Is this rosso?

Now, I have a hair drama. Remember my last time in Rome and the wonderful Manolo? That Italian hairdresser knew how to cut and colour. But, quelle horror, the salon he worked in has moved to Trastavere and they’ve taken my Manolo with them. I have tried to find the salon but no luck so far. So I decided to go into the same salon where Manolo used to be and see what they could do.

Fortunately, the receptionist spoke enough English for me to explain what colour I wanted and how to cut my hair. I have very fine, straight hair and if it’s cut too short at the crown, I end up with a cockatoo crest. She confidently enthused that most Italians speak English – oh yeah? I seem to be running into all the ones that don’t. Including Salvatore, the new Italian hairdresser. I’ll give him credit though – he can cut very well.

But….I explained the colour I wanted by saying rosso (or red in Italian) and pointing to the colour on the colour chart they shoved under my nose. The colour I chose was RED. Let me repeat that: RED. So I’m not quite sure what happened. But I’ve ended up darkish brown with fawn highlights.

I have always had red hair except for a brief stint in my stupid 20s as a blonde. My natural colour, way back as a teenager, was a reddish coppery blonde. Guess you’d call it strawberry blonde.  I’ll dig out a photo to prove it. I have never been brown or dark brown. I mean, you may as well be BEIGE and DEAD BORING.

Before the colour was revealed, the most hilarious thing happened. Salvatore proceeded to the highlights. Along came this elegant older woman; I’d say she was in her 60s. Reed thin. High heels clinking on the marble tiles. Tiffany silver heart bracelet. Jet black hair. She couldn’t speak a word of English despite the receptionist espousing that most Italians speak English.

She then whipped out this cap thing. The sort I haven’t seen in Australian or New Zealand hairdressing salons since the 1920s. Well, the 1990s maybe. You remember ladies? The rubber cap they plonked on your head and practically pulled over your eyes. Then the hairdresser started what they secretly wanted to do all along – torture you – by pulling your hair strands out through the holes in the cap and making your eyes water when they reached the hairline. Back then, I think highlights were called streaks.

So the reed thin Italian lady roughly plonks the cap on and pulls it down. Then….and I’ve NEVER seen this done…turned the top rim up and stapled it to the cap. Followed by – getting a blue ribbon, stapling it to one side of the cap, pulling it under my chin, and then stapling it to the other side. Don’t believe me? Here’s the evidence.

Well, sort of. I was dead scared of reed thin woman so had to secretly take a photo. You can’t see the blue ribbon under the chin, stapled onto the cap. Talk about giving me a chin lift! And what’s with that creepy star fish mirror thing they have going on?

By the time you see me here with the dreaded cap on and looking like I’m wearing fern fronds on my head – we are at the 3 hour mark. Yes, THREE hours. Salvatore worked slowly. The hair washing chic worked slowly. Oh and I had my hair washed THREE times, slowly.

When they revealed the finished product, I nearly died. Dead boring brown. And where are the highlights? Reed thin woman declared it to be Bellissima and was clearly waffling on about how the colour suited my skin. I thought I looked like something out of the Vampire Diaries because the dull colour just drained me. No warmth.

Salvatore then took his time to blow dry and by the time I made it to the reception desk to cough up Euro 127.00, I had been in there for nearly four hours. Oh and Euro 127.00 was the 50% off price! I nearly choked but revived myself when I saw reed thin woman making a bee line for me with a huge fluffy brush.

Without asking, she grabs my face and proceeds to plaster it with powder, followed by bronzer and lip gloss. True to say, dear reader, what with washing my hair THREE times, they had practically washed off my makeup. But talk about in my face. She then launches at me and gives me the Italian hello and goodbye thing- kiss, kiss on each cheek. I backed out graciously and proceeded to have a meltdown outside.

I now feel devoid of personality. I mean my hair colour has always sort of defined me. The receptionist said that reed thin woman owns the salon and considered that I had WAY too many highlights in my hair. And that now I look more like a sophisticated Italian lady. Bollocks. It’s plain dead boring.

My mission (and I choose to accept it!) is to hunt down Manolo. Then drop at his feet and beg him to fix this boring bloody brown business.

Rosso? I DON’T THINK SO!

 

I knew it!

I was saying the other day that I have a deep suspicion that many Italians can speak more English than they are letting on. And now I have solid evidence.

Last week, I fell over on my ankle quite badly. I was wearing shoes with a very tiny heel. Being a super klutz at the best of times, I never wear high heels. I saw an Italian woman the other day sporting sky high stilettos and she was gliding over the cobblestones. Not teetering. Literally gliding. How do these Italian ladies do this I ask?

I was merely walking around a corner and my oh-so-tiny heel went into a crevice in the uneven cobblestones. Over I went. In front of some Italians walking towards me. How embarrassing. One of them did rush over and mutter something in Italian. Probably something like foreign klutz, are you okay?

In the face of such humiliation, I got up quickly and dusted myself off whilst internally raging at the chaos and dangers of Rome’s cobblestoned streets. My right ankle, which took the brunt of the fall, seemed fine at first. But by night-time, you guessed it – swelling and painful throbbing. I decided to ignore it and hobbled off to work the next day. That was dumb-ass because my poor ankle wasn’t getting any better.

Over the weekend at the casale, I had my foot propped up on a chair and I spent Monday of this week working from the apartment. I decided the ankle needed as much rest as possible. I did hobble out to a farmacia (or pharmacy) in Testaccio and decided that I would attempt to get some anti-inflammatory cream. But how to describe what happened in Italian? Or how to describe that the ankle hurt?

I fronted up to the counter and asked parla Inglese? (you must be sooooooo impressed with my Italian dear reader!). He shook his head. So I proceeded with my charade of showing him what happened. I pointed to the street outside; muttered Splat; pointed to by ankle; and made a sad face. The pharmacist nodded and said ah si, capisco, then trotted off to a drawer and searched for a specific gel.

He brought it to the cash register and rattled off some Italian. No idea what he said. Then I heard sette, which I know is seven and so I coughed up seven Euros. As I was leaving, the pharmacist said IN ENGLISH: don’t forget to rub it in and use three times a day.

Without blinking an eye, I said grazie and exited. I can draw one of two conclusions. Either the pharmacist is some sort of Einstein and drew down from the Universe the How to Learn Fluent English In Less Than Five Minutes manual. Or…..he can speak English but declined not to at first. I’m going for the latter.

At least he prescribed a gel that has significantly reduced my puffy fat ankle. It’s more of a slightly fat ankle now.

 

The Ferragamo

I am SERIOUSLY miffed dear reader. And it’s all to do with my beloved Ferragamo handbag. When I was working at an international organisation and flying all around the world for meetings, I was earning a pretty decent salary. I was young and stupid back then, so I admit I bought THE BRANDS.

I still have my Louis Vuitton Speedy that cost the budget of a developing country in Africa. I bought this about 12 years ago and was well-known for carrying it around all the time at a certain organisation I worked in. I have a number of Longchamp handbags. And I have my most favoured of bags: the Ferragamo (as I refer to it).

I remember buying this duty-free as I was rushing through London’s Heathrow airport. I must have been on the way back to Australia from some global meeting and I remember falling in love with its elegant simple look. I don’t remember how much it cost in British pounds but, back then, I didn’t care. It was all about the brands for me. I’m pretty sure this was in 1999 but might have been 2000. Either way, it’s over 10 years old now. Does this make it a vintage Ferragamo?

It has been everywhere with me. It was repaired in Bangkok late last year whilst I was visiting Lalida and her family. The inner lining had torn so she had someone fix it for me. It’s been to South Africa; Brazil; Nicaragua; Malaysia; Portugal; Namibia. I’ve lost count of the countries this little Ferragamo has visited. I must compile a list and send off to see if my little black bag can be awarded a Guinness World Record for Most Travelled Ferragamo.

It’s now with me here in Rome. It’s small enough not to attract the attention of cunning pickpockets and has a very handy secret compartment in it. I can sling it over my shoulder and across the chest easily. It’s large enough to include the daily essentials. Despite being over 10 years old and putting up with a lot of wear and tear, it’s still looking pretty good. That’s always been my attitude – you buy quality (and it may cost a small fortune) but you can enjoy it for years to come. You buy cheap crap, you’ll be lucky if it sees you through one season.

On my way to Rome, I stopped in Dubai for four hours and took a stroll through their Duty Free. I did try to stay out of Duty Free and I ended up not spending anything. Miracle. As I was exercising the jet lagged legs, I spotted the Ferragamo boutique and saw a GAW-JUS bag from the latest collection. Orange. THE fashion trend colour for Spring/Summer 2012. The price amounted to around NZ $700.00. Gulp.

Thirty seconds of frenzied thinking: Why not splurge? No, don’t splurge: you’re being frugal and you have some great handbags. Why do you need more? What would you do with an orange Ferragamo on an New Zealand farm anyway? Put hay in it to feed the horses? Remember your commitment to being more frugal – I kept telling myself this.

As I was lusting after this orange number, the dolly bird sales assistant teetered over. I asked her whether it came in red because orange isn’t my favourite of colours. A crisp no, it only comes in this colour and cream was the response. I then decided to show her my little Ferragamo and ask if they still sold this design.

She positively dripped with disdain as she eyeballed it. With upraised eyebrows and a curl of the upper lip she sniggered: we don’t make THAT type of bag anymore. With emphasis on THAT. What the? I have a Made in Italy Ferragamo dolly bird sales assistant, not some cheap vinyl bag made in China!

I was speechless; without speech to paraphrase Elaine from some Seinfeld episode. Did she think that because my Ferragamo is at least 10 years old that it wasn’t worthy anymore? Wasn’t THE latest trendy handbag? Wasn’t vibrant on-trend orange but plain old, practical black? I hastily backed out of the boutique and announced that orange is too bold for my liking (or something like that).

Since arriving in Rome, I have noticed some Italian women looking at my little Ferragamo. Are they too sniggering: that bag is SO ten years ago, poor dear obviously can’t afford to update her handbag wardrobe.

Well, you know what dear reader: the whole incident has endeared me even more to my little black bag. Ten years from now, orange will be SO 2012, whereas my Ferragamo is timeless. Just like Audrey Hepburn.

My beloved Ferragamo.

 

I can actually fit a lot more in here but try to keep things minimal.

The signature gold detailing on this bag is a little worse for wear.

 

When in Rome

Things have not quite gone according to my master plan during the first few days in Rome. Firstly, I seem to be staying at the wrong hotel. I thought I was staying at a certain hotel just behind and up the hill from the apartment I rented last year. I became a tad suspicious when the Emirates driver started getting lost in the little back streets on the hill. I thought he was muttering tutti, tutti as he waved his hands around. No idea. But he seemed annoyed that I didn’t know exactly where the hotel was and all I could do (not speaking Italian) was tell him: “sinistra, up the hill”.

We finally arrived at the hotel through a process of elimination. Visiting every hotel up the hill until we found the right one, which seemed to have a different name from the one on the confirmation email I had printed out. This email had the hotel address and the driver had this too – yet we still drove around in circles. The hotel is very quaint but the problem is it’s super-expensive.

Now, you’re probably thinking – duh, you knew you were going to Rome, why not rent an apartment or find a cheaper hotel? Good idea, dear reader. But the problem was that the exact date of my flight and the amount of time I’d be spending in Rome wasn’t known until literally the last minute. So I wasn’t able to tell a potential landlord when I’d be arriving or how long I’d be staying in Rome. So that was the beginning of my sojourn here.

The last few days I’ve been battling with the Italians. Down the hill (as opposed to up the hill) is a coffee shop I used to haunt along with several restaurants. Last year, hardly anyone in these establishments could utter a word of English. Yet, miraculously they now seem to speak fluent English. All in the space of six months since my last visit. This is the mystery of the Italians – once they start to recognise or get to know you, they thaw out a bit. You just don’t get the friendliness of Australians or New Zealanders when you first deal with Romans.

And then there’s the friggin’ bloody cobblestones. If there’s a way for the heel of my shoe to get stuck in between these pointy little bastards, it will happen, and usually just as I’m flinging myself across a busy road (to avoid getting run over by the mad Italian drivers). I simply have not mastered walking like the Italian women do – they seem to glide across the cobblestones. Of course, the fact that I’m a klutz immediately attracts attention and I can almost hear the Italians thinking: obviously a foreigner who can’t handle our streets. Yeah, well that’s also because every street here seems to have some gaping pothole or open drain you run the risk of disappearing down.

Then we have the curious issue of the Italian men. Well, younger men. They seem to have immaculately groomed brows that have certainly be plucked and shaped. I can’t help but notice this on the packed trains as I (usually) stand squished up against fellow travellers on their way to work.

My second time working in Italy is easier. I’ve picked up a bit of Italian and can understand it a little bit more. People at work are doing a double-take because they recognise me and now stop to talk. I’m learning to deal with what appears to be the arrogance of the Romans. I just keep smiling and yapping away in English – I find this miraculously gets them to utter a few words in English. I’ve also discovered it’s best not to buy things early in the week using a Euro 50.00 note – because shop owners don’t like having to dole out change. Possibly they are just torturing the foreigner but colleagues at work tell me this is the norm at the start of a week.

My major lesson is: be as brash and confident as the Italians. But no matter what they fling at me or how much I whinge: my love affair with Italy and Rome continues on.

Dodgy iPhone shot but you can see how packed the early morning trains are.

The traffic lights had just turned green and the traffic was whizzing by. Fortunately, I had just teetered across the cobblestone part of the street to the other side – and so avoided being made into a road pizza!

 

Sights and smells

There’s a Little India in most large cities of this amazing planet of ours. But the one in Kuala Lumpur I really like. I was in Malaysia October 2011 running some workshops and staying in Petaling Jaya. A short taxi ride away is Little India (officially called Little India Brickfields) and it’s located on Jalan Tunku Abdul Rahman. It’s not the biggest Little India in the world but is an explosion of colours, full of tantalizing shops and the tempting aroma of Indian spices and curries.

I bought a couple of Indian tops for around NZ$50.00 (must show you a photo) and thought for a moment about buying a stunning sari. But sense got hold of me – I mean there’s just no call for wearing an Indian sari on an NZ farm.

Many of the shops boast Colonial architecture and the nearby Indian mosque is simply stunning. Fragrant floral garlands adorn shop entrances and you can get a very cheap and tasty Indian meal at virtually any of the food stalls. I love the colours of Little India. I didn’t take my Nikon with me on this trip because I was too busy at conferences and running workshops but the iPhone does an okay job.

 

The pond

In Oz, we had two water features. Our two-storey house was on a steep slope and spanned four terraced-levels of native bush. On the upper terrace, hubs built a raised garden bed with a fountain. It was originally called The Italian Garden but, when my mum came to live with us for the two years before she died (in 2007), we renamed it Shirley’s Garden as she loved to sit in the sun whilst looking at the garden. Here’s a photo. You can’t see the fountain but it’s in the centre and the statues were made by our next door neighbour, Jenny.

The middle level of the garden area had a small feature pool hubs built for my mother. One day, she was leaning over the railing on the upper storey of the house and looking down on not much more than native bush. She declared it would be nice to see a trellised area with seats and a pond with fish. I looked at her, like “oh yeah, right“. Next thing I knew, hubs was out digging and ordering timber. He built a gorgeous area for her and planted all sorts of natives, before installing gold fish in the pond. I can’t seem to locate a photo to show you; I think it’s on an old computer that blew up.

Anyway. I decided that we are missing a tranquil area for me to sit in here on our NZ property. There is the Secret Garden and I’ve recently weeded it (before succumbing yet again to seasonal hayfever) but Zeph and Zsa Zsa mainly use this to run around and play in. It’s to one side of the house and behind a large willow and cherry blossom tree.

A small stream runs through The Secret Garden and continues on under a bridge so hubs thinks it’s an ideal area to build a water feature. He’s not telling me just yet what this water feature will be – guess that will be a surprise. But the wooden seat he built for me is already ensconced under a tree.

The seat ready and waiting for me.

But first the pond has to be constructed.

 

Dead but alive

We flew South African Airways to Johannesburg and back. You’re on a Qantas plane though; just paying for a cheaper ticket. Waiting for our flight back to Sydney (where we picked up an Air New Zealand flight to Christchurch), I settled down to play Solitaire on the iPad.

I was seated in front of the window, overlooking our plane. It was being refuelled and cleaned. I think it had only arrived from Sydney a couple of hours beforehand. Amazing really – this plane winged us to Sydney in 10 hours and 55 minutes. The flight over was 13.5 hours (I nearly died of boredom). These huge tin cans fly for soooooo many hours.

As I was contemplating this profound observation on my part, I spotted a poor dead pigeon on the ledge. It was an interesting juxtaposition of dead bird and live metal bird.

 

Where’s George Clooney?

We went to Cape Town for five days and stayed at the Protea Hotel, Victoria Junction. This hotel was going to get a very bad rap from me but they have redeemed themselves. So, to be fair to them, I’ll tell you the full story in a future post. Whilst at that hotel, we stayed in one of their loft apartments on the 5th Floor. This apartment had a Nespresso machine for us to enjoy a morning cup of coffee.

We’ve toyed with the idea of getting one. I was largely interested because of the advertisement – I mean ladies (and any chaps leaning that way) have you SEEN George Clooney in the Nespresso ad? Talk about gorgeous. George that is; not the ad. If you have no idea what I’m talking about, check out the video below of the Silver Fox in action:

Right. Back to the real topic of this post. We have been through a few coffee machines in the last few years. Both of us like our coffee and we have bought some serious machines. But each coffee maker has dripped; overflowed; or the pump has given up the ghost. You name it. And according to hubs, the coffee in New Zealand tastes bitter. I don’t agree but there you go.

We looked at the tiny Nespresso machine sitting in the kitchen of the apartment and we sniggered. How could such a little thing produce rich, full-bodied coffee? We looked at the tiny coffee capsules – each one bearing a different colour and flavour. Actually, there are 16 flavours, which are known as 16 Grand Crus, and each one has a distinctive aromatic profile.

So we checked out the Delonghi Nespresso machines in the Cape Town Nespresso store because we both liked the look of the retro sleek and stylish one in the hotel and it made damn good coffee. Turns out it was the Pixie model so we bought a nifty little lime green Pixie back in New Zealand and it was on special – bonus! It comes with what’s called an Aeroccino milk frother/heater.

As we were buying the Nespresso, I spotted the Sunbeam Cafe Creamy milk frother and thought this would be ideal for my Chai lattes. Yes, I realise the Aeroccino can whip up a Chai or two but hubs would probably get hysterical if a hint of Chai latte entered his coffee world. We received a pretty good discount for taking the Sunbeam product as well and the chap said I should get my Chai latte powder from Coffee Culture and that I had to get the Vanilla Chai. I did and it’s yummo. The Spiced Chai is also yummo.

You order the Nespresso coffee capsules online. This seemed a bit bizarre to me but apparently Nespresso are trying to maintain superior quality via their own distribution network. Sounds like good marketing to me. You can also join the Nespresso Club and get all sorts of discounts and things. We ordered a box of coffee capsules online on Monday and they arrived on Wednesday, so it’s pretty efficient service.

I’m pretty well convinced that this whole Nespresso thing has become nothing short of a coffee cult and that we’ve just signed up. But I have to say the Pixie is dead easy to use and clean. No mess or fuss. Our previous coffee maker (and really the Pixie isn’t a coffee maker; it’s a single espresso shot brewer) was a pain in the proverbial. It’s pump had a hissy fit and we had to cart the machine off to intensive care – a repairer in Christchurch who seemed to hang onto it for weeks before returning it to us.

The Pixie is coffee-making for idiots. You turn it on and it’s pretty well ready to brew away, unlike our previous coffee maker that took its time to heat up. You drop the capsule in, pull a handle, then voilà - a pretty good cup of morning coffee. I wouldn’t say it makes the best cup of coffee I’ve ever had and I’m still working out whether purchasing the capsules actually saves money, compared to going off and buying a cappuccino or two. I do like the Indriya flavour I must say – it’s described as “the noble marriage of Arabica with a hint of Robusta from Southern India”. Whatever. I like it.

I’m sure the coffee purists and baristas turn their collective noses up at the mere mention of Nespresso but heck, it’s a great little machine for those of us who like a quick cup of coffee at home with no mess, fuss or the ‘tude you are sometimes met with in cafes by baristas. But sadly: no George Clooney comes with the Nespresso machines.

When you buy a Nespresso, they throw in all 16 capsules.

This is my Sunbeam Cafe Creamy. And yep, behind it - that's an Aldo Rossi coffee maker (from the 1980s).

Loving our lime green Pixie. The Aeroccino is to the right.

 

These shoes

How the heck do you walk in these shoes? They seem to be the trend for Autumn in Johannesburg. Practically every shoe shop I checked out in J’Burg had these towering platform shoes and the ones in the photo below are nowhere near as towering as others I saw. Some had crazy patterns and some were in plain colours.

I’d be too scared to totter around in these shoes. My ability to walk even in flat shoes is questionable. I’m a bit clumsy I’m afraid. You can imagine my angst in Rome dear reader. All those cobblestone streets with stones that were often shiny (ergo slippery) or jutting out and ready to stab you in the heel.

I have great admiration for the stylish Italian women who can teeter around in high heels on the cobblestones, whilst looking elegant and not making an ass of themselves (like I did) by slipping or falling.

 

Life size

At the very same shopping centre I was talking about yesterday and, just after the Cinnabon feast, we came across some models posing in a central part of the shopping area. Talk about pulling in a crowd. There were about five gorgeous models posing in various glamorous outfits.

Two models were posing on platforms outside a shop and you had to stop and check whether they were real life models or mannequins. The ones in the central area changed position every few minutes. As you were whizzing by, you may not have noticed the models except for the huge crowd. Carlos (the hubby of my hub’s niece) couldn’t resist posing with a blonde model.