Safety First

Last night, Luca and I were on our way home from the bar when his mum called to say that his dad had been knocked off his motorbike and it didn’t seem serious but they were waiting for the ambulance to arrive. We took off – almost literally – and sped across the city to find his mum, two friends, and various passers-by crowded around the ambulance, and his dad strapped into a neck brace on a stretcher inside. I’m not good with emergency situations at the best of times and following the ambulance to pronto soccorso was pretty scary, but after a couple of hours waiting outside the hospital, we discovered that he had a simple knee injury and was just a little shocked. Whilst we were waiting, a number of other motorbike accident victims were brought in, each with their worried families in tow. I’m started to have a genuine fear of the traffic here in the city. It seems that everyone has something to say about the general lack of road safety, people’s apparent incapability to follow the rules and the poor lighting and maintenance of the street system. Just the other day, following heavy rain, a hole appeared in the road outside our apartment which was certainly deep enough to throw any motorcyclist doing more than about 50kms an hour off their bike. A passing police patrol car stopped to have a look, and after much shrugging of shoulders they placed a road cone small enough that you would need a microscope to see it next to the hole, and went on their way. Whilst hanging around the Emergency Department at the hospital, Luca picked up a newspaper carrying the headline “Road Safety: new law could increase number of victims”. The article talked about the fact that the government is proposing to decrease the amount of time a new driver has to wait before being allowed to drive cars over a certain number of cylinders – from three years to one. Given the number of accidents that already take place as a result of teenagers driving powerful vehicles at excessive speed, I hate to think of the consequences of providing them with an even earlier opportunity of killing themselves and others….
As Luca’s mum provided her witness statement to the police (needless to say the car which knocked his dad down sped off immediately and nobody on the scene managed to get a look at its number plate), she commented on the fact that, despite being one of the main roads leading into the city centre, with three lanes of constant traffic, it is one of the darkest streets in the city. The policeman’s response was to shrug his shoulders and “I know Signora – my colleague filed a report about this exact problem six months ago following another accident, and nothing’s been done yet”. If the new law allowing new drivers to get behind the wheel of increasingly-powerful vehicles comes into effect, I wonder where the extra insurance premiums will be directed….

Running on empty

It's fashion week. And what does that mean? Well, for many it obviously means lots of beautiful people meeting in over-priced, over-crowded venues to enjoy a free cucumber slice with their half a glass of post-catwalk mineral water... For me, however, it means traffic. Lots and lots of it. Take yesterday evening for example. My parents had just arrived so I skipped out of work early - at 6 o'clock - and jumped on the bus home, where I had to collect the car so that I could pick them up from their hotel. The distance from the office to my house is about 2 kms - 5 minutes by car or 15 minutes on the meandering bus. The traffic was already pretty awful, so the journey took half an hour. Hmph. Not good, but hey - now I get to jump in my warm, cosy car and in 10 minutes I'll be at my destination (Città Studi to Porta Venezia for those in the know - not exactly a million miles...). Except that when I get in the car, I find is has NO PETROL. I won't go into the anger and frustration that I felt towards my usually lovely BF at this point - suffice to say I was angry and frustrated. By this time it's 7 o'clock but no worries - the petrol stations around here are all open until 7:30. So I drive off with my fingers crossed and do a circuit of the one-way system, fighting my way through red lights and queues to get to the nearest one. CLOSED. How closed?? It's too early! OK don't panic - there's another station down the road and left a bit. So I get back in the traffic jam and head towards it. CLOSED - self service only. WHAT?? But it's only 7:15!!! No fair!! OK, so I can use the self service, right? Wrong! It only accepts 10 and 20 euro notes, and I only have a 50. Dammit! So I get on the phone to L, and he tells me where to go for another fuel station which DEFINITELY closes at 7:30. I switch the engine back on (slightly to my surprise) and drive off, repeating the mantra please don't break down please don't break down all the way. By this time the traffic is horrendous and it takes my a good 10 minutes to get 500m... but finally I see the petrol station looming in the distance, with the word APERTO (open) on the sign outside. Hurrah!!! I drive onto the forecourt triumphantly, only to notice that it's strangely quiet. And the door to the little hut is locked. And the pumps are switched off. NOOOOOOOOO!

My friends, it doesn't finish there.

OK, so it is now 7:25. I am not going to find a petrol station that is open for service - I am going to have to do it myself. I need to change my 50. Right, so in this street there are no shops or bars as it's completely residential, and even if there were, they'd pretty much all be closed at this time. I do however know of a cash point in the next street. I'm going to have to go and draw out 20 euros, then go back to the previous station and fill up myself. So I drive (well, actually I stick the car in neutral and coast) to the corner, dump the car in the middle of the road with the hazard warning lights on (as one does in these parts) and head for the bancomat. I am absolutely not kidding - FUORI SERVIZIO (out of order). By this point I am practically crying and have totally run out of solutions, so I think "F*ck it, I'm just going to continue to my parents' hotel, and hope that if I break down, it'll be after I pick them up so that they can at least provide moral support!" Mean but true. Amazingly I get there, collect them and start heading for Luca's bar, and about 200 metres from their hotel we find a damn petrol station, and my dad gives me a 20 euro note for the self-service machine (am loving the strong, independant woman lifestyle...). We then sit in traffic for the following 40 MINUTES as we attempt to make our way the short distance to the bar, where Luca and his family are waiting for us to join them for dinner. Yes folks, for me Fashion Week is no more than a pain the the (scrawny) butt.... Tonight we have a table booked at 9 o'clock. I'm leaving the office at 5:30.

Why??

I've been giving some thought to the types of blogs and bloggers out there in expat blog land. There seem to be those who recount their lives to entertain, those who use their blogs as some sort of cathartic outlet for the ups and downs of 'la bella vita' and those who have some sort of hidden motive which determines the content and style in which they 'publicise' places and situations. This post definitely does not fall into the latter of these categories, so if you are of a sensitive nature, or are one of those tireless 'bel paese' advocates, by all means stop here and go drink a nice glass of Chianti on your terrace. Otherwise, pour yourself an extra large glass and read on. It's been one of those Mondays; I promise I will be nicer in future....

1. Why is it that people insist on taking up the entire aisle in the supermarket, refusing to move, no matter how much effort I make to get by. Yet, if I leave my trolley unattended for more than half a second, somebody will start huffing and puffing and complaining about 'these people who have no respect'.....?

2. Why is the bank open for about 2 minutes per day and closed at lunchtime and on Saturdays – the only time that us poor workers can actually get there. Why do I then have to queue for 40 minutes to pay MY cash into MY bank account, and then pay 2 euros for the 'service' (otherwise known as the air-you-breathe fee)....?

3. Why when I run out of bus tickets, why do I have to trek 300 metres to the nearest tabacchi, despite the fact that the bus stop is outside my house, only to find that it is closed / has run out of tickets / only sells them every third Tuesday, if there's a full moon and a 'z' in the month....?
The same goes for scratch-and-park tickets.....

4. Why do I have to watch naked women posing for raunchy calendars EVERY DAY on the national lunchtime news....?

5. Why does everyone seem to think that they own the roads, in spite of having no idea as to how they are intended to be used? The concept of lanes appears not to have reached these shores....

I could go on but I shall stop here as I am starting to annoy myself. Why??

Everyone's an expert...

It's Friday afternoon in the office, and everyone is in full brain-storming mode. Ideas are thrown around, methods discussed and timescales defined. The conclusion? Giant prawns gently fried in white wine and lemon juice. Yes folks, the comunal brainstorm was the result of my simple request for ideas as to what to cook for dinner.
Italians are well known for being serious foodies, yet it never fails to amaze me just how damn expert they all are when it comes to cooking, regardless of age, gender or background. One of the major contributors to the discussion is the type of young guy you see hanging out in the coolest clubs on a Saturday night, D&G sunglasses surgically attached to his head, Negroni in hand - yet you wouldn't believe the way his eyes lit up as he described the perfect way to get the best flavour out of your scampi. "Oh, and don't forget the fresh parsley!!"Damn experts they might be, but what would we do without them?!

Fight! Fight! Fight!

I am often to be found ‘hanging out’ at the bar that Luca runs with his family in the city centre. I tend to go a couple of times after work during the week, and during busy times will occupy myself by working on my laptop, catching up on emails or updating my blog. This is what I am doing right now in fact, interspersed with the odd cigarette break or chat with the locals. About two metres to my right, seated outside is a couple who are fighting like cat and dog. I can hear them through the glass and it’s getting more and more violent by the second. They’re both wearing wedding rings so I – perhaps foolishly – assumed that they were having a husband / wife disagreement. When I heard “your wife gets everything and I get nothing”, I started listening in. “You stand up for her and you never stand up for me!” “She gets the best of you and I get the leftovers!” “You never acknowledge me in public!” and so on and so forth. It’s been about half an hour now and they show no sign of letting up. This is another curious cultural oddity which I noticed fairly on in my Italian experience when, aged 16 on holiday with my parents, my dad and I began having what my mum would call a “heated debate” in the middle of an outdoor cafè (I think my skirt was too short or something!). Part of the way through I realised that no one was taking any notice as most of the people around us were making more noise than we were, whether they were arguing or not. It was then that I realised if you want to get ahead in this country, you need to make our voice heard. Whether it’s yelling out “I’m next!” when the lady at the fish counter stops taking notice of the numbered tickets and starts serving her next-door-neighbour before you, or simply getting your point across in any discussion regarding politics, football, food, religion - well anything really - in Italy you must raise your voice; the louder the better….

Miss Communication

At brunch last weekend, my girlfriends and I were at the till waiting to pay when I became aware of a certain amount of huffing and puffing from the girl behind us. It soon became clear that she was bitching about us as, in the chaos and confusion of the place, we appeared to have jumped the queue – completely innocently I might add. She was moaning to her friend (in Italian) that “these foreigners have no manners….” “They think that they can do what they like just because they’re American…” (I’m not American FYI). “Just because I’m Italian doesn’t mean I don’t understand what they’re saying…” (We hadn’t said a word about them). Needless to say, I waited for the perfect moment, and much to the amusement of my friends, turned around and said, very abruptly, in Italian “Did we jump the queue by any chance??”. “No no, it’s fine”, spits back the girl. It blatantly wasn’t fine, but I certainly enjoyed the moment.
This reminds me of when I was a student in Siena, and one day whilst walking through the town, a group of teenage boys directly behind me started making comments amongst themselves, in Italian about the “bella biondina straniera” ( I was ten kilos lighter and seven years younger, you understand). Again I gave them a chance to say all that they needed to (some of it was really quite rude!), before spinning around and yelling at them in my then broken Italian: “Don’t think I don’t understand what you’re saying!!”. I remember them looking a bit shocked, but not much else as I turned on my heels and sped off, slightly embarrassed at the outburst, particularly since I was still finding my feet linguistically. Should something like that happen now, I would probably hang around, but then again that’s what ten kilos and seven years of experience does for you....

Aperitivo time

One of the great things about Milan is the aperitivo. From around 6pm to 9pm every evening throughout the city, almost every locale, from Joe's Cafe to the Armani Bar lays out a spread of anything from peanuts and crisps to plates of pasta and rice, pizza, salad, and roast chicken. Depending on where you go it can be a real feast, as long as you are willing to pay the 6 to 8 euros per drink in order to enjoy the all-you-can-eat buffet.
What really interests me about the aperitivo however, is the cultural take on it, and the way in which different personalities and backgrounds seem to shine through. When faced with a spread of free food, your average Italian will dive straight in, automatically reaching for the long toothpick with which to spear the various goodies lined up on the counter. We Brits are more reserved. I have actually seen a group of English tourists form a queue at the start of the buffet, plastic plate in hand, only to be stampeded by the passing locals. I remember when I was fairly new to Milan and my friends took me for an aperitivo in a trendy bar in the city centre. The fried olives were proving tricky to spear with the long toothpick, and following various attempts, involving chasing a damn olive around the dish to no avail, I finally picked it up with my fingers, and dropped it on my plate guiltily. I looked up to find one of my friends grinning from ear to ear. "You managed to catch it then?!".
I've decided that the best philosophy when it comes to l'ora dell'aperitivo is 'elbows at the ready', and if all else fails, just pick the stuff up with your fingers - chances are everyone else is too busy digging in themselves to notice....