My life in an Italian village

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.

Doing a runner

2008-03-03T15:10:00.000-08:00

Well, the other afternoon, I made the ritual announcement 'shall we go for a walk then?'. TT understands the question well and immediately lies on her back and begins to 'paddle' with her paws. This, roughly interpreted, means 'you bet!' and as we were about to set off, her 'friend' joined us - this black and white mutt with long pointy ears. Not wishing to adopt any sort of 'Pied Piper' label, I walked quickly ahead of them but they interpreted this as 'let's race' and trotted dutifuly behind me. About 20 minutes down the road, having crossed the river, I met a couple of woodcutters and began to chat to them with my two 'companions' in tow. A second later, I turned round and noticed that TT was no longer with us. The mutt and I exchanged annoyed glances. Clearly out company wasn't enought to keep her interested. A quick look around satisfied me that she was no longer in the vicinity. As there is a fairly busy road that circumnavigates the village, I thought it best to walk back in the hope of meeting her at some point. I must admit, I did feel somewhat embarrassed at that point. After all, she had 'invited' her friend to come along and then done a runner. I was left with this mutt, luckily not having to make polite conversation or to cover the fact that she had left without a word (!). Finally arriving back home, I turned the corner to see her sunning herself on the doorstep seemingly without a care in the world. For whatever reason, she'd had enough and trotted back home of her own accord. Tut, talk about highly strung. Her mutt pal then walked away, clearly offended at having been blown out and even though I scolded her for her bad manners, she just rolled her eyes and had a good stretch, clearly unconcerned at the furore she had just caused.

Take it to the bank

2008-02-14T12:47:00.000-08:00

TT (my little dog) will often trek round after me and so it was that I had to go to the bank. It’s about a 30 second walk from my house (as is every place in the village) and as I opened the door, she darted in. Too late to retrieve her and make her wait outside so I let her wander round unsure of the rules about canines and banks. It’s a pretty open plan type of office and as I was waiting in the queue, I suddenly heard a yelping. I recognise the sound well as it’s the noise TT makes when you step on her because she’s got under your feet. It was a shrill noise that filled the whole room. I heard someone swearing in Italian and shouting ‘whose dog is this?’ I said nothing knowing that the bank manager and I are on good terms and he would feel embarrassed at such an outburst once he discovered it was my dog and then I would feel embarrassed at his embarrassment and so it would continue in a never-ending embarrassing chain. There would be too many undercurrents and all I wanted to do was to pay in a cheque. I caught sight of him discreetly moving a cloth around the floor with his foot. Clearly he had trodden on TT and the dog had tinkled on the floor. This only added to my embarrassment and as my little pet came towards me, I frowned at her, tutting noisily and opened the door for her to exit. ‘Tut’ I complained ‘people who let their dogs loose in public places…’ She peered at me non-comprehendingly through the window, waiting for me to come out as I mouthed at her ‘Go home… now!’ The bank manager nodded at me appreciatively, glad someone was agreeing with him. How naïve of me; it’s only a matter of time before he finds out who the dog belongs to as everyone knows everything about each other’s lives in the village.

Get Stuffed

2008-02-14T12:45:00.000-08:00

Ah, the leisurely meals, savouring every mouthful, stretching hours and hours into the night….. but not so with this particular meal. 6 o’clock was the appointment for dinner at the hostess’s house, time enough to eat then stroll down to the village hall for the first of our dance lessons. With predictable British punctuality, I arrived at 5.55pm clutching my bottle of red wine, mouth already watering as the thought of an appetising meal. The door swung open and my friend, already of a nervous disposition, grabbed the bottle, propelling me towards the kitchen table where the first course was already served. ‘The classes start at 6.30 not 8!’ she announced breathlessly, grappling laboriously with the proferred bottle and pouring it before I’d had a chance to say ‘White please’. I pulled up my chair glancing nervously at her husband and my dance partner for the evening, Frederico. Barely having finished the anti-pasti, the plates were whisked away and a large tureen of steaming pumpkin soup appeared. She ladled it sloppily into our bowls and we obediently followed her pace, eyes watering at the heat. She talk incessantly ‘…. first class… can’t be late… bad impression…’. ‘Mmm, that soup was….’ I started but didn’t have time to finish as she was already clearing away the bowls. Seconds would have been nice but the ravioli was demanding attention, large parcels packed with ricotta and spinach. Rather ambitiously, I helped myself to 2 but she had already added another 3. ‘Go on, go on, tuck in!’. I forced them all down, not wanting to offend her and waited for the inevitable palpitations…. more wine was poured…. Still chewing the last mouthful a large dish of potatoes and oversized turkey legs appeared as if by magic in front of us ‘mangia mangia!’ she implored, shooting a look at the clock on the mantelpiece. I tucked in, feeling a twinge of a stitch beginning, sweat breaking out on my forehead. She plonked salad onto our plates and pushed the bread basket towards me ‘try it, it’s home-made’ I smiled crookedly reaching for a piece, mouth already crammed with a Jurassic sized leg. Do turkeys really get this big… ‘Mmmm!’ I nodded unintelligibly by way of complimenting her cooking. Another glass of wine….The other 2 munched silently, heads bowed; clearly this was nothing new for them. A bowl of lentils, one of risotto and another of corn competed for our attention. At long last I sat back, my stomach protesting violently at the sudden onslaught of food. ‘Brava brava!’ she applauded noisily collecting the plates and bringing out 6 varieties of cakes/home-made biscuits/pancakes and strudel. The dance classes were no longer an enjoyable prospect. I merely wished to be sitting at home, preferably with the lights, off in peace. Another glass of vino…. ‘I’m stuffed!’ I announced clutching at my stomach in an exaggerated theatrical fashion. She picked up each plate in turn and held it inches away from my nose ‘Just try one, go on, go on…’. Not wishing to offend her, I did as she asked. Now I really needed to go to the toilet and not just numbers 1s….’Have a chocolate, they’re typical of the region!’ she trilled unwrapping three and holding them out to me. I merely nodded, the will to fight, and possibly to live, now long gone. My growling stomach startled us all. She produced the liqueurs ‘Cheers!’ we clanked glasses joylessly, then a refill, then the fruit…Would it be rude to ask for an Alka Setzer? I thought it best to wait till I got home, ditto the toilet visit. Finally, a mere half hour later, it was time for our class… lots of bouncing around, swirling and movement – a bit like my innards at that precise moment. And the dance classes? That’s another episode…

Airing your dirty laundry...

2008-02-10T02:30:00.000-08:00

My little dog has a rather annoying habit of chewing everything, but not only this, but picking up with the item in question and transporting it elsewhere for further mastication and so it was that the local priest was due to visit next door to discuss forthcoming parochial events. A truly charming character with a good sense of humour (just as well really), he turned up last week and I heard him chatting outside with my neighbour. Opening my door, I was horrified to see between his feet a pair of dirty black knickers which TT (the afore-mentioned villain) had dragged out, though God knows why anyone or anything would want to chew on a pair of unwashed knickers. ‘Had he seen them?’ I had no idea but I knew I had to take immediate action to prevent ex-communication and other unpleasant exclusory actions. He would think I had just thrown the offending items out of the window demonstrating a) I was a litterbug b) my moral standards were low c) I hadn’t done my washing. ‘Padre!’ I exclaimed, a little too enthusiastically, startling them both ‘Why don’t you come in for some tea! We’ve never had the chance to just sit and chat, you know, chat and things…’ I trailed off, darting a look at the bedraggled underwear lying on the ground. I grabbed him by the arm, yes perhaps a little too familiar for a man of the cloth, and guided him indoors before he could protest. Once indoors, I sprinted out and stuffed the knickers into my pocket making a mental note to remove them at the earliest opportunity and not to carry them round with me while I taught over the next few days thus setting up another situation where they could be produced with equal embarrassment and shame.

Cheap Thrill

2008-02-10T02:28:00.000-08:00

The other day I was asked by a local school to do some marketing for them so there I was with this list in front of me of local firms who might be interested in having English lessons. Boring of the task quickly, I reached firm #10 on the list and this man answered with the most delectable voice ever – velvety, caressing the air, rich, mellow, sensual and pleasure promising… and all in musical Italian. ‘Wow!’ I thought, suddenly awake. I quickly realised that his firm didn’t need English classes but how to keep him on the line and thus enjoy for a little longer that gorgeous voice? Banal and irrelevant questions spewed forth…. ‘So do you employ any of your family in your company?’ / ‘Do you get the chance to visit the beach in your lunch hour then?’ (I had no idea if they were situated along the coast or not) / ‘Has it been a good year for business so far…?’. At each question there was a slight pause before answering, though, God bless him, he did answer them all, probably thinking ‘What’s the matter with this woman?’. Finally I couldn’t think of any more questions so I just came out with it. ‘Can I tell you something? I think you have a lovely voice’. He laughed, a deep rich intense laugh – I had goose bumps and wondered suddenly if he had hairs on his chest. ‘Thank you’ he answered ‘You have a nice voice too’. Unsure what to say next, I said lamely ‘errr, well, if you ever need English lessons, you know where to find us!’. Ahhh, a pleasant lift to the morning. I think it was just one of those situations where you think afterwards, ‘I should have told him’ so I did. After this, I told all my girlfriends about it and they begged me for his number so that they could get a cheap thrill as well from it. No doubt his company have been receiving repeated ‘wrong numbers’ and women asking similarly irrelevant questions in the hope that this sexy-voiced hot blooded male will answer and brighten up their mornings too.

Amateur Dramatics

2008-01-27T12:35:00.000-08:00

Approaching a roundabout locally intending to straight ahead, I caught sight of a carabinieri (policeman) flapping around in the middle of the road. I swerved to avoid him and carried on wondering why one of the lanes had been blocked. Suddenly I heard a frantic whistling which momentarily reminded me of my grandfather’s erratic hearing aid years ago and glancing into my rearview mirror, caught sight of the policeman all but performing in a Covent Garden ballet. Gesticulating wildly, his arms were all over the place and his legs were quivering with barely contained rage. I wondered if he might be suffering an epileptic shock – a thought which (I am ashamed to admit) produced a sense of delight in me. Here, finally, would I be able to put into practice what I had learnt on those very interesting first aid courses over the years. Visions of wrestling my ‘victim’ into the recovery position, carrying out mouth to mouth resuscitation and checking professionally for a pulse swam dizzily before my eyes. The performance continued until he was stood next to my car. Yanking up my skirt and adjusting my top (well, it worked for my driving test!), I slowly wound down my window. I could see the poor man was both breathing and sweating heavily and I was on the brink of asking him if he was OK when he launched into a tirade of impolite questions. Virtually squealing, he voiced ‘And where do you think you were going?!!’ He repeated this twice, craning in towards me, his arms conducting an imaginary orchestra. I wondered what had got his goat that fine morning. ‘Don’t you know that road’s closed!!!’ he screamed, the tendons standing out on his neck. ‘Well…’ I attempted a reply ‘you allowed the car in front of me to pass without saying anything so I just did the same. Why was he allowed through?’ marvelling at my audacity in the presence of what was clearly a man on the edge, I waited for a reply. ‘He lives just down the road!’ he yelled ‘Oh, so that makes it alright then’ I thought but didn’t say. A sudden pang of homesickness welled up and I wished I could have been pulled over by a calm, professional and, more importantly, controlled policeman. He would have tapped politely on the window and then proceeded to ask perhaps a little hesitantly ‘Er, excuse me madam, but you do know that road is closed…?’ A jovial dialogue would have ensued with all parties remaining courteous and content at the outcome but no, I was stuck with this Italian histrionic, pompous carabinieri. . I longed to activate the ‘window up’ button thus trapping his head whilst gently exerting pressure on the accelerator but these things I know only happen in ones wildest fantasies. In this case, I think I was lucky because once he realised I was a foreigner, he made concessions and only flapped the one arm instead. Ultimately he waved me on my way down another road whilst prattling on about the importance of observing road signals and respecting the customs of other countries. Stiff upper lip? Knock it but I’d have that any day.