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.

 

Good morning honey!

The Italians give me grief, let me tell you. I still adore this country and the Italians but I suspect that many Italians actually speak more English than they are letting on – even if it’s just a tiny bit. Yet, despite my smiles and charm they are refusing to utter a word of my native language. Sure, in the hotels and tourist spots, most Italians can speak enough English. But in the supermarkets and small shops around Testaccio, where I’m renting, or in Laurentina where I work, nah, nada, nope, zippo.

I can utter more words of Italian than I could last year but not enough to get by. It makes you feel quite vulnerable being in a country where you can’t speak or understand the language. So I’m fed up dear reader and am resorting to Italian lessons. There’s an Italian lady in the Testaccio area who not only speaks English but specialises in teaching foreigners Italian. I’m there, pronto.

I have wanted to learn a second language for quite some time actually. It keeps the mind active as you head into the twilight zone of old age. I learnt Indonesian for six years in high school. That was way back in the Jurassic Park era and I can only utter a few words now. Useful words like cat, red, table. I also learnt Russian for four years at University back in the 1990s and can ask how you are, count one to ten or drink to your health. Za zda-ró-vye! Whoopeeeeee!

My step-kids are French so it might make sense to learn to say more than Champs-Élysées, Longchamp or Chanel. I very much like the sound of the language even if the French seem to be choking on their words half the time. But, let’s face it, French is a declining language. Before you leave a nasty comment, read this. Maybe I should learn Spanish given that around 300+ million people world-wide mutter it. To tell you the truth though, I don’t like the sound of it.

It would make total sense to learn Mandarin since gazillions of people speak it. I don’t mind the sound of the language but I’m not really interested in learning it. No idea why. But Italian! When you hear the Italians speak: it’s with such passion and cadence. Full of temperament. To my ear, it sounds graceful and rhythmic.

It’s funny to talk about whether a language sounds beautiful or harsh. I know when I first heard Portuguese (my hubby’s native language), I didn’t think it sounded pretty. Whatever that means. And I don’t really like German (despite the fact that English is a West-Germanic language and the two languages share many words). I mean I can utter sauerkraut, kindergarten, angst, Volkswagen and one of my favourite words, kaput (although I think the Germans spell it kaputt).

I was pondering these profound issues the other morning when two things happened that stitched the deal – for two days in a row, the guy that makes my morning cappuccino served up cute messages on the froth; and a Dutch chap I know at work said to me “you should learn Italian…here’s the number of my former teacher in Testaccio“.

In the face of such omens, it is clear that the universe is telling me Learn Italian (even though only around 62 million people speak it worldwide and I’ve never met an Italian in New Zealand or heard it spoken there).

 

 

Pringles and Kellogs

I’ve always had a thing for Pringles. Sour cream and onion particularly. Recently, I’ve discovered hot and spicy BBQ (at least I think that’s what it’s called back in New Zealand). I do try to avoid Pringles as much as humanly possible though. Carb city, cholesterol city, salt-overload city. You name it.

But the other day, I was craving some junk food and trotted off to a local supermarket in the Aventino area here in Rome. I not only found my beloved sour cream and onion but also a flavour I’ve not seen before and must be for the Italian market: rosemary and olive oil. I seem to have picked up some soccer-related Pringles tin with the sour cream and onion flavour – they are called Pringoooals.

I also bought a cereal I became fairly well addicted to last year in Rome – Kellogg’s Extra Mix di Frutta – which is kind of like muesli packed with chunky bits of fruit. To die for. I can’t get this cereal back in New Zealand so am busy stuffing my face every morning with it. That is when I’m not stuffing my face with ciambella.

 

The convent

Okay, so it wasn’t really a convent but it did feel a bit like one. Or maybe more like a student dormitory. I stayed at this accommodation for two nights during my second week here in Rome. Before I describe this surreal place, I have to give you some context.

Last year was my first 2.5 month stint in Rome working on this project, which has to be completed by September this year. Although I’d been to Rome a few times before, hubs found my accommodation ahead of time so there would be no dramas. Being a tourist is totally different from living here for months. The apartment he found was in a villa, overlooking Circo Massimo, and I must say (in hindsight) was very convenient, although the area at night was a bit boring. Not so many cafes or restaurants. The apartment though was way too big and WAY too expensive. We only realised later what an average Italian rental should be – anywhere between Euro 900-1700 per month depending on location and size of apartment. Here’s the thing: if you are renting short-term in Italy, watch out for the opportunists.

Anyway. Audrey, the French lady I work with, said that she would help me find an apartment this time and not get ripped off. So don’t bother getting an apartment ahead of time she said. As the day to leave NZ approached, we spoke about what areas to live in but what I didn’t factor in was – well, Audrey. She is a very busy person and when I arrived in Rome, I realised she hadn’t been looking for an apartment due to her workload. Gulp. So I started looking. Fast.

It’s very misleading though. What is often advertised on the internet in the way of accommodation is sometimes booked out (even though the calendar says the place is free) and the photos…you have to be very wary of the photos. They might be taken with a wide-angled lens and when you see the apartment in real-life, you nearly die at how small it is. Or you find out the location is not so great or not near a metro.

Realising that I was hyperventilating because it is high tourist season, Audrey swung into action. Hubs swung into action. Every cat in Rome was out looking for an apartment for me! We ran into trouble early on though. Many apartments weren’t available for a two-month period due to someone renting it for part of the time or the owner wanted a long term rental of six months or more.

Hubs located an Italian dude who has an apartment in Trastevere. I checked it out and it was horrid with a capital H. Dark, dingy and small. And he had the nerve to want Euro 5000 for the two-month stay (or around NZ 8,500). And this did not include utilities. Beware that rentals will sometimes include utilities such as water and electricity; and sometimes they will not. The other thing to watch out for – once they know a foreigner wants to rent, many apartment owners will charge like wounded bulls.

So the trick is to find an Italian who can negotiate on your behalf. Or, in my case, a French person who can speak fluent Italian. We found the most perfect apartment in Testaccio, the area I wanted to rent in. But the lady owner wanted a six month rental, particularly over the July/August period. This is when the sane Italian leaves Rome (due to the unbearable heat) and the insane tourists visit. So apartment owners want to rent out around May/June for six months or so – leaving them to exit Rome without having to worry about preparing and lodging leases.

We visited one apartment in Cavour that required you to be a mountain goat. It was an attic apartment and had amazing views towards the Victor Emmanuel monument – but you had to stick your neck out tiny windows to even catch a glimpse. And this was after you’d survived climbing up thousands of steps (seemed it anyway!) to get to the attic apartment.

Meanwhile, the hotel I was booked into could only take me until May 9 and a lot of hotels I was looking at along Metro B line could not accommodate me up to June 30. I need to be on Metro B line to train it to work in Laurentina. One does not want to change at Termini in the morning rush hour let me tell you.

We checked out monastery-stays and B&Bs. I was joking with a friend who is visiting me in late May, that we might be renting space in the Catacombs. I was only half-joking. I found The Convent (as I call it) in the Aventino area and stayed there for two nights. It’s what we could call a two star hotel; possibly even a one star.

It’s set in a gorgeous location and is a fabulous old building. The bedrooms are small but I could handle that. It was the bathroom situation I couldn’t really stomach. You opened the door to the bathroom and the first thing you were met with was this sort of sewerage smell. Then you noticed that there was just a shower-rose in the ceiling; no shower stall. So you were having a shower right in the middle of the cat box size bathroom and next to the toilet. Guess one could multi-task! The towels were horrid and small too.

To make matters worse: I had cold showers on both mornings I was there. Grrrrrr. No-one told me there was a special switch under the hot water cylinder, which was above the toilet, and that you needed to turn this on to heat up the hot water. The second morning, I complied with this but there was no hot water. Because the hotel was full, apparently it ran out of hot water.

No breakfast included for the Euro 47.00 per night price (plus 2.00 Euro per day city tax). But the bonus was free wifi. So I could sit in the garden with my laptop. At the uber-expensive hotel, I only had free wifi in the hotel reception area or it was Euro 5.00 per hour in the room. It was a challenge finding space in that hotel’s reception due to all of us wanting free wifi.

While on duty here in Rome, I get what is called a Daily Subsistence Allowance or DSA that is supposed to cover accommodation and food. The trick is to find decent and reasonably-priced accommodation within the daily budget.

The land lady for the Testaccio apartment finally relented and has allowed me to rent until June 30 at Euro 1300 per month (including utilities). It’s a renovated apartment in a quaint old building and I’ll show it to you in a post soon. I’m not sure if it was the grovelling at her feet that swayed her mind or Audrey’s influencing skills. I’ll go for the latter.

Meanwhile, I leave you with photos of The Convent.

Audrey visited and found the bathroom so amusing, she had to get out her camera. She said she hadn’t seen a bathroom like this since her missions to Mali.

 

The party

Ciao dear reader! I am just back from a weekend at a casale in Umbria. The casale or farmhouse belongs to Audrey, a French lady I work with here in Rome. It was her 40th birthday on May 12, four days after mine, and she threw a party at her country retreat.

The trip from Rome took about 1.5 hours by car. I travelled with Rudolph (Audrey’s boss) and his wife. By the time we reached Audrey’s place, the party was getting into full swing. A long trestle table was nestled in the shade under a huge tree and it was literally groaning with food. Most of the people there were French and this meant plenty of champagne, gateaux and eating.

I marvel at how much the French can eat. We finished apéritifs around 1.00pm, then got stuck into a BBQ; and this was followed by dinner (Italian spicy sausages). As with the French, there was a ton of bread, cheeses and wonderful fresh salads. The only thing I’m going to complain about is the gateaux – I was hoping for a decadent chocolate cake with yummy icing. There were three cakes but really they were pastry tarts – apricot tart, forest berry tart and some sort of almond tart with pine nuts. Yummy though.

Once night-time fell, we remained outside. The night was warm and the sky was dark and full of stars. I must say though the night sky in New Zealand, on our property, is one hundred times better. More stars and nebulae.

The casali is over 100 years old but has had some sort of face lift along the way. There is a large main building and three other smaller ones. The main building is where we all stayed overnight. The ground floor used to be for the animals. This was common in European houses in the pre-Industrial era and body heat from the animals kept the house warm. One can only imagine the smell though.

The ground floor level needs a lot of work and Audrey knows she has her work cut out. But there is a decent bathroom along with a wonderful old oven that I guess was used to bake bread at some point in the history of the house. Upstairs are another two bathrooms, a large open living space and plenty of bedrooms. The property sits on 2 hectares and the view of the Umbrian countryside was amazing. Many of the trees though need a serious haircut as they are interfering with the gorgeous long distance views.

I was given a huge bedroom and the night was warm enough to keep the large window open. Birds were chirping throughout the night. I’m not sure what sort of birds they were but they sent me into a very sound sleep. Next morning, the French were at it again. Pancakes, bread with cheeses and cold meats, left-over tart – all accompanied by many cups of strong, filtered coffee. Mon dieu!

Me (left) with Audrey. Nadine (also French) is behind us.

Main building – bedrooms are on the top level.

Audrey enjoying her day.

Rudolph (Audrey’s boss) konked out under the trees after all the eating and drinking.

We all marvelled at the three fruit tarts that were Audrey’s birthday cakes. I’m still waiting for the chocolate cake but did enjoy the tarts.

Audrey and her birthday cakes!

The bottom floor of the casale needs a lot of work. Slowly but surely. You can see the animal trough on the left of the photo.

Hubs, being an architect, would love to get his hands on this old farmhouse with its wonderful archways, beams and high ceilings.

Look at the fabulous old wooden beam!

The large open living area on the top level.

The view of the Umbrian countryside from my bedroom window.

My bed for the night.

 

The breakfast

Only in Italy would I have this sugary, fattening breakfast. I love what are called jambella (phonetic spelling for someone who speaks no Italian). I became addicted to them during my last stint in Rome. Basically, it’s a humongous doughnut dusted with sugar. Carb city people!

But with a strong and smooth cappuccino, well there’s nothing better. I have learnt though that you don’t have a cappuccino here in Italy after 11.00am. That is frowned on. The Italians (so it’s been explained to me) believe that a milk-based drink, such as a cappuccino, does not help the digestive process. So you can have a water-based coffee but not a cappuccino.

If this digestive business is the reason, I don’t really understand why Italians think it’s okay to chase a large sugared doughnut (or any other breakfast pastry) down with a hot milk-based drink at breakfast time. After 11.00am, the Italians are somewhat outraged by foreigners who want to end their meal with a cappuccino. I slipped up last weekend and ordered a cappuccino around 3.00pm. I was met with a stare and a raised eyebrow – but the waiter trotted back with my cappuccino.

I join the Italians at breakfast time and scoff some carbs followed by a cappuccino (or two). But now that I’m about to move into an apartment (news on this soon), I will resume my normal cereal-based breakfast.

 

The view

I wish this was the view from my office here in Rome but, alas, it is not. I had to to visit a “sister” UN Rome-based agency for a conference last week and this is the view from their terrace. Really bad location don’t you think? They should move, pronto.

View towards Circo Massimo (or Circus Maximus).

You can see the UN flag in the foreground and the Colosseum in the distance, on the left.

 

Is it the best?

I’m obsessed with the sun. If you follow my blog, you know I run around slathered in sunscreen, worrying about the aging effect of UVA and UVB rays. I use two different sunscreens normally – SunSense Daily Face SPF30+ and Oasis Sun SPF30+ for arms, shoulders, legs and so on. Oasis is a New Zealand brand I really like – started by a woman who lives (or lived) right here in good old Oxford actually (NZ Oxford, not UK Oxford).

But I’ve read a lot about LaRoche Posey and its Anthelios XL sunscreen and how its supposed to be THE best sunscreen on the planet. Also said to be good for pale skins like mine. You can read all about the product here.

I haven’t come across LaRoche Posey in New Zealand so, when I clamped my eyes on it at a local pharmacy here in Rome, I snapped up a tube, which cost Euro 18.20. It’s SPF50+ so it will give me stronger UVA and UVB-ray protection. The only problem is that the Creme Fondant is supposed to be for normal to dry skin and I probably need something lighter. There was no English on any of the sunscreens, so I just had to select what I thought would do the trick. As long as it halts the nasty aging process dead in its tracks, that’s fine by me! I’ll do a review once I’ve road-tested the sunscreen.

 

Ouch!

This bloody hurt I can tell you. Turn away now if you’re not into blood and guts – the photo below shows you my ripped off fingernail. I very rarely break a nail but I excelled myself this time.

I cast the blame squarely on my Italian-made Roncato suitcase, which I bought last year. This is the best suitcase I’ve ever travelled with but it has one fault as far as I’m concerned. The three side-locks sometimes get a bit stuck. I find you have to close the suitcase just-so – if you don’t, when you try to open one of the side-locks, it can be a tad difficult.

And this is exactly how I lost my fingernail. I was struggling to flip open one of the side-locks and it suddenly burst open, taking my fingernail with it. There was some blood and lots of swear words uttered by me.

I spent the next two days with my poor finger wrapped in a bandage. It was really hard to tolerate anything brushing up against the freshly-revealed bare skin. You suddenly realise just how much you use your index fingers to do things like button up trousers or wash your hair.

What I’ll be very curious to see is just how fast the nail grows back. By the time I leave Rome on June 30, will it be looking normal again? I am planning to buy a second Roncato suitcase to take back to New Zealand with me but am slightly hesitating due to the temperamental side-locks. But this practical suitcase has been flung around over the last year and it shows very little signs of wear and tear. So I’m thinking I might get one in sleek black or silver and I’ll just have to be more careful.

This really hurt believe me!