Three kinds of funk and a missed train

A friend is visiting from England. It's his first time in Italy and impressed is what he is. Last weekend he spent in Swindon in the UK, visiting a friend there. Pubs, street violence and rain. This weekend he is spending in Florence, Modena, and Bologna.
I have taken off most of the week to accompany him around various caffes and bars in the town. We visited Galleria Ferrari in Maranello on Wednesday afternoon which impressed us both; him for the first time, me for the third. It wasn't boring, however, as the exhibits had changed since my previous visit. They have Agnelli's silver, open top Ferrari, the Modena model, I believe. It was specially customised for the old advocate. The only difference from the regular ones that I could see was the cloth upholstery, instead of leather.
On Thursday I interspersed some lessons with meeting my visitor. I had an 8.30 lesson at the bank. We talked about Ferrari and the project of the town to reconstruct/refurbish Enzo Ferrari's birth place. They concluded that it would be expensive but ultimately attract more visitors to the town. We also discussed an article which had been in the New York Times the previous week, entitled 'In a Funk, Italy Sings an Aria of Disappointment". It was a report on the state of the country today, bemoaning its abilities to progress and escape its old ways, its corruption, change its electoral system etc. Sad, but true, they concluded.
Our Friday morning train to Florence was frustratingly on time, or thereabouts. I use this adverb because having checked the real time travel status of our 8.58am train, online fifteen minutes before leaving the apartment, it stated that it was 12 minutes late. My friend, who works in software development for such applications advised me not to rely on this as an accurate reflection of the situation on the ground. Very reassuring. Needless to say we arrived 5 minutes after the hour only to have missed the bugger. So, instead of arriving in Florence at 10.26, we took a later (and oddly-smelling) train and arrived at 11.45 or so. We did the rounds of the sights which all went down well, drank expensive piazza coffees, and bought exotic, Italian Christmas gifts for the peasants in the UK. The evening went well with a Roy Ayres concert back in Modena. Jazz-funk, if I'd give it a name, at its best. Today is Modena and Bologna, hopefully on time...
This is probably my last post until the New Year so Buon Feste and auguri to you all.

Sunday on the square

IKEA. Well, quite... A friend is staying with me for a few days while she find a new apartment. I took the opportunity of this situation to use her car for a mission of mercy: I have been in my apartment for six months, almost to the day, and I didn't have a table and chairs till yesterday. IKEA has its benefits. It's undoubtedly cheap and of reasonable quality. The styles are more subjective, I suppose. I find them quite inoffensive. Contemporary and modern are two adjective often employed.
I picked up, in both senses, an inoffensive wooden-topped table and chairs. One or two other things found their way into my carrello, too. A picture frame or two, some plates, wine glasses etc. Fortunately the all the shop's tills crashed because the man in front of us in the queue paid by Amex Gold. It simply extended the joy of our shopping experience and required all my wallet's cash to settle the not insubstantial account.
This morning was spent erecting the aforementioned article in time for a friends visit from the UK this week. This afternoon I met my regular interscambio friend and another friend for coffee. The shops were all open and selling furiously. We then sauntered over to the library where there was a jazz quartet playing outside. Free hot vin brulee, panettone and tramezzini were being served to spectators. All very agreeable and we eventually manged to huddle under on of the vertical gas heaters offering some respite from the intense cold. And this time next week C will be here hopefully. Can you sense my smile?

Bah Humbug!

Living in Italy one is subject to the actions of unions in their various guises. The lorry drivers are striking until Friday in protest at fuel prices. The petrol stations have also been affected as the tanker drivers have 'come out in sympathy', too. So, I was slightly chuffed when the petrol gauge in the school Ka hovered above the red 'Empty' line. Damn! My Thursday 8.30am lesson start in a local town will have to be canceled because none of the petrol stations have any fuel left. I'll have to lie in bed till ten-thirty and then indulge in a leisurely breakfast. Again: Damn! But no! I'm saved from such an easy morning by getting a cruel, devastating sms from the school secretary advising me that I can do a substitution at a local asilo,- nursery. How nice for me. I think the little ones are in for a surprise. 'Hey, little ones! Guess what? Santa Claus is your dad dressed u,p and three sheets to the wind on grappa...I know, I know; adults are cruel, aren't they? Never mind. Life sucks. Get a helmet." etc. Yes, I think my lesson is planned out already. The first five minutes will be the above and the following 55minutes will be taken up with crying... HO HO HO...

Cristo comes to Modena

The Ghirlandina tower which ajoins the duomo is getting a two year (but this is Italy, so lets be realistic...3,4 years?) face lift and implants. The scaffolding is to be sheathed in a white plastic skin upon which will be displayed a design by Mimmo Paladino. The pre-completion computer image of the final result looks very impressive and I imagine it will draw a lot of attention nationally, if not further afield, too.It reminds me of work by the artist Cristo, famous for wrapping up grand structures such as the Bundestag in material. I will post another image of it when completed at the end of January.

Another interscambio today with Monica, in a cosy cafe fifty meters from my apartment. (I love living in the centre for such reasons). It's a miserable day very cold and wet. She patiently went through one of my translations which I do for practice. I don't actually translate for work as I'm not really up to scratch. Occasionally I get the complete opposite end of the language stick and feel like a complete arse: as I say, I don't do it for work. If a client wants a mangled translation, I'm the man!... 'The Borat of Translations' or some such.

A day off

The national holiday has started dull and damp, or humid, as the Italians say.
And so I intend to be a complete slob this weekend. Of what does this activity comprise? Well, watching DVDs, terrible Italian telly, listening to Radio 4, reading and, of course, eating. I have a couple of DVDs from the library and I might take out 'Klimt'from the 24 hour place; I do like John Malkovich.
The shoppers are out in force this afternoon and the Christmas lights are everywhere, looking wonderful. There seems to be a lack of chestnut roasters in this town for some reason. The swirling smoke and the lights and sounds on the streets are a great complement to the seasonal atmosphere, I feel. As I type I can hear bagpipes playing the inevitable bagpipe tune. Bagpipes should be discouraged. The sluggish economy seems to be reflected in the early season sales around town in certain shops. A great Bruno Cuccinilli coat is reduced from €1400 to €700. Still an absurd amount for someone on my salary, of course. We can dream, I suppose.

December arrives.

It's cold and dull but without rain, which would make it pretty much like the UK. I need some comfort food so I do a carbonara with some Vioello trenette, smoked procciuto and too much cream which makes it quite runny necessitating the use of a spoon to catch the remaining delicious sauce. After half digesting this I go to meet an Italian friend for our interscambio. Theoretically she speaks English while I speak Italian; the former she does fluently anyway, but I'm a lazy dog and I speak English too. She checks one of my translations which I occasionally do from a magazine (Italian to English). We drink coffee and watch the Sunday poseurs stroll to and fro. She asks me about the difference between 'differing' and 'different' to which I don't answer as it's Sunday afterall, not a work day.
Top to bottom:
Coogee Beach, Sydney
Reef Key, Australia
Surfer Beetle, California
The sun
Pelicans, Santa Cruz pier

Saturday with Sara.

This is the craft market in the piazza below my apartment. I am tempted to buy and after a little hesitation settle on a silver hair clip for C. for Christmas.

So it's Saturday and so it's Sara's lesson. "Can you do the vowels, please?"
So I do. She reproduces the sounds well but when, five minutes later, I ask her to spell her first name she goes to into something strange, not even the Italian vowel pronunciation. What comes out is somewhere between 'e' and 'i'. We practise again. And again. Eventually we get out of the rut and start on past regular pronunciations, which she does well mostly. Then we read a graded Phileas Fogg reader. She occasionally totally mispronounces a word: 'walked' becomes 'talked', for example. She does the same with prepositions, too. Most irritating.



I get home for a quick lunch of left-over steak and fagiolini before heading off to the supermarket. An old teaching colleague invites herself to dinner as it's her last night in her apartment and has nothing left. After this I go 'footing' as the Italians like to say; jogging in the park before the dark descends and the park gates are closed.
I think I'll do a butternut squash risotto this evening. Comfort food. I love the clogging combination of fresh cream and parmeggiano reggiano stirred into the almost ready rice and zucca concoction. In fact, give me anything with parmesan and cream and I'm yours. This week calls for a carbonara I think.

Pictures-
Top: Hotel room, Lyon
Centre: Caffeine Buzz
Bottom: In bed in summer.

Foggy Friday.

I love these foggy mornings, the streets shrouded and atmospheric, inviting shady exploration. It usually burns off by mid-morning to be replaced by blue skies and crisply cold air. It's 8:30a.m. and I'm sitting in an anonymous room in a bank in the town centre.

My English conversation students sitting opposite me are in charge of audits and securities. Cristina's auditing explanation I can just about get; Fabbio's leaves me clueless, not down to his English abilities but my inate tendency to switch off when anyone starts talking about stocks and shares and so forth. I nod in the right places and ask simplistic questions.

I get another brodo recipe from my afternoon conversation lesson out at a local company. We talk about IKEA shopping, double cream - which she can't comprehend leading me to conclude it's not an Italian 'thing', and Christmas crackers and their contents.

A late afternoon 'no show' student allows me to surf the school's internet connection and discover that the world's most expensive (white) truffle weighing 1.2kgs has been auctioned for €95000. I understand that this year has not been such a good year for truffles so this is slightly paradoxical. And irritating as I still haven't managed to eat any of the damn fungus. I really wanted to visit one of the truffle festival which are held around the north at this time of year but didn't succeed yet again. Not having a car doesn't help and these small towns and villages which hold such events are nowhere near railway stations. Maybe next year. Porca miseria!



This picture is called Electric Sugar.

A reason to get up

Another Thursday, another long day awaits after a lightening fast shower, shave, breakfast and email check. Done and dusted in an hour (I could spend that long under the hot shower on these cold mornings; prising myself from the womb of my bed is very difficult....) and out the door to the school car and a string of engineering companies dotted round the area. It's difficult to eat between lessons but I manage to eat a banana and dry crackers in the drive back to town.... But the day is loaded with a visit from C. I receive a text message at school telling me she's at the apartment so I cycle back into town like fury as I have to be out again in 90 minutes. She is angry, not with me, but because her PhD exams are up in the air as her professor hasn't told her everything about the course's future. I placate her and she forgets it for a while. We kiss goodbye outside and I head off to another company lesson. I love kissing her in the street, summer or winter, dark or light. She's back to France on Saturday and I probably won't see her before she leaves; I hope so though. I gave her some beautiful chocolate truffles from the Bologna choc festival I visited. She tried one and melted when it melted in the mouth. Well, I enjoyed her Lindt Creme Brulee choc gift too.
I like this photo, which can be found at http://facesinplaces.blogspot.com/

Tell Me Why...

I Don't Like Mondays. I suspect this age old refrain is echoed by many people every week. Personally, my Mondays start in a huge engineering company on the outskirts of town. After three hours there, I drive back to the school, pick up a colleague and then go to another company 20km away in the opposite direction. I don't have much chance to eat from 8am till 3.15pm. And today I forgot my banana to eat between meals without ruining my appetite. The feeble offerings of the second company's vending machine wouldn't have filled a small mouse. Maybe a dormouse. Or a baby dormouse.
The top picture is another view from Highway One in Big Sur, California. The middle picture, 'Sunset, Man, Dog' is just what it says on the box. The bottom one is 'Midday Beach'.

Sunday, bloody Sunday.

This picture below right is of a scene in Big Sur, California, on Highway 1 between Los Angeles and San Francisco. There is some quite spectacular scenery in this area.
This picture, centre right, is called Italian Urgency. Top right: Monet in Modena.

Historically, for me, Sundays have always tended towards the boring. Get up late, or what can be considered late these days what with La Vecchia making insistent noises on her tiled floor above my bedroom at a time the very old consider to be the middle of the day. Very, very occasionally something happens; some unpredictable configuration of the universe delivers something interesting or exciting or memorable. Today seems to be shaping up into the former catagory. There was a brief glimpse of light for today's prospects a few days ago. The girlfriend has returned to town from France to do some entrance exams next week for a PhD course and I stupidly assumed she'd be available. No, she's studying. On a Sunday! The young of today are beyond hope, I fear. Well, at least it's not raining. Yet. The day's profile suggests an unhealthy wedge of panettone and Nutella is in order. Avanti!

winter's signs

I have mixed feelings about this time of year. I like the food, the atmospheric city streets, the chestnut roasters, the hot mulled wine and panettone. The cold is sometimes quite severe and coupled with rain or snow (less preferable)it can be quite depressing. Still, snow melts and rain stops leaving the suggestive mists and fogs which shroud the street in their maw. It makes diving into a glowing and welcoming bar for a snifter or a corrected coffee all the more tempting, and rewarding.

La Vecchia problems

I wouldn't usually be up at this time on a non-working morning but the old woman who lives upstairs makes strange pre-eight o'clock noises which are difficult to ignore.
Anyway, here are some further pics:
Portici
Portici 2
memory of Naples

more to follow.

Hello again

So I'm back and it's November and I thought I would have been here earlier than this. Well, I'm at a new school and in a new apartment - with a new internet connection. Ah, bless. The lovely cold days are back which means it's time for Nutella-smothered panettone, butternut squash risottos, creamy pasta dishes; in general - comfort food. I'm off for some fruit tea and biccies.

I like to dabble in acrylic painting, semi-abstract and representational styles mainly. I thought I'd show some of work here. If anyone is interested in buying from me, please email me. I'll post more over the coming weeks. Thanks.
Cafe in square, Lucca
Italian collage
Rooftops and Med.

Hello again

I'm back after a hiatus which can be put down to losing my wi-fi connection. But now I'm in another apartment in the town centre and on Tiscali broadband.
Unfortunately I can't seem to upload any photos since I've moved; I probably need to tinker with the settings or something. If anyone else is on Tiscali and using an iBookG4, can you offer any advice?

Meekey! Deekie!

I love hearing students pronounce the protagonist's name in a starter level original text I get them to read. A little alliteration adds to the fun. Micky Munro is a thrilling rock star who is the target of (gulp) assassins in Australia, on (gulp) Uluru. It's thrilling stuff, truly... 'Meekey! Meekey!' as they read, earnestly.

I took the wrong train on Saturday. Or maybe I should say the right train in the wrong direction. Idiot. Castel San Pietro. Hmmm. A different route; a Saturday afternoon scenic ride? No; wrong direction. Fool! When I realised I got off at some tiny station which aspired to be in the middle of nowhere and waited for the next train back to where I started from. Obviously the ticket office was closed and the ticket machine wouldn't take fifties– all I had. Porca miseria! The only other passenger showed up five minutes before it was about to arrive and I asked if she had any change. I think she thought I was going to mug her. So, on the train I search for the inspector who is nowhere to be found. I sit and hope he doesn't materialise and ask for my ticket. He doesn't and I eventually get back to where I started from and then wait another half hour for a regionale going in my direction. Again: idiot.

Simona M. (not Si.Mo.Na) is about five months pregnant and looks more like eight. She sits there changing passive to active and back and occasionally heaves and adjusts some velcro support contraption under her... I don't want to know where, really. Needles to say I think she's about to throw up at any given moment. She constantly looks nauseous.

I recently re-watched The Talented Mr Ripley. Goodish film (movie?) on balance. Great locations and an interesting plot twist or two. The clothing was also fantastic, too. And the jazz, of course. I noticed Fiorello, the Italian tv and cabaret 'star' in a minor role too. I want to be Dickie Greenleaf. Without the death bit, of course. 'Deekie! Deekie!', possibly.

Come to Frankfurt! I pay you!

And so the designers' lessons are over. For the time being, at least. The wife has an international trade fair in Frankfurt and is demanding I furnish her with useful phrases. Her frustration results in an offer I couldn't possibly take up; "You come to Frankfurt with me! I pay you for work with me. Yes?' Unfortunately I have to decline; I decline diplomatically, in front of her husband. If she were single, I would have made my excuses for work and been on the Easyjet site pronto Tonto. Anyway, Leo didn't once break wind and lay on my feet all lesson and drifted in and out of sleep. He didn't say good-bye, but then, after all, he is a dog. And he looks even more pissed-off today than usual.

January is here: break out the malt

Well, Happy New Year. Better late than never, I suppose. The mists and fogs - 'nebbia' in Italian and no distinction between the two - of this time of year are OK with me. I prefer them to rain or snow. A friend tells me that the latter has not yet reached the village in the Appenines where she visits. Some great skies pop up at dusk time, too.
After returning from a fruitless shoe search in the sales I console myself with a bottle of 12 year old Glenlivet single malt, which ran to reasonable €17. Very warming and comforting after coming in from icy, foggy streets. I have a provisional plan to invest in a different malt every month, after pay day; become a connoisseur of the palete, if you will.

The coming week sees the final lesson with the designers. They've come on quite well, especially the husband; this frustrates the wife. He will get her question correct, or correct her answer and she's unable to see why it's correct. Maybe he'll continue the course without her, even though she's the one who needs it for her work. A colleague has been given the job of teaching the city's football team. I suppose if they get into Europe one day they'll be able to offend the Stamford Bridge crowds in their own language. And the ref, of course.

Further to my footwear foraging: I've been eyeing various styles and shades of brown brogues for a month or so. Lack of purchase success in the sales is normal for me, particularly with shoes. Yesterday I found a small, bespoke manufacturer not far away. The shoes are works of art and typically run to half a month's wages; but probably less than certain brands Ready To Wear prices. However, to get the perfect shoe, and made to measure, would be a real treat and again, an investment. That's how I choose to frame it anyway. As such establishments don't participate in anything as vulgar as the sales, I'll wait a month or so and save a bit more cash.

A tinselled bulldog dog

This was taken from my window last night; I like how the fading sun is catching the contrail of the jet. There are some great skies at this time of year.
Anyway, two more days of work remain before my Christmas break begins. I fly to the UK on Wednesday at 10:30 or so, necessitating catching a train at an ungodly hour. The School's Christmas party went off without any drunken embarrassments: I stuck to water.
Diovetti's last lesson before January was quite productive. Firstly, we agreed to a morotorium on any new stuff until we've done a thorough revision of everything he should know, starting from the basics. He tried to communicate the success of his Chinese trip. Stopping mid-sentence he darted out and returned bearing a gift! An Aurora fountain pen, emphasising its Italian origin, which he insisted on trying to get to work there and then. The ink wouldn't flow, however, and he seemed predictably embarrassed: I successfully got it working after the lesson. Following his lesson came his daughter. We talked about Christmas in our respective countries. I told her that on Boxing Day all the children's gifts are re-boxed and put away until February. Her 'that's nice' didn't betray any irony. Oh well.
The afternoon was the designers' lesson. Leo had a tinsel collar which he didn't exactly seem gruntled about, as the saying goes. It went with the red of his eyes, though. Mon Cheri and Ferrero Rocher chocolates were forced down me no matter how much I protested, as is my wont when faced with such goodies. Comparatives and superlatives were enjoyed all round.
This could be my last post this year; Happy Christmas and a Peaceful New Year. Ciao for now!

Fair game

My new hat has the ear flaps which can fold up and tie on the top. I've gone past the age of caring so much what I look like over the comfort provided. Anyway, the head wear is lined with rabbit fur and very warm it is too. Upon arriving for my lesson with the designers I took off my hat at the door and went to the studio for the lesson. Unfortunately Leo had seen me putting my new furry companion into my bag. Not unreasonably he thought he was getting a second lunch. My zippered bag was no use as he stood a foot away from it and stared, slobber dripping from his chops. I almost felt guilty. "Leo! Vai!' from Oriana and Roberto did nothing. He just red-eye glared at them and made guttural throat noises. We went through the lesson and afterwards he followed me to the door; I felt like a visiting Babbo Natale who had decided to take home any gifts he'd intended to leave.
One major problem for the Italian English student is the third person s; 'he like it', for example. No matter what the needs of the student - general English or for a specific purpose, business, medicine etc - this always causes problems at lower levels. Yes, they often know their field of specialism very well, and can express their ideas in English quite well, but trying to get them to remember a simple thing can be frustrating for the teacher. And if they master the affimative form, they carry the application through to the negative and questions: 'Do he goes to the cafe?' or 'He don't goes to the cafe.' Arrrgghhhhhh....

Winter closes in

The Autumn, or fall, is one of my favourite times of the year. The inevitable decay of nature and the general closing down of the days. This photo was taken in a tiny park on my way to a lesson with the designers. I like the contrasting colours. I'm sure the previous day, when I was without my camera, had the leaves a touch more vibrant than today. The decay can be graded in hours, not days or weeks. Yesterday was quite unusually heavy on the work front. My first lesson started at ten o'clock and my last ended at ten fifteen post meridien. Not continuous, but the lessons were interspersed with breaks of thirty minutes or single hours, and at several different locations over town; Diovetti is in China so the 8.45 start wasn't necessary this week. I was completely knackered and only good for a shower and a sandwich before bed. The days tend to be grey and damp, or humid, as the Italians say.
The designers' lesson was not typical. Leo, for instance, didn't fart; as he hasn't done for the last four or five lessons, actually. He red-eyed me taking a drink from my bottle of water and then wouldn't leave it alone, attempting access to my zipped bag with his slobbering chops. Settling for second best he started to lick my left ankle. Bored with this, he then waddled from the room to annoy the hired help in the stockroom. We've been studying the polite form of 'would you like...?. There is quite a bit of inter-marital rivalry on the English front and Oriana complains that Roberto is always correcting her English mistakes outside of the lesson. 'Would you like to sleep with me?' she asks no one inparticular. I look at Roberto and he looks at me. 'I don't would like to sleep with you!' she answers herself. It seems Roberto might be sleeping on the couch tonight.

'My body is tired of my life'

Simona looks tired and she confirms as much. Her work and life in general are stressing her out. 'My body is tired of my life' she groans. Her boss expects her to produce a report on her conference in Denmark. Her fatigue is palpable.
My designers are in high spirits. A correctly answered question from the wife induces child-like pride and gloating. The husband is unhappy because his gorgeous, one day old black Porsche Carrera S4 has a flat battery due to his leaving the lights on overnight. For once Leo the bulldog dog doesn't break wind and cause all-round coughing and waving of books through the air.
One of the advantages of the colder months is that the shops start selling panetone, a light and deep spongey type of cake. With that other nectar of the Gods, Nutella, a wonderful combination can be had. Cut a generous wedge of the cake and smother with the latter. Eat. This comfort food at its best was introduced to me a couple of years ago by a friend, who served it with a steaming mug of fruit tea sweetened with home-farmed honey. Another seasonal goodie is Panaforte: a dense circular slab of chewiness consisting of nuts and dried fruit which originates from Siena, I believe. Very nice with Moscato.

'Hating junk food is good for you'

Some Italians' pronun- ciation of certain words, hate and eat, angry and hungry, for example, is confusing. I asked a higher level group to think of some sentences using a stative verb in the gerund (-ing) form. The above example was cited. At first I thought that she had said 'eating' junk food was bad for you; she clarified and I now intend to adopt the phrase for some situations.
As you can see from t'photo, the mists (fogs) of early morning - well, eight-ish - have arrived. These blankets of humidity genearally lift by mid-morning. Sometimes they stick around all day and depress everyone.

'Manslaughter... beautiful!'

Diovetti's lessons continue inevitably, irrevocably. Every lesson I have to repeat the same old things: pronouncing and translating the same old words. And, predictably, provoking the same old response; either 'che cazzo!', or today, 'che due marròni!', the final word here being a synonym for testicles. Anyway, after his 'lesson' comes his daughter's. She is a recent law graduate and has moved into dad's company, at the bottom. She told me how much she earns, about half what I do, and yet she drives a BMW SUV. Another Italian paradox. So today I thought I'd ask her about Italian law and whether she agrees with capital punishment.This led on to various crimes and their sentences. 'Murder is premeditated, but manslaughter is considered a lesser crime.' "Man...slaughter. Man...slaughter... Hmm... Is beautiful!' The first sylablle of the compound's second word being typically mis-pronounced. It's one perspective, I suppose... Crime talk inevitably led to talk of crime of the organised kind which led to her recollecting a supergrass, as I deduced, ('...Supergrass? Is beautiful, no?') who now lives in her local town but makes no attempt to down-play his ex-career's stereotype: sunglasses whatever the time of day or time of year, hat, toothpick in corner of mouth.
My new bike is a woman's, is white and has a pink bell. It does the A to B thing quite adequately. I bought it at the Monday morning market from a man who was touting it up and down in front of the two market stalls legitimately flogging their wares. He seemed to be a pensioner, probably an ex-mechanic or engineer or something, who was making a bit on the side to supplement his pension. I got him down to 55 euros which wasn't bad. When I mentioned that I am a poor teacher, he seemed more accepting of my low offer. When I walked away he probably laughed to himself at my gulibility for buying such a specimen.

Tirarsela.

Finally the week is over. Quite an unusually demanding one. I hesitate to use the word stress in any form. Friend back in UK and no lesson tomorrow. A couple of late evening lessons are on holiday for a couple of weeks and the upper intermediate group is underway quite comfortable. The latter contains a couple of sparkly popsies wanting , nay needing, English for their wonderfully specialised careers in medicine or something or other. Very giggly. Must be my authoritarian and masculine charms. Or something like that. Or something else completely different, probably.
Inspecting my western facing horizon earlier, my gaze fell upon the lady watering her bulldog from a bottle of S.Francesco. By the time I'd got the machina fotografica she was towing him away. Nice pic I think. There does seem to be an awful lot of this breed of dog in town. In the centre, on a piazza, live three, yes THREE, bulldogs living with their young couple owners. They daily get dragged around town, huffing and puffing, their balls gently swaying behind them in the autumnal air. Reminding me of Leo: on Tuesday he didn't break wind once. He lay by the table, his chops resting on the parquet, and fixed his red-eyed gaze upon me. The day before he had disgraced himself several time. Such events have now gone beyond mutual, polite pretence of ignorance: Oriana and Roberto now waft and curse as his processed lunch pervades the room. The Glade or whatever is liberaly sprayed around and in the direction of the source. I almost felt a touch of sympathy for him.

After Dioveti's 'lesson', interupted by phone calls, minions, faxes, etc I occasionally have a lesson with his daughter who is employed by the firm. Mainly a discussion lesson, she waffles on about her thrilling social life and lack of finances. I hesitate to bring up the fact that she has to suffer the drive to work in a black BMW SUV. She uses the term 'tirarsela', which I fail to understand. I gather it has something to do with females brushing-off male approaches. And slightly vulgar. This escapes me. It must be an Italian nuance which can't be accurately translated.

Anyway, this weekend I intend to do nothing but watch movies, drink red wine, eat Pocket Coffees and sleep on my afternoon sun-soaked bed. While looking out of the window I saw this liitle beauty on the window ledge. I have no idea what it is but I kind of like his markings and slow, deliberate movements. I took a photo of his brother earlier in the year; he was on the outside of the glass and wonderfully silhouetted against the sky. Maybe I will post it in the future.

Foodie Heaven

And so my visitor's holiday comes to an end. Florence, right, was beautiful and didn't disappoint. The crowds, the buildings, the sculpture, the art. What more could a culture vulture ask for? Complaining of fewer tourists would be somewhat hypocritical, so I won't. The train ride home was a classic Italian experience. Double booked seats by a school group of loud teenagers - only thirty or so, and a group of pensioners. Much verbal dexterity ensued as to the interpretation of their respective ticket details and finally the inspector was called to arbitrate, much to the detriment of the old folks who were left standing on a packed Sunday evening train. As indeed was I.
One of the many things which I think makes this country worth living in is the quality of eating establishments. One such, Ermes, has been going for forty-three years and is a local institution. It's tiny and noisily jam-packed every lunch time with locals and the odd wised-up tourist. Family run, and embodying many factors which that phrase implies, it is a treasure. Even we, on our alien-like visit, were made to feel welcome with arms around shoulders and jocularity all round from the neighbouring tables and the larger-than-life proprietor. Dishes are hearty, simple and embody the Slow Food movement's philosophy. For fifteen euros we had a first, a second, a dessert, water, coffee, bread, coperto, and even had to reluctantly decline the sleep-inducing Lambrusco due to work obligations.
The town was having its annual food celebration and promotion festival last weekend and in the central piazza a large marquee was erected for local wine, vinegar, and cheese producers to display their goods. A stage held recipe demos by local chefs and the crowds clamoured for samples of cooked fare.
My friend is besotted with this country. Living in the north east of England, it's hardly surprising. I studied there for three years and fully understand his culture shock and the inevitable comparisons.
This evening I had Si-mo-na for two hours. The lesson fully was taken up with reading and correcting her conference medical report. Its substance was that of medical diagnostics and various clinical trial results involving breast, rectal, and colon cancers. An enjoyable evening was had by all. I fear for my dreams this evening.

Dino and the Boys

Another visit to Maranello is prompted by a friend visiting from England. The Ferrari museum is wonderful and there are many fine examples of the cars made down the years. My favourite has to be the Dino, pictured. This was the only Ferrari to leave the factory without the famous prancing horse badge affixed to the bodywork. My friend is greatly impressed. Onward to Castelvetro for a mosey around the Castle and giant chessboard before a fantastic lunch in Hostaria del Rio. Following this small town we continued to another, Spilamberto: the true home of Balsamic vinegar. There's an antique market underway and it's spider-like spread is addicitively absorbing and time consuming. In the evening to a live art-jazz thing at a local gallery. An artist is improvising on a piece of ten by five canvas while a quartet do the same on drums, woodwind, keys and double bass. It's quite okay despite what the mind might be inclined to conjure up.
The week thus far lesson-wise has been fairly standard: Dioveti; the designers and windy Leo; a new, tourist-English 63 year old. Dioveti is looking for a front office English speaker and he invited a young lad into the lesson to exchange a few words. The present perfect was problematic, and he told me he was ninety years old! He only looked late teens or early twenties a the most.
I'm cheesed-out, as you could say. My Anglo-Saxon visitor is quite taken with the various wares on offer of a comestible nature in the town's food emporia. I'm sure that I've never eaten as much cheese as during the last few days: Taleggio, buffalo mozzeralla, Parmigiano Reggiano, something else delightfully creamy and so on...
Group lessons are finally starting next week. I need the money after this ruinously bankrupting period in trattorie, pizzerie and enoteche.

Mourning in the morning

Your correspondent is reeling. The bicycle he purchased four weeks ago is no longer in his possession. (The photograph on the left is not of his bicycle; he never got round to immortalising it in the 'darkroom'.) It is his own fault, to a degree. Such a fine machine surely demanded a better security device than that which he employed. He used a U-lock with a previous contraption which exceeded the value of the transport two-fold. Mourning is what he is going through. In broad daylight it happened, no less! He reports having returned from a sortie to the local food emporium, otherwise known as 'the coop', and deposited his chariot of freedom in front of the condominium, chained to the steel fence. Upon leaving said building two or so hours later it had vanished. Only the feeble remnants of a sub-par Italian padlock remained. He walked to his lesson, on the tipping point of violence should the culprit, unexpectedly, present himself. He has made a promise to be vigilant for lurking undesirables on the street, and to purchase a cheaper bicycle with a better lock. Porca miseria!
Still, onward!
A friend arrives today from the Sceptred Isle for a short visit. I've managed to cancel or move lessons around to allocate more time together. No doubt my piggy bank will be seriously depleted seven days from now.

Lonely Woman

And so to Ornette Coleman. The seventy-six year old free jazz godfather is in the area on a mini tour, reprising some of his old works. He has a very distinctive sound which is obtained, I believe, from a plastic alto saxophone. He also compliments some tunes with trumpet and violin. As an encore he plays a wonderful fifteen or so minute version of one of his most famous numbers, Lonely Woman. Mid-way through this, on strolls a petite woman dressed in black: Patti Smith. She contributes on voice for this track and the following one, Black Coffee. Jazztastic.
Feeling impatient and a little carefree I take the short cut in the car to the apartment. Big mistake. The traffic inspectors are in town and looking for easy blood. The fifty metre stretch of bus and taxi-only lane are a fertile income stream as I've seen them at work here before. Another twenty feet or so (I know, I know - Italy's metric: but I'm British God damn it!) and I'd have been clear of them... The guy right in front of me gets points and a €71 fine; for some reason I get half that amount and no points... Anyway, in forty minutes I have a lesson teaching the bosses at the local transport service - the very people whose bus lane I was so flagrantly abusing. I sat down and while awaiting the other of my students, I innocently mention that I've just been fined. Now, when I got the fine I thought it was the police, but no, they were the employees of this organisation. Loose student enters and gets the gen from the other and promptly vanishes with my fine. Five minutes later and my fine is history. In less than an hour I had received the fine and had it cancelled. I duly reciprocated the favour by giving no homework whatsoever.

My designers were feeling frisky.
'We use 'may' in questions in the first person singular and plural.'
Asking Oriana to think of an example prompted:
'May we kiss?'
Well, they are Italian. She leant across the table to Roberto, opposite, and despite my English embarrassment, did exactly that.
Leo emitted another foul fart and the room fell silent.

Sound Grammar

We've just watched Roman Holiday. Wonderful. Hepburn is divine, Peck perfect. Almost makes one yearn to move to the Eternal City in a po-mo attempt to recreate the mise-en-scene so well evoked of a time which,no doubt, never existed outside the imaginations of Hollywood producers. Still...
Lesson cancellations are a mixed blessing. One thinks, 'Is it because of my teaching that he/she has cancelled?'. Usually it's because of a meeting, extra work, travel etc. On the other hand if they cancel within twenty-four hours of the lesson, I get paid and they lose the lesson.
I'm looking forward to an Ornette Coleman concert over the weekend. Promoting his new CD entitled 'Sound Grammar', which sounds like a challenge. Mid-seventies and still touring: is this his last tour you have to ask yourself. I last saw him in the mid-nineties in London at the Festival Hall from a distance of around 300 feet. Hopefully this time will be more intimate. A four piece, with his son on drums so it should be.
Still waiting for the group lessons to start. I will post when they get under way the week after next, the secretary advises me.

One Ferrari, two Ferraris, three Ferraris, Four.

Returning to my apartment the wrong way up the one-way street, as is my wont, I hear the unmistakable rumble of the high performance engine. The restless, chomping-at-the-bit burble always sends a shiver and gives me goosebumps. Five F430s, one by one, in a row down the street. I don't know why. Two red, one yellow, one black, one grey. Others in the street didn't bat an eyelid. One of the many reasons I find this country so charming is that one can see such a thing on a normal weekday afternoon.
Coffee at the best place in town. A caffeine high carries me through the working day. Moris, the bar owner loves Ferrari and the walls of his establishment are testament to this; memorabilia, old slick tyres, a steering wheel, autographed photos etc. He shrugged when I told him of my sighting.
'This is Italy...'
And he isn't wrong.