Anyway, later on that day, I was trotting back home when, horror of horrors, there he was, Lazarus, returned from the dead, phoenix from the ashes, the hobbling man, hobbling towards me. My first thought was ‘.....I thought you were six feet under’.... in fact six feet over because Italians are generally buried in highrise vaults, swiftly followed by ‘uh oh, there goes my reputation...’. I scowled at him, he scowled back, probably heard how I’d tried to dispose of him in the doctor’s waiting room. I had visions of his home receiving lots of condolence calls, cards, flowers, wailing friends and relatives because that English woman said he had passed away.....er, well, sort of......Hmmm, still time to do away with him....I brushed the evil thought away, no doubt he’d already been spotted and the game was up. Ahh, the importance of getting your facts right.....

Smelly

2009-06-21T04:56:00.001-07:00

Well, I had the good fortune to be invited to my neighbours' house for home-made pizza...what a delight!! Of course, the dog, TT, had to be in attendance but I left her outside as most Italians disapprove of animals in the house. So there we were, all dutifully assembled around the table tucking in. The grandmother, unfortunately, has suffered from a form of alzheimers for years and often has aggressive outbursts if, for example, she sees you reaching for another slice of pizza. Ehh, I wondered, would she like that piece, should I leave it for her? Is she concerned at my foreign accent? Do you laugh along? Try to include her in the conversation? I related a recent, what I thought, funny story to the family and caught her really glaring at me. Hmmm, not saying that everyone should laugh at my jokes, but, hey.... Anyway, getting sidetracked, there we were chomping away benignly at this wonderful spread when suddenly there was this AWWWWWFUL smell that filled the room. Uhhh, I thought, are they digging up the local graveyard to remove the bodies....uhhhh.... then I caught sight of TT, my dog, jumping up at the window, head appearing, then disappearing....jumping up...head appearing...then disappearing... The head of the table said frostily.....I think your dog has rolled in something. The vision is all too clear for me. You can be out walking with the dog and suddenly it finds something black and evil in the road so what is its immediate reponse...I think I'll roll in it. Clearly this is what the dog had done so the house was filled with the smell of rotting flesh. What does one do in these circumstances? Gloss over it, comment on the weather, incur the wrath of the grandmother and reach for another piece of pizza...? I opted to go out to investigate and doing so found TT outside, black down one side, aboslutely reeking of some unspeakable substance. 'You bring shame upon the family!' I barked to which she barked back. Of course she wouldn't just go away as I implored, begged, asked politely and not so politely. The father of the house came out and began tetchily to slice up the watermelon. I errr...I'm ever so sorry, I started....before fading out and beating a hasty restreat inside. My kind hosts were grim faced and had stopped eating, unsurprisingly. I sat down and commented breezily (wishing in fact there was a breeze) 'Lovely pizza!'. Suddenly I heard a yelp and the smell (i.e. the dog) began to distance itself. Clearly the father had delivered it a clear and unmistakeable message with the toe of his shoe. I waited for someone to produce an air freshener but none was forthcoming. Maybe they're out of it, I thought. By now, the grandmother was cackling. Clearly she took the opposite mood of everyone else depending on the circumstances. Hmm, I won't expect an immediate re-invitation in the near future......

Ambush

2008-06-11T23:56:00.002-07:00

My dog, TT, I must admit, has been spoilt rotten. She demands attention and affection at every opportunity and gets quite upset if you ignore her. And so it is, when I get home and park my car, she is instantly outside waiting for me to open the door. The moment I do so, she leaps in and jumps around frantically, barking and howling, sits in your lap in the driver’s seat and refuses to let you out. You have to wait about 10 minutes for her to calm down before you can push her out and then get out yourself. Attempts to alight by the passenger door are foiled because she knows all the tricks. Now her friend, a large Alsatian from down the road has twigged this game and also tries to get in the car after her. The first time he tried to follow her in, there was pandemonium. My phone had just started ringing which I answered and absent-mindedly opened the door at the same time. I was besieged by what seemed like a pack of over-excited canines, barking and howling. I was literally trampled under-foot (or under-paw) and had to fight my way out whilst at the same time trying to hold a ‘calm’ conversation with a potential employer. I think next time, I may try to exit rapidly by the boot. Ahhh, the lengths one goes to for a quiet life.

It takes two to tango

2008-06-11T23:56:00.001-07:00

Well, my mother is in town at the moment, having flown over from the UK for a couple of weeks. I thought I would take her along to the last night of the dance classes to show off my new moves (the fact that these moves are still relatively uncoordinated is something we can gloss over for now). A particularly cheery waltz trilled out at some point and my mother said ‘hey, let’s have a dance to this one!’. Smugly, I thought, yes, I’ll show the rest of them, knowing that my mother was bound to be good at dancing – well, she’s over 60, isn’t she, surely a pre-requisite for knowing the steps; it’s just that generation after all (vague concept). I was also relieved because my regular partner had started learning how to dance from zero at the cost of my injured toes and bumped knees. For the past 6 months, I had been marched and steered and driven and knocked and bumped around the hall by a debutante who should have had ‘L’ plates firmly attached to his back to warn others of his impending presence, ‘L’ of course standing for ‘laugh’ as in (in good cockney fashion) ‘you’re ‘aving a laugh, ent yer?’ We stood up, my mother a good foot shorter than I am (and I’m by no means tall) and started to ‘dance’. My first impression was, oh God, she can’t dance but by then, there was no way I could make her stop short of clutching at my chest and feigning a sudden (but passing) heart attack. Her moves were all staccato as if she had really bad indigestion combined with uncontrollable epilepsy. Even labelling her moves ‘contemporary tango’ wouldn’t have excused this diabolical interpretation of this classic and graceful dance. She grinned contentedly, her bouffant hairdo whirling round in rhapsodical delight. I wanted for this moment to be finished and forgotten but the music continued. I caught sight of my fellow dancers steering clear of the out of control duo. The dance instructor looked unhappy. At long last, the waltz came to an end. ‘There, I’ve taught you how to dance a real waltz!’ my mother proclaimed triumphantly trotting off to chat amiably to one of the bemused spectators. Yes, I can honestly say I’ve made a memorable impression in that group.

Thumbs up?

2008-06-11T23:54:00.000-07:00

Well, it was the last night of the dance classes recently and everyone brought along a home-made dish. As I only make one dish well, it had to be ‘the crumble’ but this time I thought I would do some custard as well. The dancers were already familiar with the crumble set up as I had brought one in before but they peered suspiciously at the seemingly gloopy yellow mixture duly proferred for their sampling. Is it savoury? someone asked edging away from it endeavouring to keep a safe distance. What are the ingredients? another one asked to which I was unable to answer. Err, just powder and milk, which really, if you think about it, isn’t a particularly satisfactory answer. Do you drink it… and so on went the questions from the confused melee assembled before me. I dolloped each crumble portion with a good helping of the prize custard and handed it out to the reticent diners and waited. They munched and crunched and slurped and chewed with the result that. opinions were divided. A few went back just for a helping of more custard while others separated out the crumble from the custard, leaving the latter forlornly on the side of the plate with a definite thumbs down. Next time I think I will bring in a toad-in-the-hole but won’t translate literally the name of the dish before they try it as I wouldn’t want to put them off.

Mind you queues

2008-05-25T23:48:00.000-07:00

Well, yesterday I had the pleasure of going on a coach trip to Umbria with my fellow villagers. The appointment was for 4am (zzzzZZZZZZ) but incredibly everyone was there on time. As the doors of the coach glided open, there was a sudden scrum to get on. All remnants of civility were violently pushed aside as everyone desperately tried to get on the coach as if it were the last form of transport to leave an imminently doomed earth. I've never understood the urgency in such situations, after all, the coach isn't going to leave if everyone isn't on board. Children were screaming, as was one old woman whose arm had got stuck inside but whose body remained hanging limply outside. A manic jostle of elbows, bulky food bags and eclipse-inducing rears competed frantically to reach their final destination, i.e. their seat on the coach. Not one to draw on stereotypes (!), I waited patiently on the pavement, pulling out a Bill Bryson paperback which I then proceeded to read, until the pandemonium burnt itself out and the crying had stopped. I then calmly and in an unencumbered manner, got on the coach and sat down. To say the least, the atmosphere in the coach was somewhat charged... and the journey hadn't even started....

Not quite...

2008-05-25T23:41:00.000-07:00

In a recent lesson, I was teaching the various forms of accommodation that exist, eg semi-detached house, flat, mansion and we came to the word bungalow. One of my students piped up 'Oh yes, that's where Saddam Hussein was hiding out, wasn't it'. Visions of the former dictator padding out in his comfy slippers and towelling dressing gown in the morning to collect the paper left on the porch of his flower clad bungalow filled my mind. A far cry from the dishevelled figure we all remember being dragged out of the hole in the ground he was hiding in. I tried to correct her but she was insistent. "Don't you mean 'bunker'", I suggested. She stopped suddenly, realising that in fact this was the word she had been confusing bungalow with. "Er yes" she replied meekly but we all had a good laugh about it anyway.

Over priced, underwhelmed

2008-05-07T23:57:00.000-07:00

I had the privilege of being invited along to a cosmetics do the other day which is basically a group of women who meet in someone's house and then a sort of Avon representative turns up with a bag of goodies and samples. I turned up all hot and sweaty looking rather flushed after a half an hour tramp through the Abruzzan countryside to reach the farm where the event was being held. The table was already laden with 4 different types of home-made cakes and pastries which I immediately set about feasting on - this of course for me being the highlight of the event. 'Have another piece' they insisted 'OK', I agreed without too much persuasion, wolfing down another cake. Wiping the cream from round my mouth, the cosmetics woman entered. I immediately noticed she had bad skin. 'Hmm' I thought, a bit like a bald man trying to sell hair growth formulas or a chiropodist with in-growing toenails. She bustled about, displaying her wares on the table, exotically named jars of brightly coloured liquids, tubes of regeneration, anti-wrinkle and gravity-defying lotions and a range of almost fluorescent cosmetics that wouldn't have looked out of place in a clown's dressing room. I wasn't impressed. She prepared her creams and pounced on the first victim. 'This is the skin purifier' she announced, vigorously rubbing some granular green concoction into this pensioner's face, pulling her skin left, right and centre. Now go and wash it off, she ordered, pushing the poor woman into the bathroom and slamming the door. 'This is a skin tonic', she announced, as a red liquid oozed between her fingers. She slapped it on her next victim, a portly woman, whose face was already red with the exertion of eating the cakes. 'There now, how does that feel?' she enquired without waiting for an answer. The victim nodded approvingly, clearly too nervous to say 'I don't feel any different'. She then grabbed a very plain, mousy coloured haired girl and began to apply various types of make-up, easily eclipsing Picasso in terms of boldness and brush strokes. The girl sat grinning, clearly enjoying the attention. Clearly she hadn't looked in the mirror yet. The rest of us (apart from me) ummmed and ahhhhed in approval, amazed at the transformation before us - from one extreme to the other. Now you! she pointed at me, seizing a jar of ominously orange paste. This is to make you look suntanned. I frowned, already lightly tanned from a few days working in the garden. I started to protest but she was already at work and I could see the end of my nose turning a ruddy brown colour. Did I really want to look like Victoria Beckam - greasy and orange? She stepped back for all to admire her work. We looked at each other, the heavily made up girl, the porky (by now) very red woman, me looking like a farmer's wife and the pensioner, now returned from the bathroom with bloodshot eyes and a nasty rash breaking through on her chin. We looked like characters from the Twighlight Zone, either that or Billy Smart's circus. As we dabbed away at our war paint, quick as a flash, she produced her order book. Elena, she barked, what will you have..... and so it went on, all the participants pressurised into forking out a fortune on rubbish products at highly inflated prices but clearly too embarrassed to say 'no thanks'.... until it came to me. 'And you, Julia?' she beamed falsely. Wiping the last of the grime from my face, I replied casually 'No thanks'. She stuck out her bottom lip... 'Don't you like the products?' she insisted. 'They're interesting....' I chose my words carefully, 'but I already have my own range (Superdrug specials - 2 for 1 offers) and they work just fine for me'. At that point, someone piped up 'Yes, in fact, Julia DOES have really good skin. What product do you use?'. I thought it best not to detract too much from the seller's own range so gave a vague answer and then checked my watch in an exaggerated fashion. 'Ooooh, got to dash now but this has been just GREAT!' and reaching for another slice of cake which I promptly stuffed into my mouth, waved enthusiasatically and headed for the door. I caught sight of 'Mrs Avon' scowling at me, probably worried I was going to go into competition with her by selling realistically priced products instead. Hmmm, wonder if they do tupperware parties round here...?

Last laugh

2008-04-30T14:35:00.002-07:00

Some of you may remember the snooty woman mentioned in one of my earlier entries - the one who likes to look down her nose at me (and squeezed into a clearly too small skirt and thought it was flattering). Everytime that I pass her in the village, she looks right through me. This is what it must be like when you die, I thought, and come back to visit your old friends but no-one sees you any more....Anyway, after countless episodes of pretending I didn't exist, the other day she finally noticed me. It wasn't to say, 'Hello Julia, how are you?' or anything cordial but immediately started the sentence 'Oh, what a shame I missed the start of your new English course. I would have loved to have attended. Never mind, you'll run another one won't you and then I'll come along to that one' and with that, she dismissed me with a vague wave of her hand and walked away without allowing me to reply in any shape or form. 'Cow!', I murmered and had sudden visions of giving her an intensive course in .....'Gobbledegook', that grammatically challenging language used by the hard of speaking. Imagine, after 10 weeks of solid drilling and heavy homework, she comes away speaking a language no more understandable than a chicken with hiccups, Latvian spoken backwards or trying to talk with a mouth full of mashed banana (one of my all-time favourite childhood games!). Ah, the joy, the satisfaction imaging her next trip to London as she walks into a newsagent and spews forth a dialogue of nothingness and nonsense. Hah, bet she'll stop ignoring me in future though...

New 'friend'

2008-04-30T14:35:00.001-07:00

I have now moved out of the village and am living in a country house with only 3 cows and a moody group of chickens for company. On Saturday night, I had been invited to a book launch in the village and went first to the house of my former next-door neighbour. My dog TT has quite a following now and her favourite admirer, a little black and white specimen with long pointy ears, is forever looking for her, knowing where she used to live. Of course, he was outside the village house when I approached and went wild with excitement which quickly turned to bitter disappointment when he realised that I was alone. I shrugged at him “TT sends her regards” I consoled him. He cocked his head to one side and sniffed at my shoes. Yes, this lady was definitely the key to finding TT. I collected my next-door neighbour and we set off in my car. The book launch was to be held in the grounds of the village hotel, about a 5 minute drive away. During the journey, I checked my rear-view mirror and could see ‘Blackie’ in fast pursuit. Horror! I was going to be stuck with this beast all evening and he wasn’t even my dog! We arrived at the do and I parked up. Blackie, a little breathless from his run, greeted me happily. “Shoo”, I flapped, but in vain. We walked up to the garden area where champagne was being served. A small group was already in attendance, all smartly dressed. “Please go away” I implored, looking down at my “companion” for the evening. He took this to mean “welcome, stick close”. With each step, I could feel him pressed against my foot, as though some sort of modern foot accessory. At least give me the space to walk unencumbered. A few heads turned. “Hello” I waved breezily as if unaware of my canine escort. My walk became three steps forward, shove to the side to try to free myself, another three steps forward, an intriguing yet puzzling gait to the casual observer. “Is this your dog?” asked a very posh woman with a cluster of diamonds where her hand should have been. I looked down in feigned surprise, my “companion” looked up at me. “You mean this one?” as if there could be any doubt which one she meant “No, he’s just……” The words “a friend” popped out. “He’s just a friend” and I smiled comfortingly. “Oh, I see” she replied, clearly not seeing and moved away to talk to someone more normal. And so the evening proceeded with my little “friend” trailing me around the formal do until at some point the hotel manager crept up to me “Err, excuse me madam, is this your dog”. I flushed “No, he just follows me around”. I really didn’t want to go into lengthy explanations as to why this little being was stuck to my foot. At some point, the manager was able to shoo him away and when I left the event at around 11, I thought I caught a glimpse of my little friend again in my rear-view mirror but jammed down on the accelerator in case he had visions of following me home.

Men in black

2008-04-30T14:32:00.000-07:00

The appointment was for 4pm – a chance phone call from an 'English school' looking for a mother-tongue teacher. Why we were meeting in a deserted car park instead of the imagined plush offices of the school was a mystery to me, as this meeting would indeed turn out to be. At 4pm sharp, a BMW screeched to a halt metres in front of me sending up a cloud of dust that circled wildly as I tried to make out the face of the driver. The car door opened and out stepped a tall man dressed in a black suit wearing dark sunglasses. He looked around nervously before striding towards me, arm outstretched. “Julia?” he queried without preamble. “Yes, pleased to meet you. Can I ask….” but he held up his hand to silence me and beckoned me towards the boot of his car which he deftly opened displaying a row of files and a large black briefcase. “You start next week. The details are in here”. Again he looked around suspiciously, the expression in his eyes unreadable behind his dark glasses. I glanced around also half expecting a spray of bullets from a passing hitman. This was more like a scene from some Russian gangster movie or a sequel to the Godfather. All I wanted was a few innocent hours teaching English but had visions of becoming embroiled in some international racket. “Er, how many students are in the class?” I ventured. “A small group” he answered vaguely. “…and their level?”. He scanned the horizon behind my left ear “Ah” he waved his arm dismissively “You’ll find out when you start”. I tried again “and what exactly do they want to focus on?”. I sensed these questions were a trifle annoying for him and obviously didn’t want to push him too much “Do a bit of this and a bit of that” he clarified. In my mind, I visualised my Scheme of Work for the course headed up in bold and underlined “A bit of this and a bit of that”. “Look”, he interrupted, clearly having had enough of these “irrelevant” questions “Read through these contracts, sign them and send them back to me. At the end of the course, the firm will pay you, then you pay me, right?”. A somewhat irregular arrangement, I nodded dumbly. “All clear then? This is the amount you’ll be paying me” he jabbed a finger at a figure at the bottom of the contract. “Fine” I gulped. “Er, about the company, what sort of …..” but before I’d had a chance to finish my question, he was back in the car “You’ll be hearing from me…” and with that, he was gone. I was left clutching my contract in the middle of this deserted car park. Mmm, clearly a reputable well-established school. I sighed. My accountant would definitely not be happy with this set-up…

Warmth of Italy

2008-04-23T23:43:00.001-07:00

I have now moved 5 km out of the village for the summer and I recently returned to pick up a few items. I ran into my next-door neighbour, a wonderful chap of 80. Let me just diverge for a second. I adore my next-door neighbours. They have become my second family here and have helped my out so many times since I first bought my house. I really don’t know what I would have done without their support. Anyway, seeing my return unexpectedly, the first thing he said was ‘There’s some pasta for you’ and then returning to his pottering in the garden. Those words filled me with a deep affection and said so much beyond just filling my belly. I wanted to hug him but instead went in to next-doors where his wife, upon seeing me ordered “Sit down!” and immediately placed a bowl of steaming minestrone in front of me “Dimi cara”… she started “com’e sei stata?” [well, love, how have you been?]. Small things in life but it’s the small things that count.

Impressive moves

2008-04-23T23:42:00.000-07:00

Well, continuing with the theme of our little dance class, last night I really wowed my fellow dancers. Unfortunately not with my dance moves I must confess. It is customary for someone to bring along a cake of some sort which we tuck into along with a glass of spumante at half time. All the calories which we burn off during the first half are immediately thrown back on again with the consumption of the dessert but hey, who’s complaining? Well, it was my turn to bring in the goodies and I must say, the competition was high. Every week, we had been delighted by the fluffiest of sponges, the creamiest of Tiramisus and the most delectable ricotta cheese cakes. I racked my brains – “That’s it!” I cried triumphantly, surrounded by recipe books in my little kitchen. And so it was with pride that I unveiled an apple crumble last night much to the amusement of my fellow dancers. They peered over my shoulder, somewhat confused “Looks like a box of sand” chirped one little Italian man “Are you sure it’s cooked?” quipped another podgy woman. I sighed. They had no idea what this was and yet were so ready with the comments. I made them wait while I ceremoniously spooned our helpings for each attendee. I could tell some of them were thinking “Hah, English food – no chance! A silence fell on the hall apart from the careful munching of the proffered platter. I knew a lot rested on the final opinion of the ‘panel’. One of the builders started “This is great! Can you make it again for us”. I caught his wife eyeing up the remaining portion. The rest of the motley crew nodded approvingly and two of the women asked simultaneously how I made it. Not one to divulge secrets, I answered vaguely with a flamboyant wave of the serving spoon “Oh, a bit of this and a bit of that, then bake for 30 minutes”. Hah, I don’t want everyone making my crumble – where would the exclusivity be in that! And so, all’s well that ends well. The crumble went down a treat and I think fuelled even further the ardour of our dance instructor…

A light touch

2008-04-23T23:41:00.000-07:00

I’ve always wanted to learn traditional dance as opposed to the drunken shaking around on a Saturday night accompanied by ear-splitting music. Every Wednesday evening in the local village, a group of us meet and attempt to be taught by our, I must say, VERY patient tutor. We are trying out Tango, Waltz, Foxtrot and a local speciality – Liscio. In the films, it all looks so graceful – ahem, slightly different from how we prance around with forced grins on our faces. The first evening I went along, my dance partner didn’t have a clue. His robotic movements did little to help me learn the new steps “She’s not a car!” barked our tutor .”….so don’t drive her!”. My partner changed gear, sweat pouring profusely from his forehead. “Have you got haemorrhoids?” shouted the tutor at another hapless victim “….so why are your legs so far apart?!” And so it is, with these gentle words of encouragement that we stumble through these classic dance steps in the hope of one day impressing our future audience. Talking of our tutor…I’m not entirely convinced that squeezing of arms and tight squashing against bodies is REALLY an essential element of say the Tango and yet I get squeezed and pressed against every week by our overly “keen” instructor. “Give me your body…” he whispers in my ear. Somehow, I don’t think he is referring to the need to dance close against your partner. Sigh, Italian men….

Some good tips

2008-04-01T00:52:00.002-07:00

Asparagus season is with us again and that means going out to pick it. How wonderful! I exclaimed, obviously something I would never do in London. My initial enthusiasm soon evaporated when my fellow asparagus pickers turned up at 6 in the morning, all cheery and expectant. I answered the door bleary-eyed wearing my scruffy pink dressing gown and at first not comprehending who they were or what they wanted of me at this ungodly hour. Then it came back to me asparagus picking. I groaned inwardly. Just be a tick, I assured and walked laboriously upstairs huffing and puffing pulling on the first mismatch of clothes I could find. Half an hour later, I found myself tramping through an Italian wood, hair snagging on obstructive branches, peering into the undergrowth for asparagus tips. Finding a good handful, I trotted back to the group leader, smugly holding out my offering for inspection. He shook his head, ‘No, these are young brambles. We can’t eat these’. Disconcerted, I looked at them closely. ‘Are you sure?’ Me with 30 minutes of experience, he with 30 years…. One look from him satisfied me that indeed, these shoots were not palatable and so I continued my search. The others were doing very well. I did actually find 3 shoots; one of them had been given to me as an example of what to look for. Another, a fellow collector had dropped and I discreetly picked it up. The third, I happened to sit on whilst taking a rest. It was a bit crushed and limp but served with some olive oil and parsly, I reckoned it could be revived. At one point, I got stranded on this ledge and had to be rescued and this was swiftly followed by the announcement that I didn’t have my woolly hat anymore and could we go back and look for it which resulted in another 20 minutes of delay while someone agile scampered down the slope and retrieved it. All in all, an interesting morning. I know my companions felt sorry for me at my relative inability to forage and if called upon, to fend for myself. Much easier to buy asparagus ready packed in those little bundles in the supermarket though if you ask me.

Mind your language

2008-04-01T00:52:00.001-07:00

My English lessons often produce a wealth of unintentional mirth which I have to suppress a) because it would take too long to explain to a relative beginner why the mix-up of words was funny and b) Italians are easily embarrassed by their mistakes in English. Here are a few recent mistakes that cropped up in recent lessons:

One student informed me that loved cocaine and that he did it at least three times a week. His wife was clearly pleased with this hobby and he even suggested I come round and try some. I was about to thank him but turn him down politely explaining my nasal passages probably wouldn’t be able to withstand it when it emerged he was talking about cooking. I breathed a sigh of relief to hear this.

Often students, when asked to write a piece for homework, will just go to Google and do a dodgy online translation then hand it in claiming it is their own work. One student, trying to explain his sister has long hair wrote ‘she has a high bouffant’. He then wanted to explain the dialogue in a clothes shop where ‘these trousers are too tight’ but he wrote ‘my pants are constricting’. In a last flourish of creativity, he tried to explain this firming body cream that had been invented but it came out as ‘bottom botox’.

One student can’t pronounce the word ‘who’ and instead it comes out as ‘ooooo’. I of course tried to correct him and so the conversation went ‘whooooo’, ‘oooooo’, ‘whoooo’, ‘ooooo’, ‘whoooo’ etc etc. We sounded like a pair of courting owls.

The best one was when another student who tried to ask me about my grandmother’s appetite but the question came out ‘Is your grandmother on heat at lot?. Needless to say I was most annoyed to be asked such a question, not least because she’s been dead 20 years but it all became clear and we remain firm friends.

When it comes to the crunch

2008-04-01T00:51:00.000-07:00

Next door’s cat is forever visiting me – a small thing, I think she is the only cat in the village that allows you to stroke her, having been brought up in an affectionate environment. She will often stroll in and of course head straight for TT’s food bowl which is generally piled high with crunchies and chocolate – clearly a balanced diet (!). She turned up yesterday and I know that only five minutes previous to this, TT had tucked in heartily until she couldn’t eat anymore and was now upstairs rearranging my shoes (you can generally hear a crashing and banging noise as she carries a boot up and down the stairs, stopping at each landing to chew on it). Hearing someone eating her crunchies, she darted downstairs clearly furious at having to share her food reserves. Not content with grabbing the cat by the scruff of the neck and dragging her out, she had to make a point of eating MORE crunchies lest she be deprived herself so there then followed a frantic scrabbling around on her plate as she literally wolfed down as many crunchies as she could. She wasn’t even hungry!!! But no, they were hers and she was going to eat them. Next door’s cat, looked on from the doorstep with an expression on her face which said ‘I think your dog has psychological problems’ and had she voiced this, I’m sure I would have agreed. It reminded me of that scene from Mr. Bean when he stays in a hotel and sees a fellow guest helping himself to various items at breakfast; of course, he has to better that and helps himself to double the amount. Finally TT finished stuffing herself and I heard a distinct growling from her stomach area. She looked up at me suddenly and whined. Yeah, I thought, indigestion? That will teach you, but of course, it won’t because she’ll do exactly the same thing next time.

Skirting the issue

2008-04-01T00:49:00.000-07:00

Last Tuesday was market day and I found my neighbour and her friend cooing over some skirts on special offer. The friend is notoriously snooty and even after being introduced to you would most likely never bother to acknowledge you if you passed her in the street. I had TT in tow and as this woman was wearing a fur coat, TT started snarling at her (something she never does!). Good dog! I thought, half-heartedly pulling her away. The woman looked down her nose at both of us. ‘Whose dog is this?’ she asked disgustedly. Hmm, the clue is, if you follow the lead from the neck of the dog, it will usually lead you to the owner. Without waiting for a reply from one so inferior as myself, she continued to hold up the skirt against her expanse of waist. ‘Let’s go and try them on’ she suggested to my neighbour. My neighbour beckoned to me and we all trooped off to the snooty woman’s house round the corner. ‘The dog stays out!’ she glared at me. I rolled my eyes and TT was only too happy to oblige and with that, trotted off back home by herself, glad to be free of this fur clad toff. I followed them into the bedroom and they proceeded to try on the skirts. My neighbour had no trouble fitting into hers – and it did suit her very well. The other woman however struggled into hers – I thought a shoe horn might come in useful but thought she probably wouldn’t appreciate such advice. At last, gasping and perspiring heavily from the exertion, she admired herself in the mirror. Clearly the skirt was 2 sizes too small for her and she could only hope to ever stand in it as the slightest attempt to sit down would result in immediate disintegration of the said item and consequent social embarrassment. Her stomach bulged in an unsightly manner and even if she were able to bend over, which was a physical impossibility, the comment ‘has there been an eclipse?’ would not be inappropriate. ‘How does it look?’ she asked and then immediately answered her own question ‘Yes, it’s quite flattering’. I said nothing, my silence speaking volumes. I didn’t exist anyway so my opinions counted for nothing. It took her another 10 minutes to wrestle free of the garment – Houdini would have been proud of her. ‘Let’s go and find a matching top for this!’ she announced triumphantly and trotted off victorious.

A bit of a wash-out

2008-03-13T03:20:00.001-07:00

We were discussing cultural differences the other day in class and the subject turned, naturally, to bidets. 'Do you use bidets?' one of my students enquired. 'Err, well, not exactly', I replied (meaning no). 'Not even rich people?' (apparently this qualifies you better to have such a piece of equipment in your house). 'Well, it's not really the culture, we just don't use them generally'. Expressions of confusion passed over the faces of the majority of the class and I could see some of them wrestling with whether they dare ask 'so how DO you clean yourselves after going to the toilet?'. No-one asked the question but I could see already that their view of the prim and proper English person had dropped in ranking considerably. 'Anyway', I continued breezily 'I use mine to wash my hair in' (well, I DO. You can direct the nozzle in such a way as to keep your ears reasonably dry and prevent water running down the back of your neck). Now people really started to look upset. I saw one woman at the back of the class starting to collect her books and pens together in preparation to leave. I realised immediately I had proferred too much information and tried to cover my tracks. 'I'm the only resident in the house so it's not as if other people use the bidet and then I go in and wash my hair'. I could tell they were now thinking a) she doesn't use the bidet for the purpose it was intended and b) she does use the bidet for the purpose it was intended AND washes her hair in it. Clearly it was a no-win situation and I tried to crack a joke saying 'People always tell me I have beautiful hair and ask me what's the secret. I tell them that I have a special method for washing my hair!'. No-one laughed except for me and I found myself laughing into the silent space of the classroom. Clearly the conversation had gone too far. I coughed, flushing deeply and croaked 'Err, page 53 in your books....present continuous...!'

Taken by surprise

2008-03-13T03:14:00.000-07:00

The other evening, I was walking along with my neighbour. We were on our way to a dinner at the local restaurant to celebrate 'Italian Women's Day'. As we turned the corner, I saw a gang of youths huddled in a shadowy corner laughing about something. They stared over at us and, having lived in London, was naturally nervous about their reaction as we approached. One of them stood up, towering about me, dressed in black with his hood pulled down firmly over his eyes 'Happy Women's Day!' he remarked cheerily 'Enjoy your evening!'. His friends nodded their agreement as we passed and one of them handed me a bunch of mimosa flowers -a customary gift for this special day. I was amazed and tried hard to imagine a similar reaction in London - a torrent of abuse and expletives ...if you're lucky!! Well, how refreshing, I thought and proceeded to tell my Italian students this story for the rest of the week.

Je ne parle pas le francais

2008-03-05T09:47:00.000-08:00

I have a wonderful neighbour – when I say neighbour, I mean about a 20 minute walk down to the river, across the bridge and up the other side. He always reminds me of Keith Richards from the stones, but on a good day (if ever one was possible ) and lives contentedly with his family in retirement, planting corn and occasionally changing the attire of his scarecrow. Thing is, whenever we meet, he always insists on speaking French to me. He knows I’m English but perhaps somewhere along the line thinks it’s a short hop from French to English (indeed perhaps he has a point, because whenever you hear the French speaking English, they are in fact still speaking French). A typical ‘conversation’ between us might then go … (me) Buon Giorno (KR) Bon Jour (me) tut, come stai? (KR) ma femme est a la maison (me) Il tempo e bello (KR) il fait trop chaude aujourd hui.. etc etc rendering any form of meaningful dialogue virtually impossible. And so it was one fine afternoon that I happened to be driving back towards the village when my car spluttered to an inexplicable halt. Despite my ‘efforts’ meaning I tapped the speedometer and rattled the gear stick, it refused to start. Getting out of my car, I peered about but quickly realised that as it was 1 o’clock, the nation had ground to a halt and was collectively occupied with scoffing plates of pasta and bolognaise sauce. Forget the global stock markets, the queues of potential customers, let’s just shut shop and come back later when we’re full. Just as I was about to give up and…. and what…? I spotted a lone figure ambling towards me. God bless him, it was ‘Keith’. I sent up a silent prayer. Here was salvation. No waiting around for bored mechanics to turn up, no frantic phonecalls to explain tardiness, everything was going to be alright. Shaking his hand very enthusiastically, I started toexplain my predicament but got no further than ‘as I was driving down this road…’ when he interrupted me with a wild sweep of the hand ‘les vaches sont malades’. I stopped, confused, and wondered why he had embarked upon a conversation about some cows not feeling particularly well when there were more pressing issues at hand. He continued in a theatrical manner ‘le lait est vert’ explaining that these poor beleaguered cows were producing green milk. Whilst I momentarily sympathised with them, a temporary depression started to descend around me. My initial hopes of a speedy resolution to this matter were rapidly fading and as I struggled to translate with my rusty schooldays French, realised he was now talking about the benefits to health of consuming petits poids. ‘Please, I implored. The car… the car…probleme!!’ pointing frantically in its direction. ‘Ah oui, j’avais un Citroen…non un Renault…’ and he wandered off, physically and mentally, leaving me stranded bringing to mind the frantic castaway waving manically at a ship that carries on and leaves him shipwrecked. If it wasn’t for Alfredo and his tractor that came chugging along 10 minutes later, I would still be there, gazing wistfully down at the village while I waited for the help that would never come.