I went to the comune today to apply for residency and they allowed me to be britannica and from the Regno Unito. The whole process took about 15 minutes and the lady was very nice.
Despite having eaten a delicious dinner of fresh bread and a selection of cheeses followed by some pre-Easter chocolate, I may have to eat my words.
giovedì 19 marzo 2009
martedì 17 marzo 2009
How to Drive Like an Italian
The Italians are such notoriously bad drivers that it seems almost unsporting to write a post criticising their motoring habits. The death rate from road accidents in Italy was 11.7 per 100 000 of the population, compared to 5.81 in the UK, 9.49 in France and 8.03 in Germany. Nevertheless, Italians appear to enjoy driving, and one of the things which I do like about their attitude is the fact that, although they will honk their horns incessantly if they have to wait too long at traffic lights, they will often sit patiently as another driver attempts an obviously crazy manoeuvre on a narrow country road. And crazy driving is not the preserve of a small minority. It is ingrained in the national mentality and supported by everything from the police to the road markings. Rather than criticising, therefore, I have instead compiled a list of advice for those who would like to drive like the locals and enjoy a quintessentially Italian experience:
Don't expect lane markings to be present, especially on big roundabouts and motorways. You can change lanes by cutting someone up any time you want, so why would you need them?
Don't ever stop at a zebra crossing, unless it's because you intend to park on it.
Do use the hard shoulder on the motorway to get past traffic jams. There is no reason why the people at the front of the queue shouldn't let you in ahead of them when you get to the front.
Do not be surprised if the sliproad joins the motorway in the fast lane. This is entirely sensible – why would anyone want live life anywhere other than in the fast lane?
Don't use your indicators. The flashing may distract others from the glint of your bling-bling designer sunglasses, which you must wear at all times when driving. (This rule applies especially when changing lanes on the motorway at 130 km/h.)
Do double park your car. Or, for the ultimate experience, park on the pavement where someone can block you in and enjoy reversing 100 metres down the block to get out, forcing pedestrians to flatten themselves against walls as you do so.
Do honk your horn repeatedly when the queue at the motorway toll booths doesn't move fast enough. If Italians didn't enjoy waiting impatiently for other people to pay, they would all have bought Telepasses by now.
You will sometimes have the opportunity to turn right at a junction when the pedestrian crossing on your exit street is green. In theory, you should give way to any pedestrians on the crossing, but in practice this only applies if the person crossing is a nun.
Disclaimer: I have never actually driven a car in Italy. Take this advice at your peril!
Don't expect lane markings to be present, especially on big roundabouts and motorways. You can change lanes by cutting someone up any time you want, so why would you need them?
Don't ever stop at a zebra crossing, unless it's because you intend to park on it.
Do use the hard shoulder on the motorway to get past traffic jams. There is no reason why the people at the front of the queue shouldn't let you in ahead of them when you get to the front.
Do not be surprised if the sliproad joins the motorway in the fast lane. This is entirely sensible – why would anyone want live life anywhere other than in the fast lane?
Don't use your indicators. The flashing may distract others from the glint of your bling-bling designer sunglasses, which you must wear at all times when driving. (This rule applies especially when changing lanes on the motorway at 130 km/h.)
Do double park your car. Or, for the ultimate experience, park on the pavement where someone can block you in and enjoy reversing 100 metres down the block to get out, forcing pedestrians to flatten themselves against walls as you do so.
Do honk your horn repeatedly when the queue at the motorway toll booths doesn't move fast enough. If Italians didn't enjoy waiting impatiently for other people to pay, they would all have bought Telepasses by now.
You will sometimes have the opportunity to turn right at a junction when the pedestrian crossing on your exit street is green. In theory, you should give way to any pedestrians on the crossing, but in practice this only applies if the person crossing is a nun.
Disclaimer: I have never actually driven a car in Italy. Take this advice at your peril!
martedì 10 marzo 2009
CioccolaTo
It was Saturday evening. It had been a lazy day. After a long lie-in, I had been to the market with Mr A, we had lounged around the house, cooked dinner and watched some TV. The weather forecast for Sunday was nice and Mr A's car needed a day out somewhere, so we were discussing possible places we could go without much enthusiasm. Nearly everything here shuts on a Sunday, and unless you know what you're looking for, it's very easy to end up visiting a ghost town and having to promise yourself that you'll go back another day when you might see something more than closed shutters and deserted streets.
Then Mr A, who was browsing on the internet, said, “There's a chocolate festival in Turin.”
“Eureka!” I shouted. “Take me, take me, take me! Drive me down that autostrada like an Italian on speed, for I do not want to miss a minute of it!”
Actually, being British and reserved, I probably said, “That sounds nice,” but Mr A understood the hidden subtext and so, first thing on Sunday morning, we found ourselves on the way to Turin.
The fact that the main market part of the fair was not on any of the three squares listed on the official website caused me to recall with some anxiety my last visit to Turin, but we eventually found it on the Piazza Vittorio Veneto.
The theme of this year's festival was “Chocolate and Seduction” and, if we had been there on another day, we could have listened to experts on one or other subject discussing the links between the two in a series of talks, but Mr A and I were really just there for the chocolate. And boy, did we find it. The whole piazza was filled with stalls selling chocolate in every shape and form, from traditional but exquisite Easter eggs to chocolate salami tied up with string.
Unfortunately, at this point I lost my appetite and began to feel a bit dizzy. This was not my body trying to protect me from my brain's natural gourmandise, but the effects of some evil germs that had clearly decided to invade my body with particularly cruel timing. It probably did my wallet and my waistline a lot of good, however, as I ended up only having a restrained but very delicious cinnamon hot chocolate and a bite of Mr A's chocolate kebab (slices of different pralines wrapped up in sweet bread and covered in whipped cream and caramel sauce. Mmm...).We also bought some gorgeous chocolates to take home, which came in very handy on Monday night when my appetite returned to normal and my body suddenly realised what it had missed out on.
As well as being famous for its chocolate, Turin is also the home of Lavazza coffee, and when I didn't feel like standing up any longer, we went into a coffee shop to try some. Like many Italian products, it did seem to be better in its home town.
Sunday was also International Women's Day and there was another market in Turin which was supposed to be for products made and sold by women but where we also found a stall manned by two burly men who gave us grappa to try from bottles decorated with pictures of other burly men, this time with moustaches. In Italy, it's traditional to give mimosa flowers on this day. There were plenty of people selling wrapped blossoms on the street, but after walking past them all afternoon, I allowed myself to be taken in by some guy in a car park who offered me a tiny piece “as a present” and then said “but could you give me some money for a drink?” After a day filled with delicious chocolate and coffee, I wasn't really in the mood to mind.
Then Mr A, who was browsing on the internet, said, “There's a chocolate festival in Turin.”
“Eureka!” I shouted. “Take me, take me, take me! Drive me down that autostrada like an Italian on speed, for I do not want to miss a minute of it!”
Actually, being British and reserved, I probably said, “That sounds nice,” but Mr A understood the hidden subtext and so, first thing on Sunday morning, we found ourselves on the way to Turin.
The fact that the main market part of the fair was not on any of the three squares listed on the official website caused me to recall with some anxiety my last visit to Turin, but we eventually found it on the Piazza Vittorio Veneto.
The theme of this year's festival was “Chocolate and Seduction” and, if we had been there on another day, we could have listened to experts on one or other subject discussing the links between the two in a series of talks, but Mr A and I were really just there for the chocolate. And boy, did we find it. The whole piazza was filled with stalls selling chocolate in every shape and form, from traditional but exquisite Easter eggs to chocolate salami tied up with string.
Unfortunately, at this point I lost my appetite and began to feel a bit dizzy. This was not my body trying to protect me from my brain's natural gourmandise, but the effects of some evil germs that had clearly decided to invade my body with particularly cruel timing. It probably did my wallet and my waistline a lot of good, however, as I ended up only having a restrained but very delicious cinnamon hot chocolate and a bite of Mr A's chocolate kebab (slices of different pralines wrapped up in sweet bread and covered in whipped cream and caramel sauce. Mmm...).We also bought some gorgeous chocolates to take home, which came in very handy on Monday night when my appetite returned to normal and my body suddenly realised what it had missed out on.
As well as being famous for its chocolate, Turin is also the home of Lavazza coffee, and when I didn't feel like standing up any longer, we went into a coffee shop to try some. Like many Italian products, it did seem to be better in its home town.
Sunday was also International Women's Day and there was another market in Turin which was supposed to be for products made and sold by women but where we also found a stall manned by two burly men who gave us grappa to try from bottles decorated with pictures of other burly men, this time with moustaches. In Italy, it's traditional to give mimosa flowers on this day. There were plenty of people selling wrapped blossoms on the street, but after walking past them all afternoon, I allowed myself to be taken in by some guy in a car park who offered me a tiny piece “as a present” and then said “but could you give me some money for a drink?” After a day filled with delicious chocolate and coffee, I wasn't really in the mood to mind.
giovedì 5 marzo 2009
How Much Is One Euro?
This is a question that I've been asking myself ever since I moved here. I have to decide this week whether to stay in Milan for another year, and inevitably that brings lots of questions about the more distant future as well. And one of the things I need to consider is, how much am I actually paid?
In a world of sliding exchange rates (the euro is worth about 20 pence more than it was when I took this job) and rising prices, it's really hard to tell. Obviously, I know what my salary is in euros and what that equates to in pounds, but what really matters is, how much does that money buy in Italy compared to what my hypothetical UK salary would buy me there?
In an attempt to answer this question, I did something very geeky. I went to the supermarket last weekend, bought nine things that I needed, came home, looked up the prices of the equivalents in the UK on the Asda website and did some maths.
In Italy, my basket of shopping cost 11.97 euros. In the UK, it would have cost £9.64. The exchange rate at the time was £1=£1.07 euros, so the Italian shopping cost the equivalent of £10.69. I was shopping in a nicer supermarket than Asda, though, so my conclusion was that prices in the supermarkets are roughly the same in Italy and in the UK.
It was interesting, though, to see what was cheaper and what was more expensive. Wine is much cheaper in Italy. Deodorant is far more expensive. Strangely, so is cheese. Even fresh tomatoes are more expensive in Italy, although admittedly the fruit and vegetables at the market are much cheaper than in the supermarkets. It would seem that to get the best value from living here, you have to drink lots of wine. Oh well...
In a world of sliding exchange rates (the euro is worth about 20 pence more than it was when I took this job) and rising prices, it's really hard to tell. Obviously, I know what my salary is in euros and what that equates to in pounds, but what really matters is, how much does that money buy in Italy compared to what my hypothetical UK salary would buy me there?
In an attempt to answer this question, I did something very geeky. I went to the supermarket last weekend, bought nine things that I needed, came home, looked up the prices of the equivalents in the UK on the Asda website and did some maths.
In Italy, my basket of shopping cost 11.97 euros. In the UK, it would have cost £9.64. The exchange rate at the time was £1=£1.07 euros, so the Italian shopping cost the equivalent of £10.69. I was shopping in a nicer supermarket than Asda, though, so my conclusion was that prices in the supermarkets are roughly the same in Italy and in the UK.
It was interesting, though, to see what was cheaper and what was more expensive. Wine is much cheaper in Italy. Deodorant is far more expensive. Strangely, so is cheese. Even fresh tomatoes are more expensive in Italy, although admittedly the fruit and vegetables at the market are much cheaper than in the supermarkets. It would seem that to get the best value from living here, you have to drink lots of wine. Oh well...
mercoledì 4 marzo 2009
Italian Paperwork and Scottish Nationalism
Next week, I have to go to some official place in Milan with some official pieces of paper to get another official piece of paper from an official person which will prove that I live here. Before I can hold the piece of paper in my sticky hand, some policemen will knock on my door to prove that I actually live where I said I did.
As an EU citizen, I have the right to live and work in Italy for as long as I like. Nevertheless, the Italian government apparently feels that it is worth spending its taxpayers money on paying the aforementioned bureaucrats and policement so that it knows exactly where I live.
Apart from the fact that it's a bit of a waste of time and other people's money, I don't mind too much. What I do mind is this:
When I first got here, I filled out the application form. The questions on the form are written in Italian, French. German and English, so I wrote my answers in English. Apparently, though, they have to be in Italian, so my work very kindly wrote some corrections on the original form, which I then have to copy on to a new form. And under the “nationality” section, where I had written “British”, they wrote “inglese”, which means “English”. One of my Scottish friends in Italy confirmed that this is what the Italian officials make you write. So I am going to have to write it, and then sign the piece of paper to say that what I've written is true.
This doesn't annoy me because I'm a raging Scottish Nationalist. It bothers me because it's wrong. Saying that a Scottish person is English is like saying that Austrians are German because both countries are in the EU and they speak the same language. I am from the UK and my nationality is British. That's what it says on my passport and that's what I write on forms. (I do feel Scottish too, but that has nothing to do with politics. And if English nationality could be officially recognised, I could have that too, but it doesn't.) If the man in the street called me English, I'd either explain politely why I'm not or smile and shrug my shoulders. But if the Italian paper-pushers want me to sign endless unnecessary documents, they should at least give me the opportunity to put the right facts on them.
As an EU citizen, I have the right to live and work in Italy for as long as I like. Nevertheless, the Italian government apparently feels that it is worth spending its taxpayers money on paying the aforementioned bureaucrats and policement so that it knows exactly where I live.
Apart from the fact that it's a bit of a waste of time and other people's money, I don't mind too much. What I do mind is this:
When I first got here, I filled out the application form. The questions on the form are written in Italian, French. German and English, so I wrote my answers in English. Apparently, though, they have to be in Italian, so my work very kindly wrote some corrections on the original form, which I then have to copy on to a new form. And under the “nationality” section, where I had written “British”, they wrote “inglese”, which means “English”. One of my Scottish friends in Italy confirmed that this is what the Italian officials make you write. So I am going to have to write it, and then sign the piece of paper to say that what I've written is true.
This doesn't annoy me because I'm a raging Scottish Nationalist. It bothers me because it's wrong. Saying that a Scottish person is English is like saying that Austrians are German because both countries are in the EU and they speak the same language. I am from the UK and my nationality is British. That's what it says on my passport and that's what I write on forms. (I do feel Scottish too, but that has nothing to do with politics. And if English nationality could be officially recognised, I could have that too, but it doesn't.) If the man in the street called me English, I'd either explain politely why I'm not or smile and shrug my shoulders. But if the Italian paper-pushers want me to sign endless unnecessary documents, they should at least give me the opportunity to put the right facts on them.
domenica 1 marzo 2009
The Reader
WARNING: If you don't want to know what happens in this film, don't read this post!
As I mentioned in my last post, I went to see the Italian-language version of The Reader yesterday. Kate Winslet won an Oscar for Best Actress for this film, and my initial reaction was that it was very good, but the more I thought about it afterwards, the more I decided it was actually not nearly as good as it could have been. I read the book (Der Vorleser) in German when I was at university and, although I think the ending of the book is weak, there is a lot of depth in the book which isn't really exploited in the film.
The Reader is the story of Michael Berg, who when he is fifteen begins a relationship with an older woman, Hanna Schmitz. He reads aloud to her and then they make love in the afternoons when he finishes school. We later learn that Hanna is a former member of the SS and was involved in the deaths of hundreds of people when she worked at the concentration camps.
One of the film's biggest failings is the way in which Michael is portrayed, and therefore how we respond to his relationship with Hanna. In the book, the relationship begins when Michael is just recovering from a long illness. He is a vulnerable, physically weak character who has lost touch with many of his classmates and spent too much time alone. While his relationship with Hanna is fully consensual, you are left with the impression that he is being exploited. There are several scenes in the book when she gets angry with him for no apparent reason and he is left feeling hurt, confused, and almost begging for her to be merciful and take him back. In the film, on the other hand, Michael has an impressive six-pack and biceps and a cheeky twinkle in his eye. He is as much the instigator of the relationship as she is and comes across as a successful seducer rather than a vulnerable teenager.
Portraying Michael in this way removes a lot of depth from the character of Hanna and from the story. The second part of the film shows Michael as a young law student watching Hanna's trial. We know by this point that she is illiterate and that she took the job in the SS when she was offered a promotion by her previous employer that would have required her to read and write. The implication is that her own vulnerability leads her to prey on the weaknesses of others and, as a result, she becomes a hideously twisted and yet somehow sympathetic character, but the film loses out on a lot of this through its shallow portrayal of her relationship with Michael.
The story, both in the book and in the film, touches on a lot of questions about guilt, responsibilty and the consequences of inaction as well as of action. One of the most powerful moments in the film is when Hanna attributes her actions in the SS to the need for order and asks the examining magistrate, “What would you have done?” These questions, combined with the beautiful cinematography, are what makes the film worth watching in spite of its weaknesses.
It would be difficult to make a film about the Holocaust without it being thought-provoking, and this was the reason that I liked the film at the beginning. It was on continuing my train of thought, however, that I realised that the film's unnecessary extension of the book's mawkish ending, combined with it's failure to exploit the full potential of the story, made it, in the end, less powerful than it initially appeared.
As I mentioned in my last post, I went to see the Italian-language version of The Reader yesterday. Kate Winslet won an Oscar for Best Actress for this film, and my initial reaction was that it was very good, but the more I thought about it afterwards, the more I decided it was actually not nearly as good as it could have been. I read the book (Der Vorleser) in German when I was at university and, although I think the ending of the book is weak, there is a lot of depth in the book which isn't really exploited in the film.
The Reader is the story of Michael Berg, who when he is fifteen begins a relationship with an older woman, Hanna Schmitz. He reads aloud to her and then they make love in the afternoons when he finishes school. We later learn that Hanna is a former member of the SS and was involved in the deaths of hundreds of people when she worked at the concentration camps.
One of the film's biggest failings is the way in which Michael is portrayed, and therefore how we respond to his relationship with Hanna. In the book, the relationship begins when Michael is just recovering from a long illness. He is a vulnerable, physically weak character who has lost touch with many of his classmates and spent too much time alone. While his relationship with Hanna is fully consensual, you are left with the impression that he is being exploited. There are several scenes in the book when she gets angry with him for no apparent reason and he is left feeling hurt, confused, and almost begging for her to be merciful and take him back. In the film, on the other hand, Michael has an impressive six-pack and biceps and a cheeky twinkle in his eye. He is as much the instigator of the relationship as she is and comes across as a successful seducer rather than a vulnerable teenager.
Portraying Michael in this way removes a lot of depth from the character of Hanna and from the story. The second part of the film shows Michael as a young law student watching Hanna's trial. We know by this point that she is illiterate and that she took the job in the SS when she was offered a promotion by her previous employer that would have required her to read and write. The implication is that her own vulnerability leads her to prey on the weaknesses of others and, as a result, she becomes a hideously twisted and yet somehow sympathetic character, but the film loses out on a lot of this through its shallow portrayal of her relationship with Michael.
The story, both in the book and in the film, touches on a lot of questions about guilt, responsibilty and the consequences of inaction as well as of action. One of the most powerful moments in the film is when Hanna attributes her actions in the SS to the need for order and asks the examining magistrate, “What would you have done?” These questions, combined with the beautiful cinematography, are what makes the film worth watching in spite of its weaknesses.
It would be difficult to make a film about the Holocaust without it being thought-provoking, and this was the reason that I liked the film at the beginning. It was on continuing my train of thought, however, that I realised that the film's unnecessary extension of the book's mawkish ending, combined with it's failure to exploit the full potential of the story, made it, in the end, less powerful than it initially appeared.
Carnival Saturday
In most places, Carnival happens in the week running up to Ash Wednesday. In Milan, though, it's different. Because Sant Ambrogio is the patron saint of Milan, the city follows the Calendario Ambrosiano, which means that Lent begins on the Sunday after Ash Wednesday. My first thought was that this was a cunning trick of the Milanesi to make Lent shorter and therefore easier for themselves, but according to Wikipedia, it's actually because in the Calendario Ambrosiano, Sundays are counted as days of penitence, whereas in the Calendario Romano, they're not.
Carnevale in Milan seemed to be mostly about children dressing up and throwing confetti and silly string at each other, although there was a parade and a concert later on in the day. Yesterday, after a trip to the market to buy my first strawberries of the year and stock up on cheese, I went into town to meet a friend, and the Piazza del Duomo was full of them. After dodging the silly string for a while, we went to the cinema to see The Reader. I'm going to write a separate post about the film, so for now I'll just say that it was the first time I'd seen a film in Italian at the cinema here and I was quite proud that I understood everything, although it was quite weird watching an English language film of a book that I read in German dubbed into Italian.
After the cinema, I went back to the Duomo and met Mr A and we wandered around for a while enjoying the fact that most of the people in costume were either under ten or grown men before going to the Irish pub to watch the rugby. Only one fo my Scottish friends dared to be very vocal about the fact that Scotland won, but it made a nice change, even if it was just against Italy. After the second game, we went out for pizza to celebrate another friend's birthday, then for a drink in one of the bars on the Navigli.
It had been a long day, so I was pleased when my apparently eternal good luck with Milanese public transport continued and the tram home pulled up to the stop just as we got there. Being in Italy, I should apparently touch metal instead of wood to make sure that this continues.
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