It occurred to me recently that it had been a while since I posted any witty (or otherwise) observations on the Italians and their crazy ways. I was reminded of that thought this afternoon when, standing in the queue in the supermarket, I noticed that the woman next to me was holding a dog in her arms and realised that I wasn't particularly surprised by the sight. (It was, admittedly, not as dramatic as the time my mum and I were in a restaurant in France and saw that some other customers not only had a dog with them but were giving it the restaurant plates to lick.) Perhaps I've just lived too long in Mediterranean countries to be surprised by the dog dirt on the pavements, people attempting to run me over on pedestrian crossings and the fact that it is 100% socially acceptable to drive when drunk.
One thing that still astounds me about Italy, though, is the noise. People seem to just have louder voices here. The sweet little 5 year old girls that I teach talk about playing with their dollies at about 100 decibels. If you want to know anybody else's business, you can walk 50 metres behind them in the street and still hear their phone conversations. You know what your neighbours are having for dinner because you can hear it through the walls, as long as you can make out what one of them is saying over the interrupting voice of the other.
On the plus side, I suppose that this love of loud conversations is a sign of one of the nation's great virtues: it's sociability and willingness to share. That may be worth far more than French discretion or British reserve. The problem, though, is that when everyone is talking, nobody's listening. Kids at school don't learn because they don't listen. People sell you the wrong things because they weren't listening. And, as a foreigner, it was very reassuring for me to realise that often, when people don't understand what you're saying, it's not because you're saying it wrong. It's because they weren't listening.
mercoledì 25 febbraio 2009
domenica 22 febbraio 2009
La Settimana Bianca: Après-Ski
On our first day in Pila, we only bought half-day ski passes. Our lessons finished at 12.30 and we figured that we could easily fit in an extra bit of practice before the passes ran out at 2 o'clock if we wanted to. By Tuesday, however, we had realised that we were unlikely to want to do anything other than collapse in the sun with lunch after a 3 hour skiing lesson and that the view from the chalet terraces alone was worth paying an extra ten euros to stay an extra couple of hours and look at. As I said before, the centre of Aosta was pretty, but not quite pretty enough to compete with a stunning panorama of Mont Blanc, Monte Rosa and the Cervino mountains.
As well as me and Mr A, several of our friends from Milan were up, so most days we met for lunch and caught up with each other's adventures (being hit by a kamkaze skier in freefall (me), falling on the ice in the street before I even got to the cable car (me) and being dragged along a conveyor belt while appearing to embrace a chairlift (oops, me again!)). After lunch, I usually skied down a couple of the easier slopes by myself before meeting up with Mr A for some more sitting around in the sunshine then getting the cable car back down to Aosta.
One of the consequences of all this snow and sunshine was that I ended up with very obvious panda eyes from my sunglasses. Nobody else got them, which I found most unfair.
After a shower and a nap at the hotel, we went into Aosta for dinner. On Monday, we had pizza in La Grotta Azzura, which was nice and not at all expensive, although my 4 seasons pizza did appear to be missing a season, as it only had 3 toppings. On Tuesday we went to a place that I think was called something like Ristorante Moderno. It was in a state of chaos when we arrived and appeared to have been feeding school parties all evening, but they were gone by the time we got there and the restaurant did an incredible 3-course set menu for 13.50. I was unfortunately too full to eat it, but my friend had a delicious-looking bubbling lasagne, two enormous pork medallions with vegetables, a plate of chips and a sorbet. Inspired by him, I ordered something similar the next night in Le Carillon, but it was more expensive, the lasagne was less bubbly and there was no sorbet. There were, however, sculptures of naked women all over the walls, so that might be to somebody's taste.
Mr A and I were alone on Thursday night and we had the meal that we had been waiting for all week: cheese fondue. We went to Ulisse, a restaurant recommended by our hotel. In a town filled with tourists, this restaurant appeared to be frequented only by older Italians. The waiter explained exactly what was in the fondue, told us how to eat it and gently suggested white wine when we tried to order red. The fondue arrived in a plain old saucepan over a simple burner, served only with a basket of bread, and for the next half hour or so, we were in melty, gloopy, cheesy heaven. We left the restaurant reminding ourselves that Aosta was only a 2 hour drive from Milan and we could come back whenever we wanted, but we might just buy a fondue set instead.
As well as me and Mr A, several of our friends from Milan were up, so most days we met for lunch and caught up with each other's adventures (being hit by a kamkaze skier in freefall (me), falling on the ice in the street before I even got to the cable car (me) and being dragged along a conveyor belt while appearing to embrace a chairlift (oops, me again!)). After lunch, I usually skied down a couple of the easier slopes by myself before meeting up with Mr A for some more sitting around in the sunshine then getting the cable car back down to Aosta.
One of the consequences of all this snow and sunshine was that I ended up with very obvious panda eyes from my sunglasses. Nobody else got them, which I found most unfair.
After a shower and a nap at the hotel, we went into Aosta for dinner. On Monday, we had pizza in La Grotta Azzura, which was nice and not at all expensive, although my 4 seasons pizza did appear to be missing a season, as it only had 3 toppings. On Tuesday we went to a place that I think was called something like Ristorante Moderno. It was in a state of chaos when we arrived and appeared to have been feeding school parties all evening, but they were gone by the time we got there and the restaurant did an incredible 3-course set menu for 13.50. I was unfortunately too full to eat it, but my friend had a delicious-looking bubbling lasagne, two enormous pork medallions with vegetables, a plate of chips and a sorbet. Inspired by him, I ordered something similar the next night in Le Carillon, but it was more expensive, the lasagne was less bubbly and there was no sorbet. There were, however, sculptures of naked women all over the walls, so that might be to somebody's taste.
Mr A and I were alone on Thursday night and we had the meal that we had been waiting for all week: cheese fondue. We went to Ulisse, a restaurant recommended by our hotel. In a town filled with tourists, this restaurant appeared to be frequented only by older Italians. The waiter explained exactly what was in the fondue, told us how to eat it and gently suggested white wine when we tried to order red. The fondue arrived in a plain old saucepan over a simple burner, served only with a basket of bread, and for the next half hour or so, we were in melty, gloopy, cheesy heaven. We left the restaurant reminding ourselves that Aosta was only a 2 hour drive from Milan and we could come back whenever we wanted, but we might just buy a fondue set instead.
sabato 21 febbraio 2009
La Settimana Bianca: Skiing in Pila
The possibilities for going skiing in Italy are almost endless. At first, we had big plans for hiring a chalet for our February holidays with a group of friends, but as usual, the big plans didn't quite work out and we ended up heading to Aosta for five days, staying in a hotel and having skiing lessons at the ski school in Pila.
Pila is a ski resort in the Valle d'Aosta, the tiny bilingual region in the top left-hand corner of Italy that borders France and Switzerland. On our first day in Aosta, we went into a bar and the man behind the counter, realising that I wasn't Italian, spoke to me in French. I don't know whether it was because he heard me speaking to Mr A or because I accidentally asked for “water with marbles” instead of “water with bubbles”, but he finally switched to English and I was left feeling a little bit disappointed.
Aosta was a Roman town and there are still some Roman remains to be seen, but the centre, which has a lovely big square and pretty pedestrianised streets, is mostly medieval. We stayed in the Albergo Mancuso, which was cheap and conveniently located five minutes walk from the cable car up the mountain to Pila. Our room was basic and decorated with bright green curtains and an orange and yellow candlewick bedspread that would have made any 1970's housewife proud, but it was big and had a full-size bathroom with a nice hot shower and the hotel staff were friendly and helpful.
Before I go on to describe the skiing lessons, I should probably say something about my prior experience of skiing. The first time was at Hillend, the dry ski slope in Edinburgh when I was about ten. All I remember of that was being very hot from walking up the hill with skis on and the pain of sliding on spiky plastic brushes ever time I fell over. The second time was seven years ago when I was in my first year at university and a friend offered to take me and two of my friends to Glencoe with his family for the day. The Scottish ski season is generally pretty unreliable, but this was a good year and the mountains were covered in snow and glistening in the sunshine as we drove up. We survived the ski fitting and the chairlift up the mountain quite well, but things started to go wrong when we tried to get on the drag lift. Friend No 1 managed it but Friend No 2 and I failed to get on or fell off a couple of times and were eventually sent by a member of staff to walk to the nursery slope with our tails between our legs so that all the people in the queue behind us could actually get up the mountain.
Embarrassment aside, we actually quite enjoyed sliding around the beginner slope for most of the morning, but the ground was very icy and when our friend, reappeared at lunch time, he told us that the snow was much better up at the top. He and his family helped us with the lifts this time and his parents were incredibly kind about helping us to ski down the run, despite the fact that we were falling at every turn, and, in my case at least, every time I got too much speed up and didn't know how to stop.
And that was how I ended up doing red runs on my first real day of skiing. I remember the terror, I remember the ache in my legs all throughout the day, I remember not being able to brush my hair afterwards because my arms were so sore, I remember the bruise the size of a tea plate on my thigh, and I remember, despite everything, the sense of achievement at the end of the day.
It was unsurprising, therefore, that my first skiing lesson in Pila was something of a let down. I decided that it would be a good idea to start from scratch and signed up for the beginners' lesson. Unfortunately, in Italy, most people only take beginners' lessons when they are under five, so I was put in a group with about ten three year olds and two teenage boys and led off to the nursery slope. We had about ten instructors and helpers with us, but given that the children were too young to even realise that they were supposed to try to slide down the slope and basically needed an instructor each, I and the two boys were more or less left to our own devices and after about half an hour it got boring. The nursery slopes in Pila have magic carpets, which are essentially conveyor belts, instead of lifts, so there wasn't even the excitement of trying to catch a button lift. At one point, I felt nauseous and sat down with my head between my legs, and the instructors didn't even notice because they were too busy pulling toddlers down the slope and making sure they didn't fall off the magic carpet. Given that the ski school had about 170 instructors available, I thought that it was pretty bad for them to put adults in groups with such young children, especially as the kids were basically getting one-to-one tuition and the adults, who had paid more, got next to nothing.
The next day, therefore, I asked to change to a higher level group. Unfortunately, the next group up was composed mainly of five and six year olds who could at least stand up on their skis but weren't particulaly keen to actually go down a slope. I thought I was going to have a repeat of the day before but luckily the instructor realised as we set off and three out of the five children started to cry, that this group wasn't going to be much fun for me either, and handed me over to Renato, who was teaching a slightly more advanced group with older children who actually wanted to be there. There was another adult as well, the mother of one of the kids. She and I became known as “le mamme” (“the mums”) for the rest of the week, but we had great fun together avoiding the kamikaze kids and being scared of doing any jumps.
Renato was a great instructor and the rest of the week was fabulous. On Tuesday, we went down easy blue runs and learned the beginnings of parallel turns. On Wednesday, there was a covering of fresh powder on the slopes, the turns became easier and suddenly Renato's instruction to “lean further down the mountain” started to make sense. We went down our first red runs that day, which was probably why my muscles hurt so much on Thursday, and I didn't feel like I skied so well. Pila is a great resort for beginners though, with lots of blue and red runs and nice trails through the forest, so it was fun just trying out all the different places to go with someone who knew what they were doing to stop me from accidentally finding myself on a black run. Friday was the last day of the course and everybody was supposed to participate in a competition. My fellow “mum” and I were reluctant at first, more because of the idea of being watched by the proud mummies and daddies on the side than by fear of the course or the competition, but Renato convinced us and it wasn't too painful in the end.
While I was doing all of this, Mr A was having snowboarding lessons. He found it tricky at first, mostly because standing up on a snowboard when you're 6'4” tall is very difficult, but by the end of the week he was making it down the runs as well. He was lucky, too, that toddlers don't learn to snowboard, so at least everybody in his group was over the age of ten!
By the end of the week, both of us felt confident enough to go skiing by ourselves, so all we have to do now is save up some more money...
Pila is a ski resort in the Valle d'Aosta, the tiny bilingual region in the top left-hand corner of Italy that borders France and Switzerland. On our first day in Aosta, we went into a bar and the man behind the counter, realising that I wasn't Italian, spoke to me in French. I don't know whether it was because he heard me speaking to Mr A or because I accidentally asked for “water with marbles” instead of “water with bubbles”, but he finally switched to English and I was left feeling a little bit disappointed.
Aosta was a Roman town and there are still some Roman remains to be seen, but the centre, which has a lovely big square and pretty pedestrianised streets, is mostly medieval. We stayed in the Albergo Mancuso, which was cheap and conveniently located five minutes walk from the cable car up the mountain to Pila. Our room was basic and decorated with bright green curtains and an orange and yellow candlewick bedspread that would have made any 1970's housewife proud, but it was big and had a full-size bathroom with a nice hot shower and the hotel staff were friendly and helpful.
Before I go on to describe the skiing lessons, I should probably say something about my prior experience of skiing. The first time was at Hillend, the dry ski slope in Edinburgh when I was about ten. All I remember of that was being very hot from walking up the hill with skis on and the pain of sliding on spiky plastic brushes ever time I fell over. The second time was seven years ago when I was in my first year at university and a friend offered to take me and two of my friends to Glencoe with his family for the day. The Scottish ski season is generally pretty unreliable, but this was a good year and the mountains were covered in snow and glistening in the sunshine as we drove up. We survived the ski fitting and the chairlift up the mountain quite well, but things started to go wrong when we tried to get on the drag lift. Friend No 1 managed it but Friend No 2 and I failed to get on or fell off a couple of times and were eventually sent by a member of staff to walk to the nursery slope with our tails between our legs so that all the people in the queue behind us could actually get up the mountain.
Embarrassment aside, we actually quite enjoyed sliding around the beginner slope for most of the morning, but the ground was very icy and when our friend, reappeared at lunch time, he told us that the snow was much better up at the top. He and his family helped us with the lifts this time and his parents were incredibly kind about helping us to ski down the run, despite the fact that we were falling at every turn, and, in my case at least, every time I got too much speed up and didn't know how to stop.
And that was how I ended up doing red runs on my first real day of skiing. I remember the terror, I remember the ache in my legs all throughout the day, I remember not being able to brush my hair afterwards because my arms were so sore, I remember the bruise the size of a tea plate on my thigh, and I remember, despite everything, the sense of achievement at the end of the day.
It was unsurprising, therefore, that my first skiing lesson in Pila was something of a let down. I decided that it would be a good idea to start from scratch and signed up for the beginners' lesson. Unfortunately, in Italy, most people only take beginners' lessons when they are under five, so I was put in a group with about ten three year olds and two teenage boys and led off to the nursery slope. We had about ten instructors and helpers with us, but given that the children were too young to even realise that they were supposed to try to slide down the slope and basically needed an instructor each, I and the two boys were more or less left to our own devices and after about half an hour it got boring. The nursery slopes in Pila have magic carpets, which are essentially conveyor belts, instead of lifts, so there wasn't even the excitement of trying to catch a button lift. At one point, I felt nauseous and sat down with my head between my legs, and the instructors didn't even notice because they were too busy pulling toddlers down the slope and making sure they didn't fall off the magic carpet. Given that the ski school had about 170 instructors available, I thought that it was pretty bad for them to put adults in groups with such young children, especially as the kids were basically getting one-to-one tuition and the adults, who had paid more, got next to nothing.
The next day, therefore, I asked to change to a higher level group. Unfortunately, the next group up was composed mainly of five and six year olds who could at least stand up on their skis but weren't particulaly keen to actually go down a slope. I thought I was going to have a repeat of the day before but luckily the instructor realised as we set off and three out of the five children started to cry, that this group wasn't going to be much fun for me either, and handed me over to Renato, who was teaching a slightly more advanced group with older children who actually wanted to be there. There was another adult as well, the mother of one of the kids. She and I became known as “le mamme” (“the mums”) for the rest of the week, but we had great fun together avoiding the kamikaze kids and being scared of doing any jumps.
Renato was a great instructor and the rest of the week was fabulous. On Tuesday, we went down easy blue runs and learned the beginnings of parallel turns. On Wednesday, there was a covering of fresh powder on the slopes, the turns became easier and suddenly Renato's instruction to “lean further down the mountain” started to make sense. We went down our first red runs that day, which was probably why my muscles hurt so much on Thursday, and I didn't feel like I skied so well. Pila is a great resort for beginners though, with lots of blue and red runs and nice trails through the forest, so it was fun just trying out all the different places to go with someone who knew what they were doing to stop me from accidentally finding myself on a black run. Friday was the last day of the course and everybody was supposed to participate in a competition. My fellow “mum” and I were reluctant at first, more because of the idea of being watched by the proud mummies and daddies on the side than by fear of the course or the competition, but Renato convinced us and it wasn't too painful in the end.
While I was doing all of this, Mr A was having snowboarding lessons. He found it tricky at first, mostly because standing up on a snowboard when you're 6'4” tall is very difficult, but by the end of the week he was making it down the runs as well. He was lucky, too, that toddlers don't learn to snowboard, so at least everybody in his group was over the age of ten!
By the end of the week, both of us felt confident enough to go skiing by ourselves, so all we have to do now is save up some more money...
sabato 14 febbraio 2009
Cheddar Cheese
We found it in Auchan. It was only 1.99 euros. It tasted great.
And tomorrow we're going to the mountains for a whole week of skiing lessons!
And tomorrow we're going to the mountains for a whole week of skiing lessons!
martedì 10 febbraio 2009
Lugano Again
On Sunday, we went to Switzerland again. Mr A still needed some clothes for skiing, so we stopped off at the Foxtown outlet centre. Mr A got a North Face jacket for 100 euros. He was happy to have the jacket, and I, as his tight Scottish girlfriend (as he likes to remind me), was glad on his behalf that he got such a bargain.
After that, we went up to Lugano for a walk around the lake so that I could get my fix of nice views and fresh air. Lugano is beautiful, with a turquoise lake, gorgeous grand hotels on the promenade and snowy mountains behind it, and the air was definitely less polluted than in Milan. The town is so clean and organised looking that it seems really strange when you hear Italian spoken around you. Just like in Milan, the people are incredibly well dressed, but combined with tidiness of the setting, it creates a sense of perfection that's almost unnerving. Nevertheless, Mr A and I both decided that Switzerland would be a very nice place to live, and you're never too far from the more flawed countries over the border!
Il Parrucchiere
On Saturday, I went with Mr A to get him a haircut. Getting a haircut yourself in a foreign country is scary enough, but being the translator for your other half's barbering experience when you have a somewhat shaky command of the language (I know the Italian words for “hayfever” and “magnifying glass” but regularly confuse simple adjectives and prepositions) has the potential to be a real test of a relationship. The experience was made a lot worse by the fact that we had to wait for over an hour watching middle-aged ladies having their hair set in rollers and an older man having his style finished with hairspray.
The final result looked really good, which was a huge relief for both of us, and we relaxed by going to the Irish pub to watch the rugby. The pub is called Murphy's Law and it's in the Navigli district. It's a pretty authentic looking Irish pub but it sells very nice Italian wine as well as beer in actual pint glasses and they did a delicious and very filling aperitivo of things like sausages and mashed potato, accompanied by tomatoes and mozzarella. I found all of that much more exciting than the rugby!
The final result looked really good, which was a huge relief for both of us, and we relaxed by going to the Irish pub to watch the rugby. The pub is called Murphy's Law and it's in the Navigli district. It's a pretty authentic looking Irish pub but it sells very nice Italian wine as well as beer in actual pint glasses and they did a delicious and very filling aperitivo of things like sausages and mashed potato, accompanied by tomatoes and mozzarella. I found all of that much more exciting than the rugby!
sabato 7 febbraio 2009
Body Fitness Dance
Up until a week ago, I had never in my life been to an exercise class. Well, never in my adult life. When I was 16 and trying to get my Duke of Edinburgh award, I went to the school aerobics club for two whole weeks. Then I realised that it was torture and that I could get the award by ice skating instead and I never went back. Last year, when I lived in Edinburgh. I didn't need exercise classes. I was walking for an hour ever day, climbing mountains every so often at the weekends and going running every time I could guilt myself into it.
Since I came to Milan, however, the only rapid movement that has taken place in my life is the downhill slide in the amount that I exercise. In the summer, I could rollerblade in the park and I did some amazing long walks in the mountains. In winter, though, the ground is too wet for rollerblading and the mountains are too dangerous for a dilettante like me. Even if I was motivated to go running, the nearest park is a bus ride away and on the days when it's not too wet, the cold air opens up your lungs and lets you breathe the traffic fumes in far too effectively to make running a healthy thing to do. So when two of my friends announced that they were going to a dance fitness class, I decided it might be a good idea too.
The class is great. Bouncing around to music ranging from the Beatles to Mambo Italiano, culminating in a grand ten minute finale to the Mamma Mia Mega Mix is definitely my idea of fun. In fact, it's exactly what I do at home in front of the mirror when nobody's looking. The other women who go (even Italian blokes are not quite comfortable enough with their masculinity for this kind of thing) are great fun as well. They are the most Italian Italians I've met in Milan so far and they laugh and talk the whole time, including when we're dancing and over the teacher talking. I've been to three classes so far and every time I've left with a big smile on my face.
In addition, I might finally learn to remember which way is “su” (up) and which way is “giù” (down) so well that I will never ever forget it.
Since I came to Milan, however, the only rapid movement that has taken place in my life is the downhill slide in the amount that I exercise. In the summer, I could rollerblade in the park and I did some amazing long walks in the mountains. In winter, though, the ground is too wet for rollerblading and the mountains are too dangerous for a dilettante like me. Even if I was motivated to go running, the nearest park is a bus ride away and on the days when it's not too wet, the cold air opens up your lungs and lets you breathe the traffic fumes in far too effectively to make running a healthy thing to do. So when two of my friends announced that they were going to a dance fitness class, I decided it might be a good idea too.
The class is great. Bouncing around to music ranging from the Beatles to Mambo Italiano, culminating in a grand ten minute finale to the Mamma Mia Mega Mix is definitely my idea of fun. In fact, it's exactly what I do at home in front of the mirror when nobody's looking. The other women who go (even Italian blokes are not quite comfortable enough with their masculinity for this kind of thing) are great fun as well. They are the most Italian Italians I've met in Milan so far and they laugh and talk the whole time, including when we're dancing and over the teacher talking. I've been to three classes so far and every time I've left with a big smile on my face.
In addition, I might finally learn to remember which way is “su” (up) and which way is “giù” (down) so well that I will never ever forget it.
mercoledì 4 febbraio 2009
Camaieu in Milan
I didn't think shopping got any better than finding the things that you actually need to buy reduced to a price that you can actually afford, but I was wrong.
On Sunday afternoon, Mr A and I decided to put off marking and writing reports by going to the big out of town Carrefour that we had seen on the way out of Milan the day before. He was hoping that the biggest supermarket around would have an alternative to Robinson's Special R squash and possibly some Cheddar cheese. I was hoping for a Gallic shopping experience that would allow me to wallow in nostalgia on a cold and rainy afternoon.
Mr A, unfortunately, was disappointed. If anybody knows where to buy sugar-free diluting juice in Italy, please let me know. My wishes, on the other hand, were fulfilled beyond anything I could ever have hoped for.
We thought we were only going to the supermarket, but it turned out to be in a shopping centre called Milano Fiori, which is next to the Datch forum as you leave Milan on the motorway. We were strolling along among the usual range of high-street chain stores when I saw it. The familiar pink and purple frontage. The white lettering. It was Camaieu.
I interrupted whatever Adam was saying about Robinson's squash and cheddar cheese. I grabbed his hand and dragged him towards the shop. I may have kissed him in delight a couple of times on the way. At some point, he realised that all this excitement was utterly genuine and looked slightly stunned.
Camaieu is my favourite clothes shop in the world but I'm not totally sure why I like it so much. The clothes are not that good quality and I once even cut my finger on a zip on one of their skirts. Nevertheless, I love that shop. Last time I was in France, I went at least four times to two different stores. I know where Camaieu is in St Quentin, La Défense, Compiègne, Nancy and Nice. Somehow or other, they make clothes that I like with the added impression of buying into a little bit of French chic on the way. It may be psychological, but I always find clothes that I like in Camaieu.
And they have shops in Italy. I am happy.
On Sunday afternoon, Mr A and I decided to put off marking and writing reports by going to the big out of town Carrefour that we had seen on the way out of Milan the day before. He was hoping that the biggest supermarket around would have an alternative to Robinson's Special R squash and possibly some Cheddar cheese. I was hoping for a Gallic shopping experience that would allow me to wallow in nostalgia on a cold and rainy afternoon.
Mr A, unfortunately, was disappointed. If anybody knows where to buy sugar-free diluting juice in Italy, please let me know. My wishes, on the other hand, were fulfilled beyond anything I could ever have hoped for.
We thought we were only going to the supermarket, but it turned out to be in a shopping centre called Milano Fiori, which is next to the Datch forum as you leave Milan on the motorway. We were strolling along among the usual range of high-street chain stores when I saw it. The familiar pink and purple frontage. The white lettering. It was Camaieu.
I interrupted whatever Adam was saying about Robinson's squash and cheddar cheese. I grabbed his hand and dragged him towards the shop. I may have kissed him in delight a couple of times on the way. At some point, he realised that all this excitement was utterly genuine and looked slightly stunned.
Camaieu is my favourite clothes shop in the world but I'm not totally sure why I like it so much. The clothes are not that good quality and I once even cut my finger on a zip on one of their skirts. Nevertheless, I love that shop. Last time I was in France, I went at least four times to two different stores. I know where Camaieu is in St Quentin, La Défense, Compiègne, Nancy and Nice. Somehow or other, they make clothes that I like with the added impression of buying into a little bit of French chic on the way. It may be psychological, but I always find clothes that I like in Camaieu.
And they have shops in Italy. I am happy.
lunedì 2 febbraio 2009
McArthur Glen
I've written before about how good Milan is for shopping. The well- heeled can splash their cash at La Rinascente, Italy's answer to Harrods or Jenners where after riding on endless escalators and trawling though rail after rail of expensive clothing, shoppers can relax with refreshments on a terrace that looks out on the roof of the cathedral. The even better-heeled, meanwhile, drive their Ferraris around the Quadrilatero d'Oro and barely inflict damage on their platinum credit cards in the designer flagship stores.
For the likes of me, however, these places are more like art exhibitions than places where you actually buy things. The likes of me have two choices: shop in the high street shops of Via Torino or get out of town. To the outlet centres.
Not having a single Ferrari between us, Mr. A, two of our friends and I made our escape in Mr. A's Fiat Punto. There are several outlet centres within driving distance of Milan, but we chose the one at Serravalle, which is run by McArthur Glen. The shops range from Reebok to Prada, and we were open to finding anything.
Our most successful finds were in the sports shops. We all got trainers in the Reebok shop, and, thanks to my personal shopping advisor (Mr. A)'s eagle eyes, I got a pair that were reduced from 90 euros to 30. My other great bargain was a ski jacket and trousers, (which I will be needing for our skiing holiday in 2 weeks!) reduced from about 250 euros to 60. Mr. A got a nice scarf and gloves in Timberland and my friend ran out of Versace in shock when they told her that a fluffy handbag, reduced by 50%, was a bargain at 1500 euros. The outlet stores normally have about 30% the normal price, but because it's still sale time in Italy, we were getting up to 50% off the outlet price, so some of the reductions were incredible.
Bargains aside, my other two favourite finds were this hot beverage solution for the travelling Italian who misses the coffee from the Bel Paese:
and the Lindt shop, where high quality chocolate is sold as pic'n'mix on a scale that Woolworths could only dream of even before it went bust. At 3.55 euros for 100g, it wasn't exactly cheap, but who cares when you've just saved 240 euros on the rest of your shopping?
For the likes of me, however, these places are more like art exhibitions than places where you actually buy things. The likes of me have two choices: shop in the high street shops of Via Torino or get out of town. To the outlet centres.
Not having a single Ferrari between us, Mr. A, two of our friends and I made our escape in Mr. A's Fiat Punto. There are several outlet centres within driving distance of Milan, but we chose the one at Serravalle, which is run by McArthur Glen. The shops range from Reebok to Prada, and we were open to finding anything.
Our most successful finds were in the sports shops. We all got trainers in the Reebok shop, and, thanks to my personal shopping advisor (Mr. A)'s eagle eyes, I got a pair that were reduced from 90 euros to 30. My other great bargain was a ski jacket and trousers, (which I will be needing for our skiing holiday in 2 weeks!) reduced from about 250 euros to 60. Mr. A got a nice scarf and gloves in Timberland and my friend ran out of Versace in shock when they told her that a fluffy handbag, reduced by 50%, was a bargain at 1500 euros. The outlet stores normally have about 30% the normal price, but because it's still sale time in Italy, we were getting up to 50% off the outlet price, so some of the reductions were incredible.
Bargains aside, my other two favourite finds were this hot beverage solution for the travelling Italian who misses the coffee from the Bel Paese:
and the Lindt shop, where high quality chocolate is sold as pic'n'mix on a scale that Woolworths could only dream of even before it went bust. At 3.55 euros for 100g, it wasn't exactly cheap, but who cares when you've just saved 240 euros on the rest of your shopping?
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