January, IT SNOWED. In England. Where we live. Enough to close the schools, roads, cause general chaos and enable the papers to bemoan the general lack of ability of Brits to deal with extreme weather. In Magenta it didn’t. Well it did a little bit in the evenings. Only enough to make the roofs white and pretty, but not school closing levels.
And then we had fog. For days. Fog that was so thick we couldn’t see bell tower 50 metres away. Fog that was so thick every morning for about half an hour it would snow fog. And then freeze. January has been horrible in Magenta, and apart from one trip to Milan (which was admittedly to visit the Last Supper and was completely amazing, and humbling in equal measure, and all 4 of us want to go back) we have been stuck in Magenta with the fog.
Small boy's reaction was to go down with a week long ‘not quite right but not sure what’s wrong’ bug. I got a new set of (very good) kitchen knives for Christams (we had been waiting for the sales- they didn't reduce in price), generally sulked about the lack of sun and the other 2 tripped along fairly happily. Being the new and very proud owner of a decent set of grown up kitchen knives I decided to not ask for my bread to be sliced at IPER. I would do it myself, with my lovely new coltello di pane. Which worked very well; right up to the point where I sliced my index finger- a lot. Being the sort of woman who won’t let a bit of blood interfere with lunch I wrapped my finger with kitchen roll, took a small nic out of the sliced bread and carried on with my salad & bread. An hour later I texted my sister-in-law in Holland who is a first-aid trainer and general Dutch emergency plan back-up call-out operative with the question ‘How long should a finger bleed b4 going to hospital?’ Then having organised husband to come home from Milan and sick boy to pick up girl from school, I drove up the hospital with a still bleeding index finger whilst memorising the phrase ‘I have cut my finger with a knife and it’s been bleeding for an hour and a half’. Given the Italian A&E system seems fairly similar to the British system I fully expected to be up the hospital for a good couple of hours if not more. I took my Venice DK book with me as that is our next ‘mini-break’.
Having lived in Magenta for 10 months I am quite expert finding my way around the hospital. Certainly I am better than trying to find my way round Frimley Park hospital where I have had my 2 babies and its been my local hospital for 19 years. So I happily trip into A&E, thankful that as well as my newly acquired words I have a great visual aid in a bloody finger wrapped in kitchen roll. An Italian man did push in in front of me, but he did look really upset and I understood the figlio (son) and I did feel very pathetic with my finger so I wasn’t about to start an argument.
Well given that I graded myself a white i.e. completely not a priority patient I was prepared to wait a certain length of time before being seen but I did not expect to be walked straight into see a (gorgeous Italian) doctor who treated me immediately. I felt completely stupid repeating the story, and having to relay the ‘Yes I live here; no, my husband is British; he works in Milano; I have lived here for 10 months: cue ‘your Italian is Brava’ response.
So some freezing spray, 20 minutes and 3 stitches later I was out. Pining for the lovely, touch your knee as I talk to you, bedside manner ,that seemed to be the Italian way.
These knives are good, I need to be careful.
Two weeks into the fog and going slightly crazy with boredom I decided to make marmalade. Oranges are 49cents a kilo in IPER, and I need a new challenge. My marmalade making got off to a shaky start when I forgot to buy sugar. Given there are only 4 ingredients to marmalade including water this is not looking good, but undaunted after coffee one morning I re-routed myself to the co-op, purchased the necessary ingredients and then continued my route home.
Husband and son were both off with random man/boy flu bug, so I shut myself in the kitchen and started on the marmalade.
When fruit is as cheap as 49cents a kilo, it is sold in 6 kilo boxes. This equates to about 35 oranges. My recipe for marmalade required 1 kilo of oranges. That is 7 oranges. They were however dutifully halved, squeezed of juice, and cut into thickish peel. This took the best part of an hour. Even with new very sharp knives. I was possibly slowed by the lack of a left index finger in the chopping of the oranges. When the end was in sight of the orange chopping phrase I sliced my left thumb with the knife recreating an almost perfect semi-circle right on the tip of the thumb. I yelped with the pain as orange juice was also seeping into the wound and frustration. With 2 other people in the house I was all alone in trying to stem the flow of blood. Neither husband nor son moved, but did look up from the telly as I sprang from the kitchen to the bathroom looking for another plaster.
Thankfully the oranges were blood oranges so there was no discolouration issue from the (probably) small drop of blood that may have ended up in the pan when I resumed my cooking.
So left thumb and index finger down I finished chopping the peel and having brought the pan to the boil let it simmer for 2 hours or until the peel is soft (squeeze between your finger and thumb to test). I am following Delia’s recipe with quick glances at Nigella and James Martin to compare.
2 hours of bubbling orange peel can go to your head. I started to get a headache and was downing mugs of tea to keep going. Just as it reached lunchtime and 2 hungry boys appeared at the door and started pottering around the kitchen during the peel test, which incidentally burns the only working thumb and index finger I now have. The peel was soft and I had reached the ‘add the sugar; bring to the boil and rapid boil for 10 minutes stage’. My ever supportive husband at this stage asked whether forking out for Tiptree was possibly worth it. He got a hard stare. 4 plates were placed in the freezer as instructed. The sugar boiling stage made me nauseous, and I kept having to go onto the balcony for fresh air. The 10 minutes rapid boil turned into 35 minutes. Nowhere in any of the recipe books are the questions 1) do you stir the boiling sugar mass and 2) how do you stop the bottom burning answered. I would occasionally stir the boiling sugar mass and I have no answer for the burnt bottom except that soaking overnight does mean the burnt bits come off more easily.
A funnel is handy but not essential apparently for marmalade making. Ladling marmalade into jars whose necks are smaller than the ladle is a skill I mastered by the last jar. For the last jar read 4th jar. So five hours, a cut thumb (that quite possibly was in need of a stitch but digits would have to be hanging off before I made another appearance at the Ospedale), a stonking headache, 27 other oranges to get through, a very burnt pan to clean and I had made 4 jars of marmalade. 4 big jars I grant you but still.
The marmalade tastes fine, but generally I only have marmalade at weekends being a MARMITE girl during the week. The children are nutella or marmite on toast kids. Hugh only has toast at the weekends.
Tiptree is €4.49 a jar here. It may well be worth it.
I found a frozen plate in the freezer today. It was quietly placed back in the cupboard.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Poste Italiane
Depending on your point of view today was either a very bad day, or a good day for learning Italian. The day started with a standard Italian lesson or coffee with my mums’ as I prefer to call it. Today was quite a short lesson, finishing soon after the coffee, which had also started early on account of the bad weather driving us indoors to the coffee shop before the seemingly obligatory 20 minutes standing in the cold talking before repairing to the said coffee shop to continue said conversation. So from ten past nine I was free.
My little task of the day was to find where some parcels were. I knew that they had arrived in Magenta courtesy of a little post office note put through the door. I also knew that 3 parcels had been posted before Christmas so had been awaiting a note for some time. Off to the Post Office I went. Having collected my correct queuing ticket I was informed the parcels were not at the Post Office. They were giro and sinestra and other Italian type directions I couldn’t quite get but gamely I left the post office and walked around the building. The only thing I could understand on the little note was 31. It was obviously at no. 31 somewhere and the post office was no. 29 so I was close. Well obviously I was wrong. Having giroed and sinestraed for longer I found the post office DEPOT. Not the post office. Obviously. So armed with my little note clearly on show I wandered purposely into the depot. One of the phrases I remembered from my instructions to get to the depot was a small window to speak through, so I slowed upon reaching the sorting office complete with big plastic NOT PUBLIC type doors, but I had the foresight to Buon Guornio the post lady I recognised.
In the UK, there is a place for the public to collect the parcels the post office have been (through obviously no fault of their own) unable to deliver. Not so here. Why would anyone expect a place for the public in the sorting office.
The post lady also recognised me, which given I have never spoken to her and I only see her from my balcony delivering post to the posh block behind me, is impressive.
‘Signora McManoos?’ ‘Si’ and I hand out my card. ‘Iononavutoblablablablabla’ as she strode off at a firm pace, towards the big plastic doors. ‘Prego’ and I was in a sorting office. Complete with little compartments for every house in Magneta. How exciting. I smiled my ‘Hi I am friendly, but completely at a loss as to what’s going on’ smile and ‘Si a veróed’ a couple of remarks from the other posties in the warehouse. Two minutes later I was the proud owner of 4 parcels from dear old Blighty. That were posted last year, before Christmas, for Christmas. It’s the 19th of January today.
So far, so normal a day. I have had my bit of excitement. I have a dentist appointment booked for later for a filling. I have learned the corresponding filling, injection, ow words in Italian for the appointment.
I make Secret Ingredient Tomato Soup for lunch (carrots) and complete with new presents await the arrival of my dearly beloved boy home from school for lunch.
Cutting bread is normally such an innocuous activity, not normally one to get excited about. But when you have a new set of proper grown up kitchen knives it is lovely. Until you end up half slicing your left index finger off.
Being very British I don’t have the right sort of plaster or gauze or whatever it is you need for a deep cut, but kitchen roll sees me though lunch. But an hour and a half later when it is still bleeding and having put in a phonecall to my emergency backup /critical incident/first aid trained sister in law I decide to go to hospital for a stitch. I have visions of being there for hours on the grounds that it is completely minor, but having organised 11year old boy to pick up 8 year old daughter from school and get husband on route home so the children aren’t abandoned I set off.
Well, I’m out in 20 minutes having seen a lovely doctor with gorgeous eyes and a fabulous bedside manner and 3 stitches and a comedy bandage on my finger. And the ability to say ‘I have cut my finger with a bread knife and its’ been bleeding for an hour and a half’ in Italian. Allora.
Only the dentist to go, where I dutifully explain that I have cut my finger on a bread knife and it bled (I may have got the tense wrong in translation) for an hour and a half, and no I am not on any medication because of it and yes I will be fine. So then I end up with a huge filling and a numb mouth to cap off my day.
I’ve had 2 bits of toast and a very very large brandy for tea tonight. And an Ibuprofen. It’s probably not a recommended diet. But my finger and tooth don’t hurt anymore. And I have learnt some new words.
My little task of the day was to find where some parcels were. I knew that they had arrived in Magenta courtesy of a little post office note put through the door. I also knew that 3 parcels had been posted before Christmas so had been awaiting a note for some time. Off to the Post Office I went. Having collected my correct queuing ticket I was informed the parcels were not at the Post Office. They were giro and sinestra and other Italian type directions I couldn’t quite get but gamely I left the post office and walked around the building. The only thing I could understand on the little note was 31. It was obviously at no. 31 somewhere and the post office was no. 29 so I was close. Well obviously I was wrong. Having giroed and sinestraed for longer I found the post office DEPOT. Not the post office. Obviously. So armed with my little note clearly on show I wandered purposely into the depot. One of the phrases I remembered from my instructions to get to the depot was a small window to speak through, so I slowed upon reaching the sorting office complete with big plastic NOT PUBLIC type doors, but I had the foresight to Buon Guornio the post lady I recognised.
In the UK, there is a place for the public to collect the parcels the post office have been (through obviously no fault of their own) unable to deliver. Not so here. Why would anyone expect a place for the public in the sorting office.
The post lady also recognised me, which given I have never spoken to her and I only see her from my balcony delivering post to the posh block behind me, is impressive.
‘Signora McManoos?’ ‘Si’ and I hand out my card. ‘Iononavutoblablablablabla’ as she strode off at a firm pace, towards the big plastic doors. ‘Prego’ and I was in a sorting office. Complete with little compartments for every house in Magneta. How exciting. I smiled my ‘Hi I am friendly, but completely at a loss as to what’s going on’ smile and ‘Si a veróed’ a couple of remarks from the other posties in the warehouse. Two minutes later I was the proud owner of 4 parcels from dear old Blighty. That were posted last year, before Christmas, for Christmas. It’s the 19th of January today.
So far, so normal a day. I have had my bit of excitement. I have a dentist appointment booked for later for a filling. I have learned the corresponding filling, injection, ow words in Italian for the appointment.
I make Secret Ingredient Tomato Soup for lunch (carrots) and complete with new presents await the arrival of my dearly beloved boy home from school for lunch.
Cutting bread is normally such an innocuous activity, not normally one to get excited about. But when you have a new set of proper grown up kitchen knives it is lovely. Until you end up half slicing your left index finger off.
Being very British I don’t have the right sort of plaster or gauze or whatever it is you need for a deep cut, but kitchen roll sees me though lunch. But an hour and a half later when it is still bleeding and having put in a phonecall to my emergency backup /critical incident/first aid trained sister in law I decide to go to hospital for a stitch. I have visions of being there for hours on the grounds that it is completely minor, but having organised 11year old boy to pick up 8 year old daughter from school and get husband on route home so the children aren’t abandoned I set off.
Well, I’m out in 20 minutes having seen a lovely doctor with gorgeous eyes and a fabulous bedside manner and 3 stitches and a comedy bandage on my finger. And the ability to say ‘I have cut my finger with a bread knife and its’ been bleeding for an hour and a half’ in Italian. Allora.
Only the dentist to go, where I dutifully explain that I have cut my finger on a bread knife and it bled (I may have got the tense wrong in translation) for an hour and a half, and no I am not on any medication because of it and yes I will be fine. So then I end up with a huge filling and a numb mouth to cap off my day.
I’ve had 2 bits of toast and a very very large brandy for tea tonight. And an Ibuprofen. It’s probably not a recommended diet. But my finger and tooth don’t hurt anymore. And I have learnt some new words.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Bloody Laurie Lee
I have unsurprisingly in the last few months taken more than an avid interest in travel books and other people’s ability to grasp a foreign language.
I only have one language qualification from school. A made up by Lady Mary High School or possibly Cardiff Education Authority Spanish certificate, of which grade 1 and 2 were achievable. I remember the aural vividly. Sat in the hall by the stage whilst being questioned in Cardiffian Spanish what my address and telephone number where. Spanish people we were told say their phone numbers in tens ie, thirty nine, twenty four, eighty three. It was easier for me to make up my phone number so it was zero two, zero four, zero nine. My teachers’ eyebrows queried my reply but nevertheless I became the proud owner of a grade 2 Spanish certificate. The first in my family to have a foreign language qualification, and too open my eyes to the opportunity of the big wide world- not. It remains my only language qualification, and I have never visited Spain.
Laurie Lee famously did visit Spain and when explaining learning the language he poetically describes how slowly words became understood and people patiently listening to his efforts.
Well I can attest to the patience of others whilst I struggle to remember the word for hot, take (of which there are at least 6) food, rain etc. My friends have been endlessly patient with me, and have amazingly not got bored of my pathetic attempts at their language and dumped me. Correcting my mistakes, translating normal Italian into basic, easy to understand, s l o w Italian and speaking on my behalf when I am asked a question, a) I generally don’t understand and b) I can’t reply with all the words required.
But Laurie managed in one sentence to boast that actually he hadn’t had that much problem with the language and given that the rural Spaniards would have spoken no English in the early 1930’s I think he was lying, or at least had forgotten just how hard it was.
Learning to speaking a language is, you are often told, is in stages. Like a baby. However, unlike a baby I have had to communicate with plumbers and shop assistants and doctors so the stages have needed to improve quickly and not quickly enough for my liking.
The first stage is an endless babble of words, spokenatbreakneckspeedofwhichyouhaveabsolutelynochanceofrecognisinganywordorphraseexcept perhaps the word caffe. The first word I genuinely learnt out here was cappuccino. It is not pronounced ‘capp o chi no’ here but ‘ca poo cho’. It remains the most important word I know. To sit in a coffee bar surrounded by people who are willing to put time and effort into being your friend in the knowledge that you are nothing but hard work is a very humbling experience and one I hope makes me a nicer person (doubtful). Even being told people’s names is too much. It took me 6 weeks to work out all the women who I met at the school gate names. And I spoke to them every day: well I stood and listened, and then one of them would ask me in English and explain the conversation.
Next comes a recognition that Italians do actually breathe whilst talking and certain words stand out and are understandable. It may only be one word in a paragraph, but dottore, influenza, iper (the supermarket and my second home here) and scuola mean that you have an idea of the subject being spoken about. But beyond that nothing. You start to si and no and continue to smile gamely during coffee and conversations. You need a translator next to you to explain the conversation.
The next stage is that you start you understand some of the new words you have learnt during lessons such as cucina (kitchen), zaino (rucksack- obviously). The words similar in Italian and English start to become more recognisable, and when saying a word you don’t know in Italian (ie most of them) you add an o or mente or ale on to the end in the hope it turns said English word into an Italian word; for example rarely becomes raramente, peculiar is peculiarle and my particular favourite –spectacturale. This works a good 80% of the time, but you still don’t understand what people are talking about. You need a translator next to you.
Conversing over coffee is a finely tuned art in Italy as you can imagine. Normally 5 or 6 mothers descend on the coffee shop each morning for a caffe macchiato and for me, a daily Italian lesson. There are some weekly attendees and the more occasional visitor’s to our morning ritual. Eight is alot. Eight means at least 9 conversations around the table and as I am fairly mute during the proceedings 2 people are busy. It won’t be the same 2 people. The second conversation is a moving dialogue, which starts as one conversation and then moves, not always in a circular motion missing some who are deep in conversation with someone on the opposite side of the table. ‘Ascolta’ is used frequently, as is ‘escua mi’ as disagreements and common ground are discussed with great passion. My only decision is to decide which conversation I am going to look as if I understand and then attempt to follow. Frequently conversations are based on Italian news and if I keep up to date with the news I can hazard a guess at the conversation. The Earthquake was a complete boon as it happened 3 weeks after we arrived and as you can imagine it dominated the news and conversations for a good few weeks. It came just before Easter and whilst wandering around the local Supermarket on Good Friday we had 2 minutes silence. Well everyone but Tara & I had 2 minutes silence. We were deep in conversation about what crisps she was likely to like when Tudor nudged us and said ‘They just said silenzio, suush’. ‘What for?’ I whispered back looking around me and noticing that indeed all was quiet. ‘Is it for Jesus or the earthquake?’ ‘I don’t know’ was the irate reply ‘I just heard silenzio’. This being Italy I could quite believe that a supermarket would have 2 minutes silence for Jesus on Good Friday but it turns out I was wrong. It was for the Earthquake victims.
Influenza A or Swine Flu to the Brits has also been a good conversation topic. Britain having had the first wave of Flu I was considered an expert especially when I regaled the tale of some friends getting Swine Flu. Thanks to my poor Italian my initial impression of the flu was that you vomited for 2 weeks which was a little extreme. Further interrogation established that the vomiting was only for a couple of days, the weakness lasted for 2 weeks. With such conversations my Italian improved.
I am now at the ‘I can understand the words but not the meaning’ stage. This means that I will get what words they are saying- anche, solo, capito, pero, abbiamo, era, maestra, but what all the words strung together mean is anyone’s guess. This is fine if I am just following a conversation, but the minute a specific question is asked of me I flounder or si when I should no, or I should be giving an opinion. Sentences are opposite structured here confusing it is very. I think I need to start watching Star Wars more to see that little chap talk more. I may understand more then. I can ask basic questions in Italian in shops or the hospital but flounder at the reply. However I still come across the deeply frustrating scenario where I ask for an item – latte (milk) and having been ‘non capitoed’ a number of times I get a oh latte repeated back to me in the exact same way I initially said it. And I can only speak Italian or understand after my first coffee with my mums- nothing before, just a Ciao or Buongiorno and a game smile.
I hope to reach the ‘Nearly understanding the language’ stage soon, but who knows. With each stage I cannot imagine improving or understanding more but slowly I might get there. One day I might be able to say ‘ Well I improved slowly but surely’. But how slowly may become a distant memory, but I doubt it. The frustration and embarrassment will be burned on my brain forever.
Signora McManoos
I only have one language qualification from school. A made up by Lady Mary High School or possibly Cardiff Education Authority Spanish certificate, of which grade 1 and 2 were achievable. I remember the aural vividly. Sat in the hall by the stage whilst being questioned in Cardiffian Spanish what my address and telephone number where. Spanish people we were told say their phone numbers in tens ie, thirty nine, twenty four, eighty three. It was easier for me to make up my phone number so it was zero two, zero four, zero nine. My teachers’ eyebrows queried my reply but nevertheless I became the proud owner of a grade 2 Spanish certificate. The first in my family to have a foreign language qualification, and too open my eyes to the opportunity of the big wide world- not. It remains my only language qualification, and I have never visited Spain.
Laurie Lee famously did visit Spain and when explaining learning the language he poetically describes how slowly words became understood and people patiently listening to his efforts.
Well I can attest to the patience of others whilst I struggle to remember the word for hot, take (of which there are at least 6) food, rain etc. My friends have been endlessly patient with me, and have amazingly not got bored of my pathetic attempts at their language and dumped me. Correcting my mistakes, translating normal Italian into basic, easy to understand, s l o w Italian and speaking on my behalf when I am asked a question, a) I generally don’t understand and b) I can’t reply with all the words required.
But Laurie managed in one sentence to boast that actually he hadn’t had that much problem with the language and given that the rural Spaniards would have spoken no English in the early 1930’s I think he was lying, or at least had forgotten just how hard it was.
Learning to speaking a language is, you are often told, is in stages. Like a baby. However, unlike a baby I have had to communicate with plumbers and shop assistants and doctors so the stages have needed to improve quickly and not quickly enough for my liking.
The first stage is an endless babble of words, spokenatbreakneckspeedofwhichyouhaveabsolutelynochanceofrecognisinganywordorphraseexcept perhaps the word caffe. The first word I genuinely learnt out here was cappuccino. It is not pronounced ‘capp o chi no’ here but ‘ca poo cho’. It remains the most important word I know. To sit in a coffee bar surrounded by people who are willing to put time and effort into being your friend in the knowledge that you are nothing but hard work is a very humbling experience and one I hope makes me a nicer person (doubtful). Even being told people’s names is too much. It took me 6 weeks to work out all the women who I met at the school gate names. And I spoke to them every day: well I stood and listened, and then one of them would ask me in English and explain the conversation.
Next comes a recognition that Italians do actually breathe whilst talking and certain words stand out and are understandable. It may only be one word in a paragraph, but dottore, influenza, iper (the supermarket and my second home here) and scuola mean that you have an idea of the subject being spoken about. But beyond that nothing. You start to si and no and continue to smile gamely during coffee and conversations. You need a translator next to you to explain the conversation.
The next stage is that you start you understand some of the new words you have learnt during lessons such as cucina (kitchen), zaino (rucksack- obviously). The words similar in Italian and English start to become more recognisable, and when saying a word you don’t know in Italian (ie most of them) you add an o or mente or ale on to the end in the hope it turns said English word into an Italian word; for example rarely becomes raramente, peculiar is peculiarle and my particular favourite –spectacturale. This works a good 80% of the time, but you still don’t understand what people are talking about. You need a translator next to you.
Conversing over coffee is a finely tuned art in Italy as you can imagine. Normally 5 or 6 mothers descend on the coffee shop each morning for a caffe macchiato and for me, a daily Italian lesson. There are some weekly attendees and the more occasional visitor’s to our morning ritual. Eight is alot. Eight means at least 9 conversations around the table and as I am fairly mute during the proceedings 2 people are busy. It won’t be the same 2 people. The second conversation is a moving dialogue, which starts as one conversation and then moves, not always in a circular motion missing some who are deep in conversation with someone on the opposite side of the table. ‘Ascolta’ is used frequently, as is ‘escua mi’ as disagreements and common ground are discussed with great passion. My only decision is to decide which conversation I am going to look as if I understand and then attempt to follow. Frequently conversations are based on Italian news and if I keep up to date with the news I can hazard a guess at the conversation. The Earthquake was a complete boon as it happened 3 weeks after we arrived and as you can imagine it dominated the news and conversations for a good few weeks. It came just before Easter and whilst wandering around the local Supermarket on Good Friday we had 2 minutes silence. Well everyone but Tara & I had 2 minutes silence. We were deep in conversation about what crisps she was likely to like when Tudor nudged us and said ‘They just said silenzio, suush’. ‘What for?’ I whispered back looking around me and noticing that indeed all was quiet. ‘Is it for Jesus or the earthquake?’ ‘I don’t know’ was the irate reply ‘I just heard silenzio’. This being Italy I could quite believe that a supermarket would have 2 minutes silence for Jesus on Good Friday but it turns out I was wrong. It was for the Earthquake victims.
Influenza A or Swine Flu to the Brits has also been a good conversation topic. Britain having had the first wave of Flu I was considered an expert especially when I regaled the tale of some friends getting Swine Flu. Thanks to my poor Italian my initial impression of the flu was that you vomited for 2 weeks which was a little extreme. Further interrogation established that the vomiting was only for a couple of days, the weakness lasted for 2 weeks. With such conversations my Italian improved.
I am now at the ‘I can understand the words but not the meaning’ stage. This means that I will get what words they are saying- anche, solo, capito, pero, abbiamo, era, maestra, but what all the words strung together mean is anyone’s guess. This is fine if I am just following a conversation, but the minute a specific question is asked of me I flounder or si when I should no, or I should be giving an opinion. Sentences are opposite structured here confusing it is very. I think I need to start watching Star Wars more to see that little chap talk more. I may understand more then. I can ask basic questions in Italian in shops or the hospital but flounder at the reply. However I still come across the deeply frustrating scenario where I ask for an item – latte (milk) and having been ‘non capitoed’ a number of times I get a oh latte repeated back to me in the exact same way I initially said it. And I can only speak Italian or understand after my first coffee with my mums- nothing before, just a Ciao or Buongiorno and a game smile.
I hope to reach the ‘Nearly understanding the language’ stage soon, but who knows. With each stage I cannot imagine improving or understanding more but slowly I might get there. One day I might be able to say ‘ Well I improved slowly but surely’. But how slowly may become a distant memory, but I doubt it. The frustration and embarrassment will be burned on my brain forever.
Signora McManoos
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Natale in Magenta
Typical- we move to a country more likely to produce snow on Christmas Day and the whole of Europe- including the UK turns white the week before Christmas
It’s been strange being so far from home at Christmas, but Praise the Lord for Skype. I seem to have spent most of my time on the computer chatting to friends back home.
Christmas really began here for me with school assembly which is a good traditional place to start. Less usual was it being held on a Saturday morning in the outdoor tent just outside the school. It had also snowed heavily overnight and fog had descended over Magenta. Undeterred Tara & I donned our salopettes, thick winter jackets, gloves and hats. I had 2 scarves on which may seem excessive but I was cosy. The blokes in the family rolled their eyes at our yeti outfits but I was vindicated when having trekked the 3 minute walk to the tent I saw another woman equally attired.
School assemblies are the same the world over. The first year group stood up with 4 large cards with P E R U on them. ‘Ah ah’ I thought, ‘countries of the world’. Slightly bemused as to the relevance of Peru to the birth of Jesus, but I was willing to go with it. The next country was N N A T. Now my Italian is not brilliant but I know there are no words beginning with NN in the Italian language and there are no countries beginning with NN either, well not to my knowledge. Turns out the posters say ‘Per Un Natale Migliore’, for a better Christmas. Each class did a turn and in the grand honoured tradition of assemblies one class had to play the recorders. They are no better played in Italian than in English which is re-assuring.
Two hours later, with a brief unofficial break at the coffee bar the other side of the piazza the assembly finished with a rendition of ‘We are the world’ and all the parents joined in. After 9 months here, I was stood arm in arm with one of my Italian friends (we were trying to keep warm) singing away and of course I was in tears that I had after all the hard work, made some lovely friends, my language skills were coming on albeit slowly and I was feeling fairly settled here.
Snow on a flood plain does not leave much scope for sledging down hills; albeit we have the Alps as a backdrop but they are not immediately available after a snow storm, but the park is good for snow angels and snow rugby.
The crib in the piazza has become more authentically Christmassy by the addition of snow and ice in the manger. I have resisted the urge to cut holly from the decoration around the crib, it being the only holly I can find around here. Although given the amount of foliage around the crib I feel I could cut a couple of sprigs without anyone noticing, it was succinctly pointed out to me that God would notice so this year we are holly free in the house.
There are a number of cribs around the town, our favourite has been voted as the crib in the military camp where the crib has been expanded to include a few houses from Bethlehem and placed between 2 decommissioned field guns.
Christmas Eve not unsurprisingly heralds bells from San Martino. They began at 10pm, and were fairly continuous until gone midnight.
Christmas Day here has been fairly normal for Christmas. The children were up at 6.30 and had the presents opened by quarter past seven. We went for our Christmas walk minus the dog, and only around the town as it was too foggy to venture anywhere beautiful. The oven performed well enough to cook the turkey, but thanks to the quirks of the flat when I blow dried my hair I had to turn the oven off so I didn’t blow the electrics. Which also meant I didn’t get a cup of tea once the oven was on and breakfast was over, which in turn meant I started on the Prosecco slightly earlier than normal, so it wasn’t all bad!
The sun came out at midday and started to melt the snow, and for 10 minutes in the sun it felt a tiny bit warm. I did want to eat Christmas Dinner out on the balcony but I am using it the moment as my other fridge at the moment so it probably wise that we stayed indoors.
It does feel like we are a thousand miles from home, but as a one off its fine. And I think I will look back with fondness at my Christmas in Magenta.
Buon Natale
Signora McManoos
It’s been strange being so far from home at Christmas, but Praise the Lord for Skype. I seem to have spent most of my time on the computer chatting to friends back home.
Christmas really began here for me with school assembly which is a good traditional place to start. Less usual was it being held on a Saturday morning in the outdoor tent just outside the school. It had also snowed heavily overnight and fog had descended over Magenta. Undeterred Tara & I donned our salopettes, thick winter jackets, gloves and hats. I had 2 scarves on which may seem excessive but I was cosy. The blokes in the family rolled their eyes at our yeti outfits but I was vindicated when having trekked the 3 minute walk to the tent I saw another woman equally attired.
School assemblies are the same the world over. The first year group stood up with 4 large cards with P E R U on them. ‘Ah ah’ I thought, ‘countries of the world’. Slightly bemused as to the relevance of Peru to the birth of Jesus, but I was willing to go with it. The next country was N N A T. Now my Italian is not brilliant but I know there are no words beginning with NN in the Italian language and there are no countries beginning with NN either, well not to my knowledge. Turns out the posters say ‘Per Un Natale Migliore’, for a better Christmas. Each class did a turn and in the grand honoured tradition of assemblies one class had to play the recorders. They are no better played in Italian than in English which is re-assuring.
Two hours later, with a brief unofficial break at the coffee bar the other side of the piazza the assembly finished with a rendition of ‘We are the world’ and all the parents joined in. After 9 months here, I was stood arm in arm with one of my Italian friends (we were trying to keep warm) singing away and of course I was in tears that I had after all the hard work, made some lovely friends, my language skills were coming on albeit slowly and I was feeling fairly settled here.
Snow on a flood plain does not leave much scope for sledging down hills; albeit we have the Alps as a backdrop but they are not immediately available after a snow storm, but the park is good for snow angels and snow rugby.
The crib in the piazza has become more authentically Christmassy by the addition of snow and ice in the manger. I have resisted the urge to cut holly from the decoration around the crib, it being the only holly I can find around here. Although given the amount of foliage around the crib I feel I could cut a couple of sprigs without anyone noticing, it was succinctly pointed out to me that God would notice so this year we are holly free in the house.
There are a number of cribs around the town, our favourite has been voted as the crib in the military camp where the crib has been expanded to include a few houses from Bethlehem and placed between 2 decommissioned field guns.
Christmas Eve not unsurprisingly heralds bells from San Martino. They began at 10pm, and were fairly continuous until gone midnight.
Christmas Day here has been fairly normal for Christmas. The children were up at 6.30 and had the presents opened by quarter past seven. We went for our Christmas walk minus the dog, and only around the town as it was too foggy to venture anywhere beautiful. The oven performed well enough to cook the turkey, but thanks to the quirks of the flat when I blow dried my hair I had to turn the oven off so I didn’t blow the electrics. Which also meant I didn’t get a cup of tea once the oven was on and breakfast was over, which in turn meant I started on the Prosecco slightly earlier than normal, so it wasn’t all bad!
The sun came out at midday and started to melt the snow, and for 10 minutes in the sun it felt a tiny bit warm. I did want to eat Christmas Dinner out on the balcony but I am using it the moment as my other fridge at the moment so it probably wise that we stayed indoors.
It does feel like we are a thousand miles from home, but as a one off its fine. And I think I will look back with fondness at my Christmas in Magenta.
Buon Natale
Signora McManoos
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
A sort of social life part 2
So having met one of the founding members of The English Club of Magenta I was fortunate enough to be invited out to an English Ladies night out, which involved pizza, wine and more importantly talking in my own language for a whole night. This proves an exciting a proposition for me and whilst getting ready I realise I haven’t worn make-up since arriving in Magenta: eyeliner and lip gloss do not count. The reason I realise this is because I cannot find my make-up. It takes me ages searching in the bathroom to finally find it in with the candles? Not sure where my thought process was going with that decision. I decide to wear my (not very) high heels, which with my grey jeans and LK Bennett top represent my smartest casual outfit. However I am still running round dishing out kisses and good nights when the bell rings and I am off down the stairs going out. For a meal. With girlfriends. In English. I rush so much that I practically fall down the last flight of stairs as my bootcut jeans and heels catch together. It is also the first time I have worn heels since arriving in Magenta.
I am driven the short distance to the restaurant and am introduced to the English Ladies, and one Dad who is over from England for a brief holiday. I am, as usual, on my best behaviour and am soon deep in polite conversation with my new found friends. I meet one woman who lived in Alresford as a child, at least 20 miles from Fleet and another who is the current organiser of events for the English Club. On hearing I am a Police Officer in my previous life in England she quickly signs me up for a talk to the Club about life as a Police Officer on the grounds it will be interesting. Knowing a) my career path and b) my speaking abilities I doubt it, but am far too British to refuse. We swap email addresses and within a week I am booked into the November slot for ‘My life as a Police Officer’. On the positive it is another night out and is in English. However, I have to prepare a talk. Power point is the answer and with a complete disregard for the title I gen up on the history of the police, the time line of police woman being allowed to join and our family history of policing which stretches back to 1912. Lots of photos of police officers, a few of me and some beautiful shots of Hampshire, a map of the area I work in and I am done. All bar the talking.
Not knowing my audience I am fairly nervous, but as they arrive I relax slightly. I know a few of them from the English Ladies night, there are a few Italians and I am speaking to no more than 30. It’s not unlike a neighbourhood watch meeting without the crime statistics. I start talking and am within 30 seconds completely in my element telling stories of my family, the history of policing, British police dramas and some stories of my career that I have not prepared and goodness knows how I have remembered them. The only famous person I have ever met in my career is Will Carling. When his photo appears on my power point and I begin to explain he was once captain of the England Rugby Team I hear the word Diana, and realise his fame abroad is due to him being marked as one of Lady Di’s men.
The poor people who are listening don’t see me draw breath. It’s been over 8 months since I stood and spoke in my mother tongue and the English Club of Magenta are on the receiving end of all those months of stilted conversation, mute coffee with my Mums and general quietness on my part, which is not a role I am suited to.
Forty-five minutes later, I click on the final slide and finally stop. Forty-five minutes. Mamma mia, that is a lot of pent up conversation on my part.
Four days later I am out again. This is very close to a real social life. I have been invited to a concert at the local theatre. Thanks to my poor Italian I’m not really sure what for, but I know it’s part of the Arte & Vita group that both T&T have joined for guitar and dance lessons. I decline the invitation on behalf of the rest of the family as the start time is 9pm, and once again kiss goodnight to pyjamaed children before heading out with 2 of my school Mums. The theatre is packed and we are ushered to the third row from the front for what I am informed is to be a local choir concert. We will have the San Martino choir, a Gospel Choir, the Alpini group also sing, a total of 8 choirs each singing 2 or 3 songs. This is no short evening. The event is being held for a local hospital voluntary organisation and the head of the group is introduced and is given the microphone to explain where the money is going or what the organisation is about. I have no idea what being said and 10 minutes in whisper ‘Io non capito’(I don’t understand) to my friend. She giggles ‘Anche io’ (Me neither) back, and 20 minutes later the speech with very heartfelt applause is over.
The first choir come on and are introduced. They are very stern, serious looking and stiff; about 20 choristers, 2 guitarists and a pianist. The pianist begins and then the guitarists join in. One remains ramrod straight as he strums away, the younger of the 2 however seems to think this is an audition for X factor and is feeling and expressing every chord. He bends his knees, clutches and moves his guitar in tune to something clearly in his head as opposed to what’s being played and his face contorts in harmony with his knee bending. My friend and I start giggling and being so close to the front and in view of the stage end up shaking with laughter. Two songs from this choir and we are enjoying ourselves.
Each choir is preceded with a 10 minute introduction and much tooing and froing of piano’s and conductors. One choir is stopped by the conductor as a note seems to have been sung wrong, and they have to start again. The Alpini choir all stand with their hats complete with feathers and bob happily in time to the music. The one woman in the choir for the soprano notes is not allowed to wear a hat as she is a woman. This is the only explanation I am given, it seems enough to an Italian, but my linguistic skills fail me beyond Perché and doesn’t seem quite good enough to me.
The highlight of the evening is a local Gospel choir who are quite frankly brilliant. They sing a beautiful version of Go tell it on the mountain and for their final song a new arrangement of Freddie Mercury’s ‘Somebody to love’. All well and good; until one of the choristers sits astride a bongo during a ‘Find me somebody to love’ refrain. My eyebrows shoot up and I cannot for of the life of me think of the Italian for ‘I’m not entirely comfortable with that’. He however is looking entirely comfortable with his situation, even with a couple of hundred people looking on.
So it’s all over bar the thanks and flowers, which means we leave the theatre at gone midnight and the only other people out on the streets are slightly inebriated teenagers who are zigzagging their way home. Whereas I a respectable married woman has spent a diverting night at the local theatre without a drop of wine to assist my enjoyment and had a genuinely enjoyable night out. I must be getting old.
I am driven the short distance to the restaurant and am introduced to the English Ladies, and one Dad who is over from England for a brief holiday. I am, as usual, on my best behaviour and am soon deep in polite conversation with my new found friends. I meet one woman who lived in Alresford as a child, at least 20 miles from Fleet and another who is the current organiser of events for the English Club. On hearing I am a Police Officer in my previous life in England she quickly signs me up for a talk to the Club about life as a Police Officer on the grounds it will be interesting. Knowing a) my career path and b) my speaking abilities I doubt it, but am far too British to refuse. We swap email addresses and within a week I am booked into the November slot for ‘My life as a Police Officer’. On the positive it is another night out and is in English. However, I have to prepare a talk. Power point is the answer and with a complete disregard for the title I gen up on the history of the police, the time line of police woman being allowed to join and our family history of policing which stretches back to 1912. Lots of photos of police officers, a few of me and some beautiful shots of Hampshire, a map of the area I work in and I am done. All bar the talking.
Not knowing my audience I am fairly nervous, but as they arrive I relax slightly. I know a few of them from the English Ladies night, there are a few Italians and I am speaking to no more than 30. It’s not unlike a neighbourhood watch meeting without the crime statistics. I start talking and am within 30 seconds completely in my element telling stories of my family, the history of policing, British police dramas and some stories of my career that I have not prepared and goodness knows how I have remembered them. The only famous person I have ever met in my career is Will Carling. When his photo appears on my power point and I begin to explain he was once captain of the England Rugby Team I hear the word Diana, and realise his fame abroad is due to him being marked as one of Lady Di’s men.
The poor people who are listening don’t see me draw breath. It’s been over 8 months since I stood and spoke in my mother tongue and the English Club of Magenta are on the receiving end of all those months of stilted conversation, mute coffee with my Mums and general quietness on my part, which is not a role I am suited to.
Forty-five minutes later, I click on the final slide and finally stop. Forty-five minutes. Mamma mia, that is a lot of pent up conversation on my part.
Four days later I am out again. This is very close to a real social life. I have been invited to a concert at the local theatre. Thanks to my poor Italian I’m not really sure what for, but I know it’s part of the Arte & Vita group that both T&T have joined for guitar and dance lessons. I decline the invitation on behalf of the rest of the family as the start time is 9pm, and once again kiss goodnight to pyjamaed children before heading out with 2 of my school Mums. The theatre is packed and we are ushered to the third row from the front for what I am informed is to be a local choir concert. We will have the San Martino choir, a Gospel Choir, the Alpini group also sing, a total of 8 choirs each singing 2 or 3 songs. This is no short evening. The event is being held for a local hospital voluntary organisation and the head of the group is introduced and is given the microphone to explain where the money is going or what the organisation is about. I have no idea what being said and 10 minutes in whisper ‘Io non capito’(I don’t understand) to my friend. She giggles ‘Anche io’ (Me neither) back, and 20 minutes later the speech with very heartfelt applause is over.
The first choir come on and are introduced. They are very stern, serious looking and stiff; about 20 choristers, 2 guitarists and a pianist. The pianist begins and then the guitarists join in. One remains ramrod straight as he strums away, the younger of the 2 however seems to think this is an audition for X factor and is feeling and expressing every chord. He bends his knees, clutches and moves his guitar in tune to something clearly in his head as opposed to what’s being played and his face contorts in harmony with his knee bending. My friend and I start giggling and being so close to the front and in view of the stage end up shaking with laughter. Two songs from this choir and we are enjoying ourselves.
Each choir is preceded with a 10 minute introduction and much tooing and froing of piano’s and conductors. One choir is stopped by the conductor as a note seems to have been sung wrong, and they have to start again. The Alpini choir all stand with their hats complete with feathers and bob happily in time to the music. The one woman in the choir for the soprano notes is not allowed to wear a hat as she is a woman. This is the only explanation I am given, it seems enough to an Italian, but my linguistic skills fail me beyond Perché and doesn’t seem quite good enough to me.
The highlight of the evening is a local Gospel choir who are quite frankly brilliant. They sing a beautiful version of Go tell it on the mountain and for their final song a new arrangement of Freddie Mercury’s ‘Somebody to love’. All well and good; until one of the choristers sits astride a bongo during a ‘Find me somebody to love’ refrain. My eyebrows shoot up and I cannot for of the life of me think of the Italian for ‘I’m not entirely comfortable with that’. He however is looking entirely comfortable with his situation, even with a couple of hundred people looking on.
So it’s all over bar the thanks and flowers, which means we leave the theatre at gone midnight and the only other people out on the streets are slightly inebriated teenagers who are zigzagging their way home. Whereas I a respectable married woman has spent a diverting night at the local theatre without a drop of wine to assist my enjoyment and had a genuinely enjoyable night out. I must be getting old.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Christmas is Coming
Christmas arrived in Magenta today: we have over the last few weeks seen the lights go up and be switched on, decorations appear in shop windows and the children have been learning various Christmas songs at school however it has all been fairly muted with Iper the local supermarket only smothering the shop floor with Christmas goods during the last fortnight.
The Garden Centre has been set up for the last 2 months with the most complete display of Christmas decorations I have ever seen. Rooms are themed according to colour to start with, all fairly predictable: White, Silver, Gold, Red, Cream/ Coffee with Espresso and Cappuccino mug bauble available at a trifling €13 a piece. A blue fish theme threw me slightly, but plenty of Christmas animals seem covered such as Polar Bears, Owls, Penguins, so why not fish? American decorations are popular with Fabulous Las Vegas, New York, Simpsons, Betty Boop and Coca Cola baubles all available at a price.
But the real excess comes in the Nativity Scene department. Whole walls are given over to the Nativity, where, not content with a manger the whole town of Bethlehem is depicted in various sizes, and numerous houses, animals, characters and pizza ovens with flickering lights can be bought. Not wishing to be out done I have added to my piccolo manger by purchasing 2 Roman Centurions who seem integral to any Christmas story here. I also want a pizza oven as now I am firmly of the opinion that Christmas in Bethlehem wasn’t Christmas without its own pizza oven (yes I know that Christmas was more likely to have been in September due to the census etc, and that it is a hi-jacked pagan festival).
The arrival of Christmas here was a fairly formal affair, Banda Civica marched along via Garibaldi to the piazza, where having circumnavigated the ice rink they set up opposite the nativity scene that has been built complete with water feature but minus an all important pizza oven or Roman centurion. The band then proceeded to take us through some well worn classics such as Jingle Bells, I’m dreaming of a White Christmas and the First Noel. The square was packed, the ice rink was surrounded by on lookers. Closer inspection of the ice skaters revealed that they were covered in make-up and glitter, and seemed highly inappropriately dressed for the weather. Some pseudo professionals had hit the ice. Wandering over to the nativity scene we were stopped by barriers. Clearly there was going to be an official opening of the manger. Just as this was getting boring Don Mario our main priest of Magenta rushed up and was ushered onto main stage. He apologised for being late, unusual I thought given nothing starts on time here, but further explained he had hot-footed it straight from a Baptism. This is better than an official opening; we had a blessing on our hands. The Don gave a quick speech/sermon and then we all made the sign of the Cross, recited a quick Our Father, a Preghiamo (let us pray) and we were done. Christmas was officially here in Magenta. We had a bag of hot chestnuts to celebrate and went to watch the ice skaters who Tangoed, Bohemian Rhapsodied, Can canned and Flamingoed their way around the ice.
We have put our lights up around the balcone and I have lights in my olive tree which is very exciting.
The weather has turned itself down a few more degrees again, with frosty mornings and sunshine. The Fur Coats are out with a vengeance. Its big coat weather here from now on and snow is forecast for next week. Whether it arrives is another matter but it’s on its way. Hooray.
The Garden Centre has been set up for the last 2 months with the most complete display of Christmas decorations I have ever seen. Rooms are themed according to colour to start with, all fairly predictable: White, Silver, Gold, Red, Cream/ Coffee with Espresso and Cappuccino mug bauble available at a trifling €13 a piece. A blue fish theme threw me slightly, but plenty of Christmas animals seem covered such as Polar Bears, Owls, Penguins, so why not fish? American decorations are popular with Fabulous Las Vegas, New York, Simpsons, Betty Boop and Coca Cola baubles all available at a price.
But the real excess comes in the Nativity Scene department. Whole walls are given over to the Nativity, where, not content with a manger the whole town of Bethlehem is depicted in various sizes, and numerous houses, animals, characters and pizza ovens with flickering lights can be bought. Not wishing to be out done I have added to my piccolo manger by purchasing 2 Roman Centurions who seem integral to any Christmas story here. I also want a pizza oven as now I am firmly of the opinion that Christmas in Bethlehem wasn’t Christmas without its own pizza oven (yes I know that Christmas was more likely to have been in September due to the census etc, and that it is a hi-jacked pagan festival).
The arrival of Christmas here was a fairly formal affair, Banda Civica marched along via Garibaldi to the piazza, where having circumnavigated the ice rink they set up opposite the nativity scene that has been built complete with water feature but minus an all important pizza oven or Roman centurion. The band then proceeded to take us through some well worn classics such as Jingle Bells, I’m dreaming of a White Christmas and the First Noel. The square was packed, the ice rink was surrounded by on lookers. Closer inspection of the ice skaters revealed that they were covered in make-up and glitter, and seemed highly inappropriately dressed for the weather. Some pseudo professionals had hit the ice. Wandering over to the nativity scene we were stopped by barriers. Clearly there was going to be an official opening of the manger. Just as this was getting boring Don Mario our main priest of Magenta rushed up and was ushered onto main stage. He apologised for being late, unusual I thought given nothing starts on time here, but further explained he had hot-footed it straight from a Baptism. This is better than an official opening; we had a blessing on our hands. The Don gave a quick speech/sermon and then we all made the sign of the Cross, recited a quick Our Father, a Preghiamo (let us pray) and we were done. Christmas was officially here in Magenta. We had a bag of hot chestnuts to celebrate and went to watch the ice skaters who Tangoed, Bohemian Rhapsodied, Can canned and Flamingoed their way around the ice.
We have put our lights up around the balcone and I have lights in my olive tree which is very exciting.
The weather has turned itself down a few more degrees again, with frosty mornings and sunshine. The Fur Coats are out with a vengeance. Its big coat weather here from now on and snow is forecast for next week. Whether it arrives is another matter but it’s on its way. Hooray.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
A sort of social life
I’ve been out a few times since arriving here. The first time was only 6 weeks after we arrived. I had been invited to an international group of one of my Mum’s who speaks English thanks to her marrying an Irishman. I’m not entirely sure what I’m going to but I know there are people from other countries there- there’s no fooling me with a title of Magenta della Monde. Courtesy of the World Cup even I know Monde is world.
So my first evening out in Magenta consists of me sitting mutely whilst 10 women and 1 man discuss many topics not connected to the purpose of the evening which turns out to be organising a food and music from your respective country. Having been separated from Anna who brought me, I sit next to a woman who translates for me. I assume she is English, also is another woman Rosy who also speaks English. Rosy has brought a warm Rice cake, which tastes much better than the description and I happily chomp and ‘Ummm’ in an Italian accent to show my appreciation. Tea is also produced by Marella and whilst everyone else supps politely from China cups I, as an English woman am given a mug, which is perfect.
It transpires that a festival is being organised at a church and this group will give a talk on food and music from our country. I am roped in very quickly to afternoon tea and suggest the song ‘Everything stops for tea’ a song I drag from goodness knows where in the back of my mind- I bet it was once sung at Gang Show. I offer to make scones and think I have done enough. Marella it turns out is an oracle of Magenta. There are few people she does not know and seems to have taught half of Magenta English. Her Mum is from Manchester, Am I willing to teach English? Do I want to come to an English lesson she runs? Thrilled to be actually speaking English I agree to anything. I give my email address say I will look up some history of afternoon tea and think I have done my bit.
Knowing Marella, as I thought when I first met her has transformed my life in Magenta. I am invited to one of her English lessons. It is the end of year lesson so there is a small lunch afterwards. I am plied with Prosecco and think that 8 weeks after arriving in Magenta sitting in the sunshine, in a garden drinking Prosecco, being fed by Italians, chatting in English with only the word bella to describe the beautiful countryside around the lakes cannot be bad. It’s a Wednesday lunchtime and I could be in work. After the lunch I wobble back home on my bike and drink lots of water prior to picking up the children from school.
As with any event there are many meetings to attend to organise it. The meetings don’t start until 9pm as we all have to eat beforehand. It’s a foolish person who would mess with an Italian’s mealtime. Each meeting lovely filling sweets and puddings are produced and as the newest least Italian person there I am (almost) force-fed every dish and am way to polite to refuse anything! The event planning usually starts at about 11.30 and I’m generally home by half midnight with a headache from not understanding anything being discussed.
I nervously decide to cook cake for the next meeting. My Apple and Brandy cake, my signature cake. Hugh is very miffed when he returns home and is not allowed to cut into it and at 9pm me and my wrapped cake head off to the meeting. My understanding is still very limited however I can say ‘Torta di Mela e Brandy’ which produces an appreciative umm when being dished out. As the cake is eaten a silence descends on the group, appreciative nods and full mouths of buono are muttered. This is close to one of the proudest moments of my life, I have impressed some Italians with my cooking. Only one dish, not a very difficult cake but nonetheless a good day’s work from the British. My pride increases at the end of the evening when the last 2 remaining slices are whisked away before the plate is returned to me.
I research Afternoon Tea, ‘Everything stops for Tea’. All very interesting and download lots of photo’s of tea, tea parties, mugs etc including 3 giggly women stood outside The Ritz after celebrating a 50th, a 40th and my impending departure to Italy. Then, a phone call. ‘How would you feel about doing some of the talk?’ I gulp. ‘I will translate the talk, so all you have to do is read it.’ Mamma mia. This was not what I was expecting, however Tudor had to talk during assembly after 1 month here, so I can hardly refuse.
I practise the talk to myself and make notes as to how some words sound to me. Then the day before the talk I practise to my Mums over coffee. I am corrected on a few words, but receive a general ‘va bene’.
The day of the Talk arrives. The scones are made. Due to the 9pm start all other family members are in their PJ’s as I leave. I wear heels to try and power dress slightly. I am needless to say very scared. There are 6 countries being represented, we have a 15minute each time limit and I am hoping against hope that not many people turn up.
9 o’clock arrives and the room is moderately full with about 50 people in, but more are flowing through the door. A journalist has arrived and despite my best efforts to avoid her I end up telling her about the scones and giving the recipe- in Italian. I know some of the audience - Tara’s teacher, my neighbour’s childminder, friends, which is worse as they will witness a massacre of what is generally acknowledged to be a beautiful language. By 9.30 the room is packed, the numbers of people who attended this event has grown and grown with each telling of this story but was between 150 and 200 people. Children are running about, babies are watching with interest, whole families have arrived and it looks like a standard Italian night which is already running late before we start.
Ecuador is first up with some beautifully banana leaf wrapped meats and sweets. Explanations of how to wrap then are started and the Papa in the audience is credited with the work. Applause. Then, Papa is invited up to explain more fully how to banana wrap food. He obviously is blissfully unaware of the 15 minute rule and describes it seems to me all the food available in Ecuador. A one point the whole family stood up to take a bow. More applause, and the song of the country. The next country came and went, complete with interruptions. Italy followed and the audience all sang along to the Rice song, a traditional Lombardian ditty.
The UK followed France and by now my feet were killing me. Afternoon Tea was introduced and the audience were told that I had only been in Italy for 6 months and this was my maiden speech. I put on my reading glasses to blur the room, and stood shaking whilst a potted history of Afternoon Tea was given. Then- my turn. I stared and spouted the words on my sheet. I have no idea what I said, but I stumbled over a few words. When I finished I got a tremendous round of applause which was based purely on the length of time I have been in this country. The rest of the evening passed in a haze and once the food was produced I was in my element handing out my scones and receiving the brava’s with humility and smiles.
This evening produced an invite to a celebratory meal out in a local trattoria. The chef wouldn’t cook a pudding so we were invited to bring our own. I have rarely seen so much food for 12 people, and being a Grant I can over cater with the best of them. The antipasti alone would have filled us all for the evening. Sausage Rolls, Spinach & Ricotta Omelette, Gristini, Hunks of Bread, Pickled Onions, Salami, boiled Haggis looking thing (my description of Italian food is coming on a treat!) Bean salad. Then Mushroom Risotto which was creamy, rich and full of local funghi. Lasagna, walnuts & squares of parmesan, followed by the 3 course sweet we had brought. I limited my alcohol as once again it was tutti in Italiano. The chef came to sit with us at the end of the evening to sample our puddings. All of a sudden the reason for not cooking pudding was clear. It took my stomach 2 days to recover.
We were also invited back to the parish to a meal I thought with the priests of the parish to sample all the food that had been on offer during the weekend of Festa della Monde. Somehow Google translate let me down and didn’t fully describe the event leaving me with the impression that about 30 of us would show up. The evening was set to start at 7.30 and I knew food was involved and I duly knocked up enough scones for us each to have one and having persuaded Tara that this would be fun (whilst fairly unconvinced myself) we set off at 7.30. We first had to stop off in Iper for a jar of jam for the last 3 scones that needed topping off and we arrived to a full car park, which for 30 seemed a bit much. ‘There may be another event on’ I ventured and strode confidently into the church Oratorio. As I turned the corner I stopped. A trellis table was set up in the corridor leading to the salon and 20 teenagers were sat chatting, texting and generally looking like kids. The noise from the salon indicated that there were more than 30 already present. I looked at Hugh, who knowing less than me about the event shrugged his shoulders and we kept on walking. 3 trellis tables stretched the length of the room and wine and water were already on the table. Food was laid out around the corners of the room and about 60 people were settling into eat and make merry for the rest of the evening. I found our friends, Tara disappeared to the other end of the table having found her friends and after grace was said we went to as politely but as firmly as possible scav as much food as possible. I was sat next to my friend’s Mum who speaks no English. This proved no barrier for our conversation and limited to the words, ‘Mamma, a vero, and Dai’ we got on fabulously. Hugh was sat next to the priest. The wine flowed and just as pudding was being handed out one man walked up and down the tables dispensing Homemade Grappa, which cleared the palate quite spectacularly. Tudor kept an eye on the scones and as soon as he could was up for 2 scones. The priest took the last one. As the meal finished people moved around to chat and grab the bottom of the wine jugs before they disappeared off. Hugh spent much of the time describing his misspent youth in snooker halls in N. Ireland whilst I tried to convince a friend’s brother that he would like nothing more than to teach me how to cook Gnocchi. We had to drag Tara away as she had found a victim she could play Uno with and Tudor spent the evening trying to get me to let him drink Grappa.
A fun evening was had by all.
I quite like church here- there seems to much more food and wine involved.
So my first evening out in Magenta consists of me sitting mutely whilst 10 women and 1 man discuss many topics not connected to the purpose of the evening which turns out to be organising a food and music from your respective country. Having been separated from Anna who brought me, I sit next to a woman who translates for me. I assume she is English, also is another woman Rosy who also speaks English. Rosy has brought a warm Rice cake, which tastes much better than the description and I happily chomp and ‘Ummm’ in an Italian accent to show my appreciation. Tea is also produced by Marella and whilst everyone else supps politely from China cups I, as an English woman am given a mug, which is perfect.
It transpires that a festival is being organised at a church and this group will give a talk on food and music from our country. I am roped in very quickly to afternoon tea and suggest the song ‘Everything stops for tea’ a song I drag from goodness knows where in the back of my mind- I bet it was once sung at Gang Show. I offer to make scones and think I have done enough. Marella it turns out is an oracle of Magenta. There are few people she does not know and seems to have taught half of Magenta English. Her Mum is from Manchester, Am I willing to teach English? Do I want to come to an English lesson she runs? Thrilled to be actually speaking English I agree to anything. I give my email address say I will look up some history of afternoon tea and think I have done my bit.
Knowing Marella, as I thought when I first met her has transformed my life in Magenta. I am invited to one of her English lessons. It is the end of year lesson so there is a small lunch afterwards. I am plied with Prosecco and think that 8 weeks after arriving in Magenta sitting in the sunshine, in a garden drinking Prosecco, being fed by Italians, chatting in English with only the word bella to describe the beautiful countryside around the lakes cannot be bad. It’s a Wednesday lunchtime and I could be in work. After the lunch I wobble back home on my bike and drink lots of water prior to picking up the children from school.
As with any event there are many meetings to attend to organise it. The meetings don’t start until 9pm as we all have to eat beforehand. It’s a foolish person who would mess with an Italian’s mealtime. Each meeting lovely filling sweets and puddings are produced and as the newest least Italian person there I am (almost) force-fed every dish and am way to polite to refuse anything! The event planning usually starts at about 11.30 and I’m generally home by half midnight with a headache from not understanding anything being discussed.
I nervously decide to cook cake for the next meeting. My Apple and Brandy cake, my signature cake. Hugh is very miffed when he returns home and is not allowed to cut into it and at 9pm me and my wrapped cake head off to the meeting. My understanding is still very limited however I can say ‘Torta di Mela e Brandy’ which produces an appreciative umm when being dished out. As the cake is eaten a silence descends on the group, appreciative nods and full mouths of buono are muttered. This is close to one of the proudest moments of my life, I have impressed some Italians with my cooking. Only one dish, not a very difficult cake but nonetheless a good day’s work from the British. My pride increases at the end of the evening when the last 2 remaining slices are whisked away before the plate is returned to me.
I research Afternoon Tea, ‘Everything stops for Tea’. All very interesting and download lots of photo’s of tea, tea parties, mugs etc including 3 giggly women stood outside The Ritz after celebrating a 50th, a 40th and my impending departure to Italy. Then, a phone call. ‘How would you feel about doing some of the talk?’ I gulp. ‘I will translate the talk, so all you have to do is read it.’ Mamma mia. This was not what I was expecting, however Tudor had to talk during assembly after 1 month here, so I can hardly refuse.
I practise the talk to myself and make notes as to how some words sound to me. Then the day before the talk I practise to my Mums over coffee. I am corrected on a few words, but receive a general ‘va bene’.
The day of the Talk arrives. The scones are made. Due to the 9pm start all other family members are in their PJ’s as I leave. I wear heels to try and power dress slightly. I am needless to say very scared. There are 6 countries being represented, we have a 15minute each time limit and I am hoping against hope that not many people turn up.
9 o’clock arrives and the room is moderately full with about 50 people in, but more are flowing through the door. A journalist has arrived and despite my best efforts to avoid her I end up telling her about the scones and giving the recipe- in Italian. I know some of the audience - Tara’s teacher, my neighbour’s childminder, friends, which is worse as they will witness a massacre of what is generally acknowledged to be a beautiful language. By 9.30 the room is packed, the numbers of people who attended this event has grown and grown with each telling of this story but was between 150 and 200 people. Children are running about, babies are watching with interest, whole families have arrived and it looks like a standard Italian night which is already running late before we start.
Ecuador is first up with some beautifully banana leaf wrapped meats and sweets. Explanations of how to wrap then are started and the Papa in the audience is credited with the work. Applause. Then, Papa is invited up to explain more fully how to banana wrap food. He obviously is blissfully unaware of the 15 minute rule and describes it seems to me all the food available in Ecuador. A one point the whole family stood up to take a bow. More applause, and the song of the country. The next country came and went, complete with interruptions. Italy followed and the audience all sang along to the Rice song, a traditional Lombardian ditty.
The UK followed France and by now my feet were killing me. Afternoon Tea was introduced and the audience were told that I had only been in Italy for 6 months and this was my maiden speech. I put on my reading glasses to blur the room, and stood shaking whilst a potted history of Afternoon Tea was given. Then- my turn. I stared and spouted the words on my sheet. I have no idea what I said, but I stumbled over a few words. When I finished I got a tremendous round of applause which was based purely on the length of time I have been in this country. The rest of the evening passed in a haze and once the food was produced I was in my element handing out my scones and receiving the brava’s with humility and smiles.
This evening produced an invite to a celebratory meal out in a local trattoria. The chef wouldn’t cook a pudding so we were invited to bring our own. I have rarely seen so much food for 12 people, and being a Grant I can over cater with the best of them. The antipasti alone would have filled us all for the evening. Sausage Rolls, Spinach & Ricotta Omelette, Gristini, Hunks of Bread, Pickled Onions, Salami, boiled Haggis looking thing (my description of Italian food is coming on a treat!) Bean salad. Then Mushroom Risotto which was creamy, rich and full of local funghi. Lasagna, walnuts & squares of parmesan, followed by the 3 course sweet we had brought. I limited my alcohol as once again it was tutti in Italiano. The chef came to sit with us at the end of the evening to sample our puddings. All of a sudden the reason for not cooking pudding was clear. It took my stomach 2 days to recover.
We were also invited back to the parish to a meal I thought with the priests of the parish to sample all the food that had been on offer during the weekend of Festa della Monde. Somehow Google translate let me down and didn’t fully describe the event leaving me with the impression that about 30 of us would show up. The evening was set to start at 7.30 and I knew food was involved and I duly knocked up enough scones for us each to have one and having persuaded Tara that this would be fun (whilst fairly unconvinced myself) we set off at 7.30. We first had to stop off in Iper for a jar of jam for the last 3 scones that needed topping off and we arrived to a full car park, which for 30 seemed a bit much. ‘There may be another event on’ I ventured and strode confidently into the church Oratorio. As I turned the corner I stopped. A trellis table was set up in the corridor leading to the salon and 20 teenagers were sat chatting, texting and generally looking like kids. The noise from the salon indicated that there were more than 30 already present. I looked at Hugh, who knowing less than me about the event shrugged his shoulders and we kept on walking. 3 trellis tables stretched the length of the room and wine and water were already on the table. Food was laid out around the corners of the room and about 60 people were settling into eat and make merry for the rest of the evening. I found our friends, Tara disappeared to the other end of the table having found her friends and after grace was said we went to as politely but as firmly as possible scav as much food as possible. I was sat next to my friend’s Mum who speaks no English. This proved no barrier for our conversation and limited to the words, ‘Mamma, a vero, and Dai’ we got on fabulously. Hugh was sat next to the priest. The wine flowed and just as pudding was being handed out one man walked up and down the tables dispensing Homemade Grappa, which cleared the palate quite spectacularly. Tudor kept an eye on the scones and as soon as he could was up for 2 scones. The priest took the last one. As the meal finished people moved around to chat and grab the bottom of the wine jugs before they disappeared off. Hugh spent much of the time describing his misspent youth in snooker halls in N. Ireland whilst I tried to convince a friend’s brother that he would like nothing more than to teach me how to cook Gnocchi. We had to drag Tara away as she had found a victim she could play Uno with and Tudor spent the evening trying to get me to let him drink Grappa.
A fun evening was had by all.
I quite like church here- there seems to much more food and wine involved.
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