Alphabetti Spaghetti

If I ever say I’m moving again, someone throw me in the lake. This last stage of the move here has been borderline crippling with exhaustion; let’s just say that at my age, dismantling one apartment after 21 years while moving carloads in my Fiat 500 (= not a lot of boxes), so I could then clear it out in time for its sale at the end of November, has been an absolute uphill slog. Each day I had to carry boxes down flights of stairs, across the garden and down a rough gravel slope to the carpark and repeat until the car is full. Then a 45 min each way drive and a car unload at the other end. I worked my ass off trying to get a couple of rooms decorated before the lorry arrived from England with all my things from my old home in East Sussex. Then the almighty business end of all of this started… the big unpack. In between there have been IKEA deliveries, several days of flat pack assembly (hell on earth with an Allen key) and a lot of swearing and hammering.

People think I’m insane because
I am frowning all the time.

Lyrics by: Michael Butler / Ozzy Osbourne / Tony Iommi / William Ward

However, huge apologies to Rosa Anna downstairs for her induction into the more flowery end of British vocabulary. The bastard washing machine blew up (more swearing), knocking out the electrics, and the mains box is almost as far away as the carpark in the other place. More swearing and up and down stairs until I got it sorted. New washing machine eventually arrived.

Lorry Armageddon

I’ve been sorting out a new kitchen as the current one is terrible and even the oven door doesn’t shut, and if you know how much I love to cook this is not good. Christmas day saw me nearly give up as I was trying to cook a chicken with a stool wedged against the oven door to keep it shut but add to that the dial is broken so it involves the use of a wrench and a hope that I’m not grilling food rather than roasting.

In the meantime, back and forth to the showrooms, buying paint, ordering a sofa and couple of cupboards. Back and forth… my life is like a never-ending plate of spaghetti, while I am slowly looking more and more like an extra from the Addams family. I give eye bags a run for their money. I’ve lost weight as would you believe painting a ceiling uses more steps than a walk in the woods. I’ve got blisters on my hands and bruises from holding the ceiling extender steady. 

When the tiredness becomes all consuming

I just now need to pace myself with the work and slowly settle into life by the lake. I also need to get my locks changed as one of my new neighbours keeps letting herself in for a chat. She’s an old lady, wears a thoroughly tacky tracksuit and whiffs of fags. She’s tiny, her name is Maria, and she needs little excuse to knock very quietly… whisper ‘permesso’ , literally means, ‘I have permission?’ And appear in my lounge, chatting away at me, usually about her old cat who pees down in the garages and under my entrance stairs, or she wanted to know when I am moving in, or when it’s my turn to pay for the lights on the path, what do I do for work. The list is endless, but there she is like a Swiss cuckoo clock, using my front door as a rotating entrance. I don’t mind. It’s actually very Italian and her curiosity for her new neighbour is funny. Another neighbour appeared last week, to tell me that the day before I’d left my garage light on, she seemed more interested in what I was doing to the place, no surprise there. She’s lovely and we chat over my veranda wall, as she is below my apartment. To be fair even the Amazon man has taken to letting himself through my security gate to leave parcels by my front door, and thinks it is hilarious to ask me random things in pidgin English. 

So, life is moving forwards in my new pad, and I’m unravelling all my possessions and finding them new homes, it is indeed like a plate of spaghetti with added swear words. Ironically, Italians find the concept of tinned spaghetti an anathema and more so a total food code violation, it’s almost worse than a cappuccino after 10.30am. The pasta aisles here in the supermarkets are front to back in the stores, every size and shape, fresh or dried and bags of Farina 00 if you make your own. I do miss some of the variety in good UK supermarkets, but the food here is way fresher and tastier, you just get used to shopping a little less and a little more often. 

Alphabetti Spaghetti

I’ve filed to change my residency in the new town and am now waiting for the rozzers to come round, unannounced (like everyone else …lol) to make sure I exist, and I am actually living here. Bureaucracy continues to be next level, I went to the comune to make my application, they’re closed on Wednesdays (who knew), so I went upstairs to sort out paying my refuse tax.  I knocked on the door which was open, and she asked me to wait outside, meanwhile her colleague walks past and told me to go in, as an open door means you can enter. But this was a ruse, as the refuse lady was on the phone, and her mate in the corridor started to laugh and tell her off for not being instantly available. She then proceeded to give me the door open/ shut protocol, while tutting at the refuse lady and eye rolling. After the comune cabaret you then have to go to the tip, (obvs also closed), to get your card, so I could start to shift the EU cardboard mountain on my veranda. Meanwhile I still have to switch my health card to the new area, I’ll save that experience extravaganza to next month.

I’ve also discovered during this whole process, that no one can pronounce my last name. it starts with an H which isn’t really pronounced here; hotel for instance is said like ‘otel. My name also contains a Y which strictly isn’t in the Italian alphabet, more difficulty … but my Christian name is, to all intents and purposes, Italian. They breathe a sigh of relief while skirting around my surname. 

With that, I need some carbs and am off to eat some pasta. 

Fino alla prossima volta

Follow me at: @write.upmystreet

0

11th Hour, 11th Day, 11th Month

I’ve always loved the poetry from WWI, not for some macabre reason, but I think we should never stop being a witness to what happened, and importantly, to keep those memories alive. A lot of it is incredible poetry in its own right, and I’ve read all of Wilfred Owen and Siegfried Sassoon’s works over the years. They’re probably my two favourites. 

But I have another reason for my interest, as at least three of my family fought in WW1, and another was a code breaker stationed overseas. My grandfather was in France as an officer, but as a qualified chemist he had the job to go and blow up any bridges that intelligence had told them the Germans would be advancing across. He also went in behind the lines to plant explosives on other enemy, war-critical installations. 

My grandfather’s cap badge

‘Look down, and swear by the slain of the War that you’ll never forget.’

by Siegfried Sassoon.

My grandfather was a bit of a writer, maybe that’s where I get it from, he wrote every day in his tiny diaries, the little ones the reps used to bring to the factory he later worked in, or that his father had brought home. He also kept war diaries and note books, with details of Morse code and translations, trench and bridge diagrams and little sketches and annotations. 

Transcribed from a coded signal from my Grandfather’s War Notebook

A sketch from my Grandfathers War Notebook

I also have a map he drew of the area just to the north of the Somme where he was stationed, as well as his signing-up notice. I am so thankful I have all of this, so I can keep in my memory the incredible things he achieved as well as the fact he was one of the kindest men, and also very dashing with his moustache and uniform. 

My Grandfather’s battalion, he is seated centre front row, holding his riding cane.

My godfather, also my great uncle, had a different story, he was much younger and hadn’t finished school yet or gone on to college or university. But when war broke out, he went to sign up. He was however a year too young and when he got into Manchester to join up, they realised his age and his mother came and got him back. But a year later he was old enough and he served in the infantry in the Manchester Regiment. 

My godfather, aged 17.

After training he was sent to the front and stationed in France. It makes me cry even now thinking of what he saw and felt. During one battle in the Somme area he was crossing the battle field along with his battalion, and he slipped into a shell crater, losing his footing as they fought their way across the battle field. Another soldier was lying in there, in screaming agony with the severity of his godawful wounds, he’d lost a leg and was bleeding out everywhere. My uncle went to give him some comfort in his dying moments, and realised he knew him – it was his cousin. In desperation to try and save his life, and with enemy gunfire whistling past, screaming rounds overhead and a field full of mines and barbed wire, he carried him out and to where he could get some help. He was awarded a medal for bravery. He was later gassed in the trenches (mustard gas) and was sent home to recover. 

But the impact of what he saw and experienced was for him and so many, many others absolutely unbearable. We can only guess at some of what they truly witnessed. But for years later he suffered with heartbreaking levels of PTSD, he had appalling nightmares and would awake on my grandmother’s sofa drenched in sweat, often screaming and sobbing. Having been a victim of gassing, he later developed throat cancer and died barely a year after I was born. The war stole this precious, kind man away from me, and a chance to get to know him, and have some memories of someone I know my father loved so much that he made him my godfather. Years later I walked across London all night to raise money for cancer research, I had his name and photograph pinned to my running number. 

My uncle and grandfather, weren’t the only members of the family to be in the Great War, there was another relative who I also want to mention, he was William Forster, born on the 28th of November 1892 in Jesmond, Newcastle. He later went to school at Downside and then to Cambridge where he got a BA and LLB. But war broke out and like many of his generation he was enlisted. William was a private, in the Royal Fusiliers, 8th Battalion. His military service number was 10497.

William was killed at the Battle of the Somme on the 7th of October, 1916 during the Attack of Bayonet Trench; he was only 23 years old. He is buried at Thiepval Memorial in France.

He is also remembered in De Ruvigny’s ‘Roll of Honour 1914-1918’ and in ‘The Valley Remembers’ by Sandy Hunter. William also has his name inscribed on a stained-glass window at All Saints Church, Thropton, Nr Alnwick. 

Image from the Attack at Bayonet Trench where William was killed. (Getty archive)

This is for my grandfather, for my godfather and also for William, and all the hundreds of thousands of lives, on both sides that never made it back. 

May we remember them all today, at the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month.

No mockeries for them; no prayers nor bells,
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all?
 
By Wilfred Owen, from ‘Anthem for Doomed Youth’

0

River Deep, Mountain High

Having spent the last 6 months living in the mountains, overlooking a large flat plain and river, while seeing how the majority of Umbrians in this area, work the land for food and resources. Right now, the olives are being harvested, a really bad year after a long, hot and dry summer. Also, people are out collecting and chopping wood and building huge piles outside their homes, ready for the winter home fires. Italy, doesn’t have its own natural gas resources, so winter energy bills can be high here, which is why so many have wood burners. But it is fuel of another sort that my story today is about. It’s about a brown coal called lignite and a young local man, earlier last century.

That vast plain that I look down on, and drive across most days, was once… well actually I need to go back further than a little bit, in fact a bloody long way back, to 1.8 million years ago, in the Pliocene Era. It was from this time period and the breaking down of plant matter that a huge presence of lignite, a type of brown fossil coal, settled into seams on what is now, that valley floor near Perugia. Lignite was to become so important in the region and wider parts of Italy as a fuel, so much so that in 1925 it was a justified expense to build the first power plant in Pietrafitta. By 1958 a new power plant, called “City of Rome”, including vast almost War of the Worlds looking excavators were deployed to remove the layers of soil and rock, so that an open cast lignite mine could be worked.

One of the huge dredging machines, used to clear the lignite mines.

But this isn’t so much about the coal mine, but about one particular man, who was sent to work in the mine after his father was killed in WWII. His name was Luigi Boldrini, he was around 14 years old and he suddenly had to be the bread winner for his family. At first Luigi worked in the mine, but as he got older, he was given more responsibility and put in charge of running one of the huge rock and earth moving machines. By this time, he was assistant mine foreman, when one day he noticed something that wasn’t the usual rock debris or coal, when he stopped what he was doing and went to look he discovered a huge fossilised mammoth tusk. 

Mammoth Tusk on display at the Paleontology Museum

Mammoths were once very prevalent in the area and they had lived from about 2 million years ago to 9,000 years ago, during the last Ice Age (the Pleistocene Epoch). Just for super quick time referencing, the Pliocene lasted from around 5.333 million to 2.58 million years ago. It marked the beginning of the transition from a warm, moist climate (perfect coal making conditions) to the more fluctuating and cooler conditions of the Pleistocene, and saw the first appearances of early human species such as Australopithecus and Homo habilis. Ironically that flat plain was also the site of a large battle between Attila the Hun and Italians in the 440’s AD, he famously arrived on an elephant, only his elephant survived that battle and most of his troops including Attila died of the diseases they caught along the way. Those plains have seen elephants in both their prehistoric and historic forms.

For to march and drill

Over field and hill

Is a military goal

Lyrics by: J.Pat O’Malley – ‘Colonel Hathi’s March’

(With apologies, you try and find a decent song about elephants or even mammoths.)

But back to the main story; Luigi stopped what he was doing and went to the mine office to report what he had found and ask that they stop excavating the coal in that area just while it could be safely retrieved. The mine was hugely important for keeping not only Umbria going, but also Rome. The mine office said no, and get back to work.

Historical photo of the Pietrafitta Lignite Mine.

But Luigi, thank the fossil gods up there, did everything he could to save the tusks. Taking time after his long shifts to dig them out and save what he could. But he kept on finding more and so he worked most nights looking for and removing what he could find and save. He even built iron frames to support the tusks and stored all the fossils carefully on racking in his own garage. This went on for years, and sometimes if he found larger remains, he would pour concrete over it to protect it from mine machinery, and come back later with friends to tip it over and bring it to his garage.

Mammoth Tusks still set in their concrete cocoon, cast by Boldroni

Years later when the mine company had wised the f*ck up and stopped being historical saboteurs, they began to allow the retrieval of remains. Sadly, by then, Luigi had died. But his legacy, his unbelievably unprecedented amount of work, dedication and fascination for what he found was not in vain. There is now a Paleontological Museum named after him, with all the fossils he found, including the upside-down ones, cast in cocoons of concrete, their contents too fragile and valuable to risk separating from the cement. Here in the museum, you can even see the iron frames he so carefully designed and forged.

His paleontological collection is displayed alongside that of the University of Perugia and the Umbrian Museums Department, his finds are considered a flagship of national paleontology and one of the most important in Europe, with current analysis looking at one of those mammoth tusks – from what is now known to be the largest mammoth in Europe, and possibly the world. It is an absolute whopper. 

Over all those years, Luigi found thousands of fossils belonging to many animal species, such as fish, amphibians, birds, bears, rhinos and elephants, monkeys, turtles and several species of deer, including an unknown species and many more. Findings of seeds, leaves and shells were also included, as well as that precious collection of Mammoths, the Mammuthus Meridionalis.

Mammoth Teeth

A few years ago, an underground car park was being dug out for a local shopping centre, and they found more mammoth remains, this time, they had learned their lesson and work was stopped while they were carefully removed and preserved. 

I guess for me, his story began with such sadness at the loss of his father, and having to work so hard at such a young age. But his discovery and his tenacity in searching for, and preserving his finds, makes him nothing short of a hero. I studied paleontology as part of my degree and its importance as a science and historical reference point is incredible. He had no training but he knew the fossils were worth the hours of hard work and preservation, and he has left a ground-breaking legacy behind him. 

One of the original iron frames, forged by Boldroni to support a mammoth tusk.

“I brought them back to see the sky and the Pietrafitta plain, where a million years ago they passed and grazed.”

Luigi Boldroni. 

Follow me at: @write.upmystreet

0

Rigoletto Redemption 

During the infamous fun that wasn’t the pandemic lockdown, like a lot of other bored people at home I got my ass onto TikTok, not so much for my own personal content, but to scroll endlessly and laugh at all the other far more social media creative types on there. 

But randomly one day a couple of years later, this entirely legit reel appeared (and yes I checked it all out) asking for someone to write to a life sentence prisoner in a jail in California. I can’t say anymore than that for privacy reasons. And no I hadn’t lost my tiny mind, been watching too much OITNB or fancied a bit of rough on a dark jailbreak night. He was about my age and no, zero attraction, I just thought well… I like writing and he said he loved to read and history and stories. Maybe I could do this thing for someone I will never meet. 

And so I wrote to him, no personal details of my address, all through a secure platform set up by the US prison system. Then one day he wrote back and since then we write pretty much every week and I’ve slowly got to know more about him, about his family, his life before he got put away, for now what is over 29 years, and how from the other side of the world we have become sort of friends. 

He tells me about his daily life, his cell mate who is also a Latino, his daughter with whom he has now rekindled his relationship- he did some terrible things when he was much younger for which she rightly struggled to trust him again. His son, who is in the US military and quite high ranking and all the comings and goings of yard life in searing heat and his work in the prison kitchens. He’s told me about the 18 years he spent in a high security solitary cell, with only concrete walls and a small skylight so high he could never even touch it. Those years were in part to segregate him from gang members and the risk to his life, as well as meting out his punishment.

But one day I had an idea as he literally devours books and in particular history. I’m a geographer by qualification and I decided to combine the two subjects, but take him on a mini tour of the world – choosing 30 places I’d been to, telling him the history of each, its geography and also a story to add the personal perspective of my time in those countries. 

I have his prison PO Box address so every other week or so, I’d pepper his prison platform messages with a real bit of snail mail. The stories lit up his life and he saved each one until after work, reading them on his bunk. I sent him a map of the world with each place listed and marked on, so he could see where we were going to visit on his own ‘world tour’. My idea was to take him to all the places he’d never get to see. I had printed around 4 Polaroid style pictures for each place from my own travel photos and so each story could come alive a little with actual pictures.

One of mine from Siena, Tuscany

It took about a year to complete them all and we both had so much fun, both for me writing them and reliving all those years and holidays and adventures, but also for him it became something to look forward to. And you can argue after what he did, he deserves nothing at all, but I don’t judge and I now know some of what went down.  What was also funny was, anything that arrives into the Prison Postal system, as a printed piece of mail, has to be read and approved by someone in the office. Now bear in mind some of these stories were over 4 or 5 pages of A4 long, he one day messaged me to say the most recent letter had been impounded as they said it was printed on cotton. A risk that it could potentially be impregnated with narcotics. We did laugh as it was a bog standard sheet from WH Smiths, but it meant I had to resend it again. This summer I was passing a hand made notepaper shop in Tuscany and started laughing at the shop window… of course I took a photo and sent it to him.

Not to be used for Inmate Correspondence

He told me when he maybe one day leaves, and he’s possibly up for parole in January, as he has done some serious work over many years to get to even being considered, that the letters and photos are one of the only things he will take with him. They’re all now pasted into a notebook and he shares them with his friends. He once told me, ‘we don’t know people like you.’ I sat with that thought for a while, life is full of weirdness and I don’t believe totally in coincidences, people come our way for all kinds of reasons and whether we realise that or even learn from it, is our choice. He even shares my photos with his support groups to illustrate how they have helped him and some of the funny and not so amusing stories we’ve told each other. But also of their importance to him in changing his mindset and perspective on life.  And me, I’ve now got a slightly different friend.

We talk a lot about films, and they are allowed to watch some inside – as a now better prisoner he has a tablet, and providing they aren’t hugely violent etc he can view them. Each story, I tried where possible to reference a film he could later watch to give the story of that place some wider context, give it something to bring it alive. So we went around with so many different ones – from The Flinstones, Almodovar classics through to several Bond films, including Quantum of Solace, Spectre (Siena and Mexico City) and also The Living Daylights, which has its opening sequence in Gibraltar.

Gibraltar in The Living Daylights

It’s theme song is about facing the darkness of the world and trying to cope with insecurity and loss. It tells us that we cannot judge another’s life until you have lived theirs.

Comes the morning, and the headlights fade away

Hundred thousand people, I’m the one to blame

I’ve been waiting long for one of us to say

Save the darkness, let it never fade away

In the living daylights

Lyrics by: Morten Harket ‘The Living Daylights’ Sung by Ah-Ha

We also both love music and when I can, I add a song in too – the Gibraltar one for instance, included the story of my uncle, who was a taxi driver. He was picking up a fare from the docks one day, waiting in a line as passengers disembarked from the QE2. A very beautiful and elegant lady got into his cab. He asked her if she would mind if he listened to a Maria Callas broadcast, as she was his all time favourite. If you’ve been reading my blogs from the start you will know my uncle and I used to listen to her cassette tapes when I rode with him in his old Mercedes around southern Spain and Gib. The beautiful lady said yes and as the music was playing, my uncle realised she was singing in the back, in absolutely perfect unison. Now in those days there was no social media including TikTok (where this all started) and pictures on the news or papers only now and then. But there in the back of his cab singing Rigoletto, Act 1 Gaultier Malde – Caro Nome, was Maria Callas herself.

If you’ve watched the incredible film, The Shawshank Redemption, you will know the scene this made me think of, where Andy locks himself in the governors office, puts on a record of “Sull’aria … che soave zeffiretto” which is a duettino, or a short duet, from act 3, scene X, of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart’s 1786 opera The Marriage of Figaro, K. 492,

Andy Dufresne played by Tim Robbins

Red (Morgan Freeman), famously narrates; 

“I have no idea to this day what those two Italian ladies were singing about. Truth is, I don’t want to know. Some things are best left unsaid. I’d like to think they were singing about something so beautiful, it can’t be expressed in words, and makes your heart ache because of it. I tell you, those voices soared higher and farther than anybody in a gray place dares to dream. It was like some beautiful bird flapped into our drab little cage and made those walls dissolve away, and for the briefest of moments, every last man in Shawshank felt free.”

The obvious connection and irony between this story, prison life and my friend far across The Pond was not lost on either of us. We had a few laughs in our next messages. 

And so, if you have a minute listen to this, and I hope for a moment it sets you free, as Maria sang like no other beautiful bird; 

https://open.spotify.com/embed/track/5XRuaotyEFWJ36A3V5HscZ?utm_source=generator

Maria Callas

0

Five Card Trick

Years ago, I used to play Pontoon with my father, he was an avid card game player, and while Bridge left me napping on the sofa with boredom (never got past the snooze-worthy basics), I loved playing this particular game with him. The 5 Card Trick is a special aspect of Pontoon that adds to the challenge. Understanding this can help you develop your game. To achieve a 5 Card Trick, you must collect five cards without exceeding a total value of 21, which requires a delicate balance and careful decision-making, and a lot of sniggering at our particular card table. 

If you manage to gather five cards under or equal to 21, it counts as a 5 Card Trick. This hand is highly valued and often stands out compared to other hands with a total of 21. Each time you decide to twist, you’re working towards forming this distinctive hand.

Now my papa was, unlike me, little Miss Dyscalculia here, a steely mathematician and somehow, to his dismay he had not only produced someone who was shit at maths, but also horrific at science (he was an industrial pharmacist who studied at Imperial in London). But he didn’t just have a clever mind, he snuck in the sneaky parental trick of helping me a bit with my number ineptness, while dealing on top of that the family tradition of being ultra-competitive. In all he had cleverly found a game that he and I could really enjoy together. The keeping the tally bit for me, played into my will to win, as well as track over time, who won last time, it was like another edge to the game, having those rolling score cards and league tables. It was a smashing way of giving me some number confidence back, as well as spending time with one of my favourite people on the planet. 

When my father died, and we were sitting down deciding who had what from the house. I asked for the antique card table, it’s one of those ones that swivels around and opens up with a lovely green baize circle inside. But when I eventually got it home, the absolute gem in my hand was one of our old score cards, still tucked inside the table drawer with a wedge of old wax crayon we’d used to mark the cards. It was like holding my very own King of Hearts.

But more recently, I have just binge watched my way through Sneaky Pete on Netflix. No spoilers but it’s about a confidence trickster, and this got me thinking about not just those sly types that slide into your life over the years, but particularly how money and control, amongst other abhorrence’s makes some people turn into absolute wankers, of this there is no denying. 

I’ve met a few tricky sods in my time, but sometimes I’ve trusted my belief in humanity rather than my gut instinct, and you know that’s okay too, it’s their badness, their trickery not yours or mine. I’ll let you into a secret, you can worry yourself about what’s been, the trick dear reader, is to decide how it’s going to be.  At the end of the Sneaky Pete series and without giving it all away, we see him realise a lot of things and that in one way or another is a learning for him. By repeating his tricks over and over and by teaching others he sees the value in… well, you will need to watch it to find out exactly what. But it deals back to my experience with my father, that practice is in itself a learning trick, while achieving self-belief is another altogether.

From ‘Sneaky Pete‘ (Netflix)

But what about the tricks your body or mind can play on itself. Fairly recent social media has been covering the so-called rapture, most of which was absolutely hilarious. But some people actually fall for this nonsense, and I’m not talking about your faith but the really mind-bending bollocks that this was.

Religion has a real and defining place in many people’s lives, not least of all mine. I’d go so far as to say, that particular faith aside, being brought up with a belief taught me to be a better, kinder and more honest person. Most people I know will tell you; I find it impossible to lie, and that’s not some religious guilt, it’s just an honest to goodness default setting to be truthful. And that for me is a good trick to have up your sleeve, and no I’m not going to say ‘the truth shall set you free’, but a lie, in my book takes away the person you are fibbing to, their own right to choose based on the truth. If you tell someone you are well, when you are actually sick, for instance, it takes away their ability to care or to help.  

I’ve rambled off track here a bit, as usual… but what I wanted to say, that finding your trick, that ace up your sleeve, be that a post-it note stuck to your forehead, or a rhyme that helps you remember; – that version of your own card trick, which can be as mind bending as a mathematicians puzzle or finding your own equivalent of that old Pontoon scorecard, to remind you, that like me, you can at least now add up to 21. There’s no gambling with those odds, but your chances are always good if you play life with truth and love at the centre of your deck. 

How do I do it, what’s my trick with for instance my recent country-moving decision. Yes, I get scared sometimes, like for instance, have I done the maths correctly (eeek) have I got enough in the tin to live off until I shuffle off this earth? Fear is just that, it’s a mind trick – it’s a feeling rather than a reality, the reality is I’ve got this far on my own, and now moved to another country. So, excuse me if I dust off the superwoman pants even for a moment. 

Tricks aren’t just for the brave or the calculating miscreants, we all have them up our sleeves for when we need them. Call it self-belief if you want to. 

You can go your own way

You can be true

You can go your own way

You can be true

Lyrics and Song: ‘Sail with Ease’ by Liam Bailey from Sneaky Pete, soundtrack

P.S My papa was one for some hilarious top tips, he once told me while helping with the Sunday lunch, that the best trick to get clean finger nails was to make a crumble. And that is exactly the person I got my sense of humour from, …well, I did warn you. 

Follow me at: @write.upmystreet

0

Islands in the Jet Stream

Readers of my cancer blog will know I didn’t hold back on the horror of that particular time, now this story isn’t about that period of my life, in fact it was several years earlier when I was oblivious to that missile heading my way. But, I will nevertheless tell this story in all its somewhat gruesome detail, so if you are the queasy type then scroll on. 

I was heading to Annaheim for a food show, the irony of this will come later. Never a Disney fan, too much schmaltz for me, but heading for Disneyland country I was. Turns out alongside all the rides and Mickey Mouse the town makes its money from a big portion of an events, exhibitions and conference sideline. Who knew.

Get in…

My flight was in the morning which meant the horrible early start heading for Heathrow, I’d not had time to eat much breakfast and grabbed a family sized bag of Peanut M&M’s on the way through the airport. I scoffed them down and boarded my flight. Less than an hour in I felt like I needed to do the largest burp, and this was without the gaseous intervention of a can of 7-Up. But I just started to feel worse and worse, and eventually I thought oh crikey I’m going to be sick, and as luck would have it (not) I’m in the middle of a row of four seats and had to climb over the snoozing woman (one foot on either arm rest, style… come on, we’ve all done it) next to me and sprint down the aisle to the bank of toilets, mid cabin. Well I thought that was that, glass of water and back to my seat… you know watch the film and eat something resembling cat sick (excuse the pun) out of a foil tray, but no… and still many more no’s. If I said this went on the entire remainder of the flight I would not be exaggerating. 

Ate the lot (no shame)

In between inflight turbulence and trying to blag my way at speed into the First class loos, I spent most of the flight in one toilet or lying on the floor outside another, and believe me sticky plane carpets don’t bear a close inspection, or being handed yet another sick bag by a flight attendant. Long distance porcelain phone calls and cuddling those god awful plane toilets for hours with only brief islands of calm before it all began again. It all got really grim as I had to be seated for the final approach to LA, it wasn’t a smooth descent either, but yes you’ve guessed it, I kept on yacking. The poor people in the row behind me were passing sick bags forward for me in quick succession. The lovely lady, I’d climbed over earlier was holding my hair (I had loads of it in those days) and mopping my forehead with those hand sanitiser wipes. At least part of me smelt vaguely of lemons.

Artist’s Impression in Case You’re Already Feeling Queasy

We landed eventually, and I was told to stay in my seat while they got everyone off first. The poor sods sitting anywhere near me, almost ran off the plane. The flight deck had radioed ahead to get me some support. By this point I couldn’t stand, I was so ill and exhausted, they helped me off the plane with rubber gloves and face-masks. I thought I was hallucinating when I saw Dolly Parton waiting for me with a wheelchair on the ramp. I squinted through my sickie hair and sweat exhausted eyes, nope still Dolly Parton. 

DAVID CROTTY/PATRICK MCMULLAN VIA GETTY IMAGES

“We y’all hear you been sick on the plane darlin,’ she said.

I really was either unconscious or they’d slipped me a Mickey Finn on that 747. Dolly wheeled me at a fair lick through the airport, turns out hours of inflight barfing gets you through passport control at speed. We arrived in the luggage hall and I’m eyeing the carousel and it’s rotating just like my head feels, the smell of rubber is well, making me feel… yep one last throw on the arrivals floor (at least it was tiled). I looked sideways at Dolly and said “Are you… ?” And she said, “No darlin’ I’m just a Dolly impersonator and I work at the airport for extra dollars. But you sit tight now, … we can rely on each other,” and she grinned and winked at me. How did she know to choose a line from one of my all time favourite Dolly songs?

Well thank f**k for that I thought as we burned a hasty trail through customs, and she unceremoniously tipped me out onto the pavement by a bus stop, adjusted her ‘you know what’s’ and apologised for not staying with me but she didn’t want to be vomiting tomorrow when she had a show to do. I waved her off and looked for a taxi… the fresh air hitting me square in the face. 

I spent the next 48 hours in my hotel room barely moving and room service had been instructed to leave my food outside the room and just knock. I felt vile. Norovirus had left me like an old peanut shell husk. But the story doesn’t end there, and after the exhibition Rasta Prom closing night with Ziggy Marley, by which point I was much better, I weaved my way back to LAX and the flight home. I’m sitting at the gate and I spot the lovely lady who’d been so flipping kind to me on the way over. I asked how she was and she looked weakly at me and said she seemed to have picked up a sickness bug and was ill for most of the trip to California. I bought her a drink and apologised profusely. She was as kind to me as I’d remembered. I did make sure my seat wasn’t next to hers this time, didn’t want to risk a repeat performance. 

Moral of the story:

Don’t have peanut M&Ms before a long haul flight. To this day I can’t eat them. 

If you think you’ve seen Dolly Parton you probably have. 

Always take an extra sick bag.

The kindness of strangers never ceases to amaze me. Just make sure you give some back. 

You do something to me that I can’t explain 

Hold me closer and I feel no pain

Every beat of my heart

We’ve got something goin’ on. 

Lyrics by: Maurice, Robin and Barry Gibb

Sung by: the one and only Dolly Parton & Kenny Rogers.

(Alternative blog title: Chucking 9 to 5.) 

0

Three and a Half Lions

Cats and me we go way back. Aged two, and Lion number 1; the fam were on a camping holiday in Europe, we went to Barcelona zoo where, as a tiny tot I managed to breach the fence and get into the lion’s enclosure. Cue a security alert and my mother losing her shit while wardens went in with precautionary stun darts, to whisk me out.

Dinner Time

Years later we had a tabby cat show up with its face pressed against the French doors. I’d been begging my 11-year-old arse off to try and persuade my parents to let me have a cat, they’d stoically declined. We’d had goldfish, budgies (which are seriously boring btw) and a hamster which had escaped, chewed through an electric cable and fused the boiler. My father in a bid to save her little life, dosed her up with half a Junior Disprin and some whiskey administered from a thimble. Still not responding he proceeded to give it heart massage, aka prodding gently with his finger. Right… we all know how this ends, she carked it. So armed with a family ability to not look after pets so well, my incessant bidding was declined. 

But by now the cat distribution system had spoken, and there she was miaowing at the drawing room windows. ‘You’re not to feed her, you’ll encourage her,’ was the stern warning. I went off to school and so this went on for several days, me rushing home to see if she was still at the windows, looking hopeful. Then one day I got back from school a bit early, it was summer so I popped open the fridge in search of something cool to drink and oh my days there in the door was not only a can of cat food, but it was open and half empty. Hmm… didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to suss that someone was feeding the cat. The story didn’t stop there, turned out my papa was feeding her out of the boot of the car and my mother had said can on the go in the fridge. Anyway, Matilda, and for this story, the half lion, was with us for many years, as you’ve no doubt worked out, she was shortly allowed inside … forever. 

Time passed and several cats later, as clearly one wasn’t enough, and while working for a tea company in my 40’s, I came up with a stellar idea to set up a charity arm to my employer and give back to the part of the world from where the tea originated: southern Africa. I was responsible for setting up a fundraising campaign which ran in various guises for 16+ years,  raised money for boreholes for 10 villages for the Kalahari Bushmen, a school, an art & literacy project amongst others, and I had some of the most incredible life changing adventures in Namibia and Botswana. On one of them I was with a group from Barclays who were on a leadership management team building thing, during which we visited an art project in Botswana. I’d seen some of their work online before we went out, but seeing it in real life, meeting and talking to the artists, left a massive impression on me.

Gamnqoa Kukama at work

Art is something that should make you feel something whether it is laughter, tears or OMG that belongs in the charity shop up the high street. Feel something you should. I did. As I sat talking to them and looking at their work stacked against the walls of the tin roofed studio in ridiculous heat, I made them a promise – to not only come back but also to bring their art to London for an exhibition and tell their stories.

Ancient Bushman Rock Art – Cederberg Mountains, South Africa

It took a while to persuade the boss and also make a couple more trips out to build a set of paintings and lino prints, to fill an exhibition. Along the way I also discovered an art project in a township in South Africa, they make incredible pieces using tea bags. Well that was too good an opportunity to miss and so I got them a ton of tea bags sent direct from our supplier in South Africa and we began working on some ideas to incorporate them into the exhibition. Now before lion number 3 comes along, I need to tell you about lion number 2, need to keep this stuff in sequence and all that. 

It was after one of my trips to Botswana and I was doing the long drive south from Ghanzi to Gaberone, for my flight. If you’ve ever driven over there, you’ll know those endless roads, and much of Botswana sits on a flat plain. The roads are unlit and animals from donkeys to you’ve guessed it, wander around and cause some horrible accidents, particularly in the dark.

One of those long dusty Botswanan Roads (cow subbed for lion)

I was trying to reach Gaborone before dusk, but after a day at the project I was really hungry so I stopped to buy a bucket of chicken wings and some cola. Rather than eat inside I quickly ate a few in a lay-by a little further down the road. Picture a lovely warm African evening, and I was eating my wings and watching the sunset in my rear-view mirror, and the driver’s window was down to let in the slowly cooling air. Something caught my eye, just moving almost out of view. Now a lot of wildlife has been perfectly created to blend in with their natural surroundings, lions not being any different. A quick glance and I couldn’t see anything more than some wafting grass. Back to the chicken and then …OMAFG there she was right by the door, (window still open btw) and eye-balling me and the chicken. She was a stunning adult and hungry lioness, and as much as I wanted to stop, take a photo and enjoy being that close to her, I donated the chicken at speed out the window and hit the pedal. I didn’t so much as stop for a pee all the way to Gaborone. 

Now then, lion no. 3… back to the tea bags, and Imizamo Yethu, in Hout Bay. They were going to produce some large pieces of art for us and would be shipped over to London in time for the exhibition. But as, and I believe these things happen for a reason, I was contacted by another charity, one that works with lion rescue and protection. They were about to do a fundraiser with a set of around 30 life size lions; would we like to support one? Didn’t take me long to say yes and as luck would have it (no coincidences in this story), they were being produced in South Africa. Rooi as he came to be known (meaning red in Afrikaans, like the colour of tea) was delivered to the tea bag art project, and while I was kept up to date with the design and it’s creation, what arrived in London (thank you Kenyan Airways for flying it back to London for us), was incredible. Rooi took a focal point in the art exhibition and his auction on the opening night raised thousands of pounds, in addition to the quite beautiful collection of wildlife paintings from Botswana.

The Beautiful Lion, ‘Rooi’ at the Bushman Art Exhibition.

Bushmen believe that during their trance dances, shapeshifting into a lion’s form is one of the most powerful and spiritual forms they can take. They believe that they turn into an actual lion, travelling between the heavens and the earth. The exhibition focused on the importance of wildlife to the San peoples across Namibia and Botswana, and as one of them told me, ‘Wildlife is part of who we are, our art lifts us out of the darkness.’

‘Hush, my darling, don’t fear my darling

The lion sleeps tonight’ 

Originally written in the Zulu language, The Lion Sleeps Tonight was recorded by Solomon Linda in 1939 in South Africa, but called ‘Mbube’. It wasn’t until the 1960’s that it became a global hit with a new title, by The Tokens

0

A Sign of the Times

An Otterly Brilliant Sign

I’ve always loved a good signpost, I think it’s the geographer in me, that loves maps and navigating and they’re all wrapped up together. That and my ironical innate sense of any direction, makes them vital markers in my brain. The word ‘sign’ itself is derived from the Latin signum, meaning “mark” or “signal’. But signs aren’t just about the ones telling you the train is coming, to stick to the footpath, how many miles it is to the next town, or when to turn left. They can be as vital as sign language or even those small things that you see and then interpret; the look on someone’s face, their tone of voice or that they are always late, return your calls on time, always know what to say … the list is endless. We all have our little markers in life those signals, that tell us what we feel we need to know or understand. Star signs, a white feather, road signs, up in the bloody air signs, they are all around us. Hearing your neighbours arguing continually through the walls, can be a sign it’s time to move house, or the summer waft of grilling burgers may be your sign that as a barbecue enthusiast, you have landed on your upturned burger bun-loving feet. 

But what are my signs? Well for one, I’ve been thinking a lot of a friend of mine lately, she died a few years ago of the unmentionable C-word, she was a life force and my lasting memory of her is dancing on the stage at the Breast Cancer fashion show, while Tony Christie belted out “Is this the way to Amarillo.’ But more than that, she loved rainbows, and since she’s gone whenever I see a rainbow I feel she’s here giving me a little sign. She was hugely encouraging, when I first started seriously thinking of moving to Italy, and her fierce bravery for life is one in which I often seek comfort. 

For Rachel

The seasons here in Umbria are shifting, a couple of storms later and while it is still toasty in the high 20’s during the day, the mornings up here in the mountains are swathed in mist, making it seem like I’m living in the clouds. It’s quite beautiful and worth getting up early to witness.

But it’s a sign that winter is coming and cooler nights (hallelujah) and finally I can think about wearing the jeans I brought with me 5 months ago.  But those few rainy days, brought some stunning rainbows, and if I needed it, a sign that I am where I am meant to be.  The fields that were full of sunflowers in June are drying and being harvested, another sign of shifting daylight hours as those golden heads darken and droop. Did you know sunflowers are a sign of our condition of being?

And weirdly for some reason I’ve been feeling more anxious lately, the purchase of the apartment I am buying is seemingly endless with complications. I’ve never moved house, without there being some delay, major stress or nightmare survey, I am sure this has played a part, too many bad experiences. While this one isn’t falling into that pot exactly, I’ve noticed that I’ve begun to check my phone a lot, for any updates or replies, and how that’s been making me feel, tense and worried. Time is ticking along. That was my sign to find a way to relax, so while I still had my phone in my hand, I booked myself into a hot spring spa about an hour away in Tuscany for an afternoon of relaxing. The last few months have been fun but also exhausting; navigating bureaucracy in another language that I am far from fluent in, but also solo. We all need to pay attention to those signs that it’s time to switch off, and I had a super afternoon for the sum total of 29 Euros, floating in hot natural springs. It was fabulous. 

A Sign to Relax

Italians seem to love signs to the point of oblivion and confusion. Pretty much every road junction and bend in the highway is cluttered with a stack of often conflicting signposts, don’t get me started on when there are two facing opposite ways for the same thing. But my point here is don’t let those signs in your head stack up like a mad Italian crossroads, listen to them as they are rarely ever wrong. 

Sign, sign

Everywhere a sign

Blockin out the scenery

Breakin’ my mind

Do this, do that

Can’t you read the sign?

Song and Lyrics by – Five Man Electrical Band

PS If you need a sign to go exploring one night in the dark, drive up to that hilltop and wait for the lunar eclipse to appear through the soft clouds on the horizon. This is my sign to you to not miss those experiences. 

Lunar Eclipse over Perugia

PPS This could be your sign to ask me to do some content writing for you, I can be reached at writeupymystreet@btinternet.com

Follow me on IG: @write.upmystreet

0

Augustus, Hot Augustus

The arrival of August in Italy sees the approach of one its biggest holidays, namely, the 15th August, or Ferragosto. The term itself, Ferragosto, comes from the Latin term, Feriae Augusti or Augustus Holidays. Back in 18 BC, the then emperor Augustus, decided to create a public holiday, to not only glorify his name into history, by naming it after himself, but also to give the empire’s workers a well-deserved day off, after months of hard labour in the fields. 

The First Roman Emperor, Augustus.

Back then, people would pass by their patrons houses to greet them, collecting a small tip for their troubles, before heading to one of the many horse races held across the Roman Empire – one of the most famous and indeed oldest, still survives today  – the bi-annual palio in Siena. (James Bond fans will recall the palio featuring at the start of The Quantum of Solace.)

Siena’s Bi-annual Palio

While the empire’s horses didn’t enjoy the day off, its other beasts of burden did. Oxen, donkeys and mules were temporarily relieved from carrying all the heavy shit about, and decorated with flowers and garlands—usually a sign of their imminent sacrifice (this was the start of the Roman Empire, and we all know how things panned out for the Christians a bit later on), but on this occasion donkeys were a welcome addition.

Ferragosto however, was not traditionally held on August 15th but on August 1st (the first day of the month that Augustus himself introduced). It was the Catholic Church that pushed the event back in the calendar so that it coincided with the Assumption of Mary. Assumption Day is now a public holiday in many countries where they have strong roots in Catholic or Orthodox traditions.  But while the Feast of the Assumption was introduced in the 5th century by Bishop Cyril of Alexandria, it was not until the 6th century that the tradition was adopted by the Eastern Church and recognised by the Western Church as a Holy Day of Obligation. I digress a little, but just to wrap that bit of history in an appropriate loin cloth.

Ferragosto during the Fascist Period

It doesn’t end there, Benito Mussolini’s Fascist regime popularised the tradition of travelling during Ferragosto, implementing the idea through corporate ‘associazioni dopolavoristiche’ (‘After-Work Associations’, which controlled the after-work activities of Italy’s workforce).

From 1925 onwards, Mussolini’s regime organised hundreds of trips to Italy’s major cities as well as its coastlines and mountains, facilitating travel for Italy’s working classes through heavily discounted train fares. Valid on the 13th, 14th and 15th of August, the offer consisted of two options: one-day travel within a radius of 100km or three-day travel within a radius of 200km.

The ‘Popular Trains’ of Ferragosto

In terms of kickstarting domestic Italian tourism, the initiative was a roaring success. Many Italian families were able to visit the artistic cities of Venice, Florence, Rome and Naples for the first time while landlocked families were able to visit the coast; and families living on the coast were able to venture into the mountains. It really was a great idea put into practice on a national scale.

Today in true Italian style, and remember this is a nation for whom a 3 hour lunch break is a ‘religion’ not to be tampered with, Ferie as it has now become known, extends for at least half if not all of August. Even the banks are on short hours, I kid you not and many businesses close altogether to give their staff a chance to head to the seaside with their friends and families. If you go to Rome on the 15th August, you will find it as quiet as it can be, as most Romans are out of town, laying on their towels or sun loungers, basking in the cooler mountain air, having a stiff Aperol or chilled glass of wine. 

As this is the first time I have been in Italy for the entire month, I’ve noticed that literally every town and village, no matter how small or large are having parties and festivals. These get advertised, if they are well organised, on Facebook, or even just with a poster papered to lampposts and town notice boards, right next to the funeral and birth notices. Every night the sound of Euro music beats out across the countryside, fireworks blast upwards into the night sky and endless piles of Italian street food are scoffed. Everything from prog rock, 80’s disco to Italian classics are go, vans serving porchetta and torta di testa, (an Umbrian flat bread, filled with pretty much anything) can be found in the hands of hungry locals. 

But for me the atmosphere and the holiday/party vibes of unbelievable conviviality have stuck in my mind for ever, seared in with the heat that has been this summer; which has included fire breathing acrobatics, alongside old-fashioned fairs, parades and food as far as the eye can see. They embrace August, just like the first Roman emperor intended and they’ve rolled out the 15th into the entire month, of their summer holiday season.  

My nearest local hill town is small, around 500 inhabitants, they had a week long festa, with a parade of medieval costumes, music until 1am or later each night and some serious food carts.  They embodied one of the reasons I wanted to move here to live, their passion for fun and celebrations, while respecting history and tradition.  It rained heavily at the weekend, along with a stunning and loud storm, but nothing that would dampen the Italian holiday spirit. Tonight, I am off into town for skewers of fish kebabs, a cup of wine and a band playing into the night. Happy August wherever you are. 

Spegni le luci della città

Cosi che il cielo s’illumina

Balliamo l’ultima volta, ma

Lyrics & Song by Cesare Cremonini

(Turn off the city lights, So that the sky lights up, Let’s dance the last time)

0

Vroom, Boom, Boom, Boom

Am drifting back to an earlier Clint inspired post here, but you know when you watch an old spaghetti western, when the desert heat is palpable in those hot, dusty and sweat drenched, exhausted faces; that lingering quiet in the highest temperature of midday, just as a dried husk of tumbleweed rolls and bounces past. 

Well, in case you’d not been reading the news, Italy is in the midst of an unprecedented heatwave since early June. It’s normally not this hot until mid-July, but day after day it’s been hitting the 40s centigrade or very close. Your skin feels like the moisture is being desiccated by the second and on top of that the mosquitoes have been out in force. My back looks like a join the dots map of Italy and I’ve been eyeing the spare cheese grater as a means to reach those places in the middle of your back, you know the ones where only those with arms like an orang-utan could have a hope of reaching. 

Mosquitoes, the world’s most pointless insect after wasps.

Once the sun sets and the air cools a few meagre degrees, windows are opened to let in any semblance of cool night air. I’ve got a fan running non-stop to keep my two cats at a comfortable temperature. Although after one of them took to sleeping in the bidet I bought her a pet cool mat.   On the upside my laundry bill is minimal as unless you are going out, seriously who wants to wear anything more than the essentials in this heat. 

In other news I’ve been sweating my way through appointments at the local municipality office as I went through applying for Italian residency, while on the other side of the security screen there is a whirring A/C, my face is dripping. I’m literally sweating like a nervous dog. But some good news, I am now officially a resident here, and one step closer to Italian health care and have been able to sack off hiring a car and buy one. Having finally stopped getting rinsed each month, I’ve splashed out and bought a little Fiat 500 in pale blue. I am pretty sure Avis are glad to see the back of me, as two weeks ago I was driving down the hair pin bends from my apartment to the main road below when an old man was coming the other way and didn’t see me swerving out the way or honking my horn like a loon, and smashed into the front of my car. My driver’s side door wouldn’t open, my leg was whacked against the steering column (nothing cut or broken so phew…) and I now have a smashing (‘scuse the pun) bruise and a bump on my shin. But thank the car hire gods for reminding me to take the extra insurance as all covered, as it was close to a write off. I had a few days of feeling the shock and felt a bit wobbly inside, but I spent the weekend making deserts for a friend’s barbecue and helping out with the catering at a pizza party, which helped to take my mind off it all. 

Pear and Gorgonzola Pizza (which was divine)

I’ve also been house hunting and had found a lovely apartment made an offer which wasn’t accepted but was told the owner would only take full price. So, I upped it and then he decided he couldn’t be arsed to sell and took it off the market (silent inward screaming).  

Back to the drawing board… and I found a little Cielo-Terra (means sky – earth) in a hill town. About 500 years old and restored, lovely … however, the ground floor rooms were so damp the plaster was coming off, the owner is an architect so he should know better but he not only hadn’t got permission for all the alterations he’d done to a very historic building, but he’d also neglected to get a certificate of habitability. We all know what happened next… back to the drawing board. 

I’ve now found another apartment near the lake here in Umbria, and the other day got the magnificent news that my offer has been signed and accepted and should be moving in late September. It needs a good decorate and freshen up, but I will have all the time to do it up and make it home.  I will be sitting on that veranda with the lake in the distance having a well-deserved Aperol.

Lake Trasimeno

It’s 3 months since, I arrived, and it’s been baking hot, tiring and at times bewildering; the cats are slowly accepting the new billet, (little do they know we’re moving again) and Jack as per the pic below, has taken to sleeping in the bidet when it gets super hot.

But my Italian is slowly improving thanks to weekly lessons, and I have not once regretted coming here and taking that enormous leap. So, you could say, car crashes aside, Italy so far has my heart.

Ricordo ancora il suono: “Click, boom, boom, boom”
Senti il mio cuore, fa così: “Boom, boom, boom”

Lyrics By Rose Villain

(I still remember the sound, Click, boom, boom, boom

Feel my heart, it goes like this, boom, boom, boom)

————————————-

Follow me: @write.upmystreet

0

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑