Back to my (our) roots

They say that as you get older, you tend to search more and more for your roots and go back to what you know. Whilst it's true that, as a mum to a three year-old, my dancing-on-tables-in-dodgy-nightclub days appear to be all but over (never say never!), at 34 I don't yet consider myself totally past it. I do nonetheless find myself increasingly drawn to all things English, little reminders of my childhood, and I feel an increasing need to keep in touch and stay up to date with current affairs in the UK. Much more so than ever before in the 10 years that I have lived full-time in Italy. Perhaps it's because I'm aware that my child is growing up in a country which is very different from my country of origin, and as such her only (invisible) link with British culture and history is, well, me. Before Sophie was born, I was quite happy to immerse myself 100% in Italian life, watch the local news, eat classic Mediterranean dishes, and speak only Italian at all times. It felt like some sort of personal achievement - a lifelong goal to make my way in the world in a language and culture which I had learned from scratch and about which I knew nothing prior to my 16th birthday. Now that I have Sophie and have been here long enough for the place to no longer feel even slightly "foreign", it's like I am trying to go back on myself and regain some of that lost ground. Back in the day, being able to hold my own at the butchers or make a phone call to the gas company gave me a sense of satisfaction - a sort of "aren't I clever" reaction, which has now been replaced by the desire to ensure that Sophie knows the names of the things on our shopping list in both languages, and doesn’t forget that while things might be done a certain way in Italy, they are done a different way in the UK. I have become almost fanatical about her bilingualism, to the point where, despite having been born here and going to an Italian nursery every day, her English is now way ahead of her Italian (#smugmummy)… This summer didn’t involve the classic family holiday to foreign climes, as Luca had to keep the restaurant open and I needed to make up time at the office. As a result, Sophie spent most of August with her English grandparents, some time in the UK and some time at the beach here in Italy for the few days that we did all manage to get away together. She ate Cornish pasties on a chilly town quay surrounded by seagulls, had gelato at midnight in a balmy piazza, watched The Sound of Music approximately 10 times while the rain beat at the windows, and played happily on the beach, chatting incessantly with the other Italian children at the Mini Club. That’s the thing about having two cultures and two languages to call your own – it’s easy to fall into the classic “no man’s land” expat syndrome, where your home country feels increasingly “foreign” and your adoptive country will always see you to some extent as an outsider. What I truly hope for Sophie is that, having both Italian and English blood, being completely bilingual, and living as much of both cultures as possible, she will grow up safe in the knowledge that her roots are firmly planted in both places and that she can choose between pasties or pasta, fish and chips or gelato, rock pools or swaying palms – and none of it will feel even slightly “foreign”...

A heavy heart

My recent absence from the blogging scene can be explained by the picture. I can barely describe the heart-in-the-boots feeling which came over me as the plane hit the tarmac at Malpensa airport, and which I haven't yet been able to shake off in the two days that I have been back in the office... Having lived in Sardinia for 3 years, whenever I go back I feel like I am going home. The return to Milan makes me feel like a prisoner being sent back to the slammer after a week of parole.

Something needs to change.

A refreshing change

Despite having lived in Milan for over two years now, I had never made it into the mountains and so, being in need of a little (or a lot) of TLC, we booked Easter weekend at the Terme delle Dolomiti, which is a health spa built on a natural spring – the highest in Italy. We set off late afternoon on Saturday (Luca had to work until 5 – grrrrr) and by 10:30pm we were there (including 3 stops, one of which involved a failed attempt to fit the tangled mass of snow chains to the car…)
The village we had chosen to stay in is called Pàdola, situated at 1300m in the Val Comelico – one of the highest points of the Veneto region, and not that far from the Austrian border. A real picture-postcard place, blighted only by the low cloud which covered what would otherwise have been spectacular views of the mountains. Mountain people are very different from the Milanesi, as far as I could gather. In the mountains, people will stop and offer assistance if they see you in difficulty – for example the elderly man who insisted on helping us with our snow chains even though it was 10 o’clock on a Saturday night on an icy mountain road in -8 degrees, and who then insisted on leading us down to the nearest village even though he was going in the other direction. Also, they eat a lot of pork – ham, salami, sausages, chops, smoked, un-smoked, cured, boiled – you name it, they eat it. They also tend to combine these many pork variations with onions, cabbage and pickles, the likes of which I have never seen in Italy before (good though!). The spa itself was great with just one drawback – the number of children, and their combined effort at turning the place into something that resembled Naples’ piscina comunale. At one point, I was lying in the outdoor hydro-massage tub, with snow coming down on my head, drifting into some sort of trance, when a fat 10 year-old boy decided to belly-flop into the pool right next to me, screaming like a banshee as he did so. That was the last straw – I pulled on my towelling robe, and made my way passed all of the “Silence”, “Please respect the relaxed atmosphere”, “Please ensure that children behave appropriately at all times” signs displayed on every wall. I mentioned to the receptionist that it was getting chaotic and she sent one of the massage therapists to ‘have a word’ with the parents. “Unfortunately we can’t prevent children from coming here” she said, “No?” was my reply, “I would!”. She looked a bit taken aback. I have nothing against children, but I would say that a health spa is exactly the sort of place where “No children” is a good idea – in the UK, under 16s are often excluded from these places. Italy is very child-orientated, and the little darlings are generally allowed run wild in bars, restaurants and shopping centres – so is it too much to ask that we have one place just for us? In any case, 10 year-olds don’t need health spas – it’s us 50-hour-a-week workers that really need the place!
Having left Pàdola on the Monday morning, we drove down the mountain towards Belluno, passing through a village called Domeggè, where we stumbled upon a medieval-style enoteca, a sort of wine cellar place with all kinds of local products – cheese, meat, patès etc – each prepared in the form of a bruschetta (on toasted bread), with a variety of sauces, salsas and pickles. Our intention was to drink a glass of wine and try a couple of bruschettas before going on our way. We ended up drinking three glasses, and eating 10 different types of bruschetta, followed by an enormous sausage and onion sandwich. Needless to say, our next stop was the river just below the village, where we slept it off before continuing on our journey!
A few hours later, we were stuck in traffic, travelling at the speed of (to quote the legendary Blackadder) “an asthmatic ant with some heavy shopping”. Having got as far as Peschiera on Lake Garda, we decided to cut our losses and hang out there for at least a couple of hours, while the traffic calmed down. Good decision. I’ve been to most places on Lake Garda before, but this was my first time in Peschiera. Despite the ubiquitous presence of the day-tripping builders from Brescia which is seems to be a feature of all of the resorts on Lake Garda, I really liked it. As the crowds moved off, we settled into a fantastic restaurant on the waterfront – the Bella Vista. OK, so the name is a bit cliché but we ended up eating the best Spaghetti allo Scoglio (seafood spaghetti) of our lives. Luca, being Sicilian, is both a food expert and very hard to please, so it must have been good!
We returned to Milan later that evening, feeling relaxed and content at our brief but very much needed weekend away. The following morning I got to my car to find that someone had stolen a wheel. We are now looking for a place outside the city…