God Bless Us, Everyone

Far be it for me to be one to moan or complain, but I have to admit that all the pressure of Christmas has been weighing heavily on my shoulders. Back in Britain it’s the present buying and the card writing and the food shopping and the house cleaning that have made it into the Mount Everest of holidays (and not only because of the litter it generates). Here, however, it’s the weight of vicarious expectation that has been building for the past couple of months as friends have repeatedly asked how we are going to spend Christmas. The pressure to do something fabulous.

This, therefore, is where I am going to disappoint you all as our Christmas has probably been the quietest (some may say dullest) event in our Italian life so far – but we don’t care. I’ve already mentioned that the approach here is far less manic than back home, where it has increasingly become a carbuncle to lance rather than a holiday to enjoy as people feel the pressure to emulate the vision of a perfect Christmas peddled by magazines and the television. Right, that’s that sorted then.

Getting back to us, we thought we ought to make some sort of effort, and having checked on the Internet for somewhere where something was happening, we headed on Christmas Eve afternoon to Fermo. We were promised, among other things, a Christmas market, a Christmas train and a skating rink in the main square of the old town. What we should have remembered, though, from being seasoned residents and not mere visitors is that arriving at 2.30pm (Stephen, as is he wont, hustled us out after lunch to make sure we missed the worst of the traffic) virtually nowhere was open until the afternoon got under steam again around 4 o’clock.

What to do with 90 minutes? Easy: you wander through the square, where some people were teetering round the ice ring, then do-si-do around the handful of wooden huts comprising the Christmas market (which in the paleness of a December afternoon lack the magic that twilight and coloured fairy lights imbue them with) and wander past the closed shops in the narrow streets. Well that killed ten minutes.

It was then that Stephen came up with a jolly wheeze to keep me entertained. He decided to move the car from where we had parked it on the road (daringly without a ticket) to near the post office, being much nearer to walk to the old town. Yes, I know there is a perverse logic here: we still had to walk back to the car to move it somewhere nearer, and then get out and walk back to where we had started. Still, he was on a mission and the thirty minutes spent driving round Fermo trying (and failing) to get on the right road passed the time, especially when he thought turning right up a cobble street was a good idea. Unfortunately, he missed the sign saying it was a cul-de-sac but quickly wished he’d spotted it when he ended up in a narrow, car-lined dead-end street and had to execute a 97 point turn to turn the car round.

We eventually settled for second best and found a deserted car part not near the post office and just as far to walk as our previous spot place, but it was free. By now, places were starting to open and we first went into the old market hall where we thought there would be interesting stalls selling equally interesting crafts but was actually a chilly and decidedly unwelcoming space exhibiting a vast array of doubtful art in various media. But at least I can now say that I’ve been in a disused meat storage freezer to look at televisions showing images of an artist’s mannequin striking various poses in a tree.

Making a not too hasty getaway we crossed the main square for about the 12th time to the underbelly of the old Roman baths where there was an exhibition of presepi - nativity scenes to you and me – and believe me, you haven’t lived until you’ve seen Mary and Joseph out of pasta. I hadn’t realised until I stepped through the doors what a phenomenon they are in Italy, where the favoured style involves small model figures of an indefinite pastoral vibe. A few modest ones limited themselves to the holy family, with the odd drunken angel and maybe a shepherd or two, but they were outnumbered by a host of extravagant flights of fancy involving gnarled chunks of wood or whole villages complete with running water and lighting effects to evoke the diurnal cycle. Each contribution was accompanied by a small certificate with the names of their creators and the presepio society to which they belong; to think, they have local lodges dedicated to them. It was a true epiphany, and Stephen and I are already working on what we can put forward next year: maybe an Anglo-Italian frippery using the traditional components of a British Christmas dinner. Parsnip angel, anyone?

As for Christmas Day itself, we spent it doing absolutely nothing. This may sound dull but it was bliss. Since arriving in Italy we have had neither the time nor the place to spend a whole afternoon lounging on the sofas. Now we have both, we frittered away our time reading, listening to the radio and playing on our iPads. In the evening we popped up to the McIntosh pub and had tortellini before coming back to finish off the bottle of wine and watch Modern Family on DVD, (ah, the dreaded box set).

Boxing Day we reverted to British mode and, thinking that we should try to go something, after a morning of chores we headed post-lunch to Corridomnia to shop as we need a phone so we can actually use the line the TIM man risked life and limb to install. As with so many of the gadgets we brought with us, our old phone doesn’t match up with the Italian connections. What we had overlooked is that, as we should have known, Italy not being as retail obsessed as the UK, the whole complex (well, apart from McDonald’s of course) was shut. At least Bella and Harry were happy to see us return so soon.

The day did end, though, on a high note when, after spending a jolly hour seeing how many programmes we could change into English dialogue on the smart TV, we watched agog as a series of more and more bizarre people put themselves forward on Il Show dei Record. This programme, presented by Stephen’s favourite, Gerry Scotti (a sort of Italian Eamonn Holmes), features attempts to get into The Guinness Book of Records as authenticated by two pocket-sized judges in blazers and clipboards. Amongst other things, we were treated to the sight of a Thor, a bull-sized Icelander, throwing a beer barrel up and over what looked like a pole vault bar and a lady in sequined leotard and glittery high-heeled roller-skates going round in circles as she gyrated to keep three hula hoops twirling round different parts of her body. But for sheer simple lunacy I think my favourite was the man sticking over 3000 toothpicks into his beard in a bid for global glory. Well, it’s a look.