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.

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.

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. 

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. 

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

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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.

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. 

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.

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.

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.

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.

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. 


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Famous Last Words

As a creative copy writer, my thoughts always veer towards the opening line – the how you engage, hook, and interest your reader and audience. But recently and for the worst kind of reasons, I’ve started thinking about those last words, their impact, their outpouring of emotions or are they stifled and trapped inside, taken with us and leaving a space of doubt, hope and a helpless void for the one left behind. In whatever form that takes. 

How do we want to end what we say – be it that last sentence in a blog, book, press release, words to our family as we leave in the morning, or those actual very ‘last words.’

A friend of mine is struggling to breathe, cancer is consuming her, and she is giving it her everything to stay here and live. Keeping on talking to our little group of friends in our WhatsApp group. She’s written letters to leave behind and a book of instructions for her funeral. She’s prepared in all the ways she can, apart from the sadness of knowing it is hurtling towards her and what to say, what can you say? But say you must. 

Over the years I have become a firm believer in telling people that you love them, showing them that you care – they are in your thoughts. You don’t always get that other chance to say or show it, when that moment, that breath of tangible air sits between you and the other to speak your truth. And that is how my friend is living, what I hope will be more than her last days, but I’ve told her – in the middle of the night when I know she is awake, IV stuck in her vein; on a card, on a call – I’ve shared how I feel about her. 

When you are writing, recording, filling in those blanks in your email or whatever, think about what you are saying, and not just how it starts, but how it finishes. What will you leave in that space at the end, what do you want to say that counts. 

Then write it down and say it. 

For Jenn.

All our love and all our pain
Will be but a tune
The Sun and the Moon
The wind and the rain
Hand in hand we’ll do and die
Listening to the band that made us cry
We’ll have nothing to lose
We’ll have nothing to gain
Just to stay this real-life situation 
For one last refrain.

Songwriters: Nicky Holland / Roland Orzabal (from Famous Last Words)

Contact me at: writeupmystreet@btinternet.com 

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