Justice??

Yesterday we got back from a lovely four-day visit to the UK where we spent Christmas (minus 1 suitcase, thanks very much British Airways) in the old-fashioned way: too much food, too much alcohol and far too much monopoly… It was great to be ‘home’ (although home is very much here) but after four days Luca was starting to tear his hair out just a little so we were pleased to head back. There’s nothing quite like sleeping in your own bed, cooking in your own kitchen and staying in the shower for as long as you like without somebody complaining about the water bill!! Ah, you’ve gotta love ‘em…
Anyway, this post is not about the fun and festivities of the past few days. It is about a far less pleasant experience which started the night before we left and will be ongoing for a while….
It was 18:30 in the evening and the snow had just turned to rain. The roads were icy and so, since I have winter tyres on my car and Luca doesn’t, we decided that I would take him to work and pick him up. As we were leaving the apartment, it started to rain quite heavily so Luca ran towards my car to get the umbrella and bring it back to me. His car was parked on the road just 10 metres or so away. All of a sudden we heard a screech of tyres, followed by a loud crash and as I picked up the pace to reach the road I heard the roar of an engine followed by Luca’s voice yelling “Ferma! Ferma! Stop! Stop!”. The next thing I saw was BMW X3 sliding from one side of the road to the other in an attempt to regain control, before speeding off and out of sight as Luca chased after him, running up the street screaming the registration number to me. Shaking like a leaf I managed (somehow) to get it in my phone, sending it in a panic to a confused K, before realizing the extent of the damage to Luca’s car. Basically the crazed lunatic in the BMW had taken the corner at high speed on the icy road and smashed straight into the side of Luca’s parked car, pushing it against the wall and into a lamppost. We immediately called the police and were told that they couldn’t do anything unless someone was injured (fortunately no one was, but had Luca been going towards his car rather than mine I dread to think…) and that we would just have to contact the insurers. The next morning as we left for England, Luca’s brother got in touch and they told us to come in and file a report as soon as we returned. We did, and they managed to trace the details of the car’s owner, which we then took to the police and they called the guy into the station. I was left waiting while the scarier than scary maresciallo took him and Luca into a room. I didn’t want us to have any immediate contact with the guy – after all who knows what someone who’s capable of leaving the scene of an accident like he did is also capable of doing… It turns out that the guy denied having caused the damage, having already filed a report with his insurers saying that the same night he had FOUND his own car parked with damage to it, so now we have to go to court. We have witnesses so the guy is in BIG TROUBLE and there’s no doubt that we’ll win but, being in Italy, it’s likely to take a long time and be a great expense. Tonight we have to go back to the police station with the other witness to make the official statements. And so the bella vita in the bel paese continues….

It's my blog and I'll RANT if I want to!

As I pulled onto the A7 motorway this morning on my way to work, the car infront of me decided he'd had enough of his lane and preferred to be in mine, even though mine was already occupied - by me. So, with no checking of mirrors or indication of any sort, he was suddenly on top of me, causing me to take evasive action and almost swerve into another vehicle in the process. Hand on horn, I flash my lights to make him aware of my presence (and, let's be honest, my wrath), to which he replies by doing what? Well, firstly the finger - not pleasant but not exactly a rarity on Milan's roads - but then a rather nasty "hand to mouth" gesture which had me retalliating with the (not very well understood) wave of the little finger, at which point he began thumping his own window (just to prove the intelligence level, or lack thereof), using just about every gesture that exists in the Italian (body) language. I mean, seriously? At 8:30 in the morning? Just how many illegal substances does a person have to consume in order to behave like that towards a complete stranger whose life THEY have just endangered. Ma che vadano a fare in culo tutti quanti!!!!!
Normal service will resume shortly.

Sur le pont...

Despite the many everyday situations I encounter here in Italy that I claim I will ‘never get used to’, it occurred to me during this weekend in France that I no longer consider myself to be a foreigner here in Italy, and haven’t done for a while. Maybe you need to take a step back from the place you call home to realize just what it is that makes it so. Given that I now travel very rarely (work commitments being a big issue for both Luca and myself), it’s not often that I get the opportunity to take in the sights and sounds of other cultures. I don’t count going home to mum and dad’s in the UK for Christmas as it’s a bit like going to EuroDisney and claiming to have visited Paris, if you know what I mean…..
I guess I’m a homey person – I like my creature comforts, am not a fan of change, and like to be in familiar surroundings, so within half an hour of crossing the border I had already driven Luca crazy with my desperate attempts to squeeze the last of the crackly signal out of Radio Deejay, and was desperate for a cappuccino (even though I hadn’t had one for about a week in any case). Every time we chanced upon a familiar brand, I found myself saying “Ah look, there’s a Castorama / Cèlio / Zara / Trony… Just like at home!!” Most of these are probably French imports, but it made me strangely enthusiastic to chance upon places I would normally associate with Italy. Sad but true. I also made the following observations about France / the French (or at least those that reside in the Avignon area):

1. French food is elaborate, rich and complicated. All the things that don’t appeal to an Italian palate, as Luca reminded me every time we picked up a menu. Roast guinea-fowl in a cumin and cream sauce, accompanied by over-cooked spaghetti (on the same plate shock horror!!), and capsicum pepper stuffed with blue cheese, vine leaves, olives, cucumber and Moroccan spices. A nightmare for your average Italian, a stomach ache even for me…

2. The French (contrary to what I had heard) are very civilized drivers. OK, let’s not exaggerate. Maybe the French from Provence are extremely civilized drivers when compare to the Milanesi. In any case, in around 400 kilometres of French motorway, not one single car came roaring up behind me to a distance of 1.5 metres, flashing their headlights to get me to move out of the way. It took all of 2 kms over the border at Ventimiglia for the first Italian ‘testa di cazzo’ to pull this exact trick, which is something I have to tolerate on a daily basis. And I don’t even stick to the speed limit myself. Thinking about it, everyone in France seemed to drive at or under the speed limit, even on the motorway. We didn’t see a single crazy person going at 180, and I see at least 2 or 3 per day on the A7 to Milan.

3. There is nothing like the bar / cafè culture that I expected. I know we’re spoilt here with a cafè on every corner, including on a Sunday, but I was quite shocked that we ended up walking around for over an hour on Sunday morning looking for a place to get a coffee and a croissant. Maybe it’s just Avignon that falls short…boh….

4. The dress code is distinctly “I don’t think we’re in Milano anymore, Toto”. Kaftans, ponchos, ankle-length skirts coupled with flat open-toed sandals, bright-coloured jumpers, different materials thrown together, enormous fabric bags and lots of bandanas. I’m sure Parisians don’t dress like this, but I wonder if it’s just an Avignon thing, or if lots of provincial French towns are like this. Maybe I have a warped view of elegant / scruffy from years of feeling like an outcast for forgetting to put in my diamond earrings to go for milk on a Sunday morning….

5. Local councils and governing bodies in general seem to have their shit together waaaaaaaaay more than their Italian counterparts. I was shocked by the amount of cared-for communal areas, well-kept grass verges and vegetation along the roads, working fountains with no graffiti, flat pavements with no enormous holes waiting to swallow you up, and – best of all – constant, reliable signposting!

All in all I thought Avignon was absolutely beautiful. I didn’t expect the North African influences that seem to abound, and the vast array of architectural styles that all seem to merge into one. Nor did I expect such a huge selection of restaurants of every nationality and style – it reminded me of Barcelona. Most of these things came as a surprise because Avignon is twinned with my home town of Colchester, whose architectural delights and abundance of good quality restaurants are sadly lacking. I expect twinning is based on population….
My quasi-homesickness for Italy was, strangely enough, echoed by Luca on the way back. Being an absolute typical Sicilian (stubborn, hard-headed, suspicious of all that is not familiar especially with regard to food and drink), 2 days of creamy sauces, bad coffee (he’s also in the bar / restaurant business), and my mother chatting in his ear nineteen to the dozen in a language that he struggles to comprehend, all had him chomping at the bit to get back to safe ground. As we crossed the border back into the bel paese, he breathed a sigh of relief and virtually demanded that we stop at the first Autogrill for ‘a decent cup of coffee’. My protests that decent coffee doesn’t exist in the Autogrill even if we are in Italy were met with a grunt. I was just pleased to be able to communicate with the barista without being met with a confused expression and a look which said “ ah the poor foreign girl - can’t even order a cafè au lait without getting into difficulty”. Upon reaching the bar, the girl serving took one look at me (blond, fair skin, blue eyes…) and did the usual: “Yes?” “Due caffè di cui uno ristretto grazie” I replied. “Ah, sorry, I thought you were foreign” was her response. Nope, I’m home.