Just stuff

We have arrived at mid-September with autumn just around the corner, which has been reflected in the dynamic of our daily life this week with some things finishing, some restarting and some preparations for the cooler days ahead.

Not that you would have suspected this when we took Douglas and Susan to Civitanova on Monday to catch their train to Bologna. Blue skies and temperate sunshine enable us to have lunch, before their, departure, outside Mille Lire Tigelleria a self-styled gastro pub specialising in a small, flat round bread called tigelle. The train was more or less on time and we waved them off secure in the knowledge that they were well armed with all the advice and information Stephen, our local friendly international jet set traveller, had shared with them over the past couple of days. There was a slight feeling a vacuum as we headed back to the car, not least because Stephen’s laundry service had lost its only two customers.

Things were happening, however, to fill the void, starting on Monday morning when my regular lesson with Rocco and Vittorio resumed after our summer break. We also received a phone call from Oreste, a former work colleague of Stephen’s, whose daughter, Martina, was in need of some help with her English. We arranged to pop round in the evening to discuss how I could assist, intending to stop for ten minutes or so but, of course, ended up staying for almost an hour. There were two main reasons for this, neither of which had anything to do with English lessons. That was quickly sorted, and it was arranged that I would do a couple of mornings with Martina, who is due, next week, to take her English exam for entry to University and is panicking a bit.

What took the time was, firstly, Stephen and Oreste chewing the proverbial fat and, secondly, being offered aperitivo by Oreste’s wife. The latter, of course, necessitated not only the best glasses being produced but also a range of drinks (all non-alcoholic) and a cake. This latter caused some consternation for Mrs Oreste as it was a banana cake, which Stephen finds the work of the devil, and a consequent hunt for some other tasty piece with which to satisfy mutual honour.

I was back the next morning for my lesson with Martina, complete with a bag full of tomatoes (what else) for Mrs Oreste to make into sauce. She was most pleased with them, and proved how much when I returned on Wednesday for my second session when she insisted on reciprocating with a bottle of home made vino cotto (mmm) and a bottle of her tomato and vegetable sugo. As for Martina, we worked on some comprehension passages and some grammar work, but what she really needed was a bit of confidence boosting as she was able to cope with the example test papers very well. She did, though, hit a bit of a block when one of the texts started talking about Ofsted inspection reports – which is hardly surprising as the average Brit finds them pretty puzzling at the best of times.

Speaking of puzzles, the end of the week saw us getting to grips with the enigma that is TIM and the vagaries of the Italian Internet. Stephen thought it would be more profitable for us (i.e. him) to discuss our various qualms and queries in person at the Telecom Italia Mobile shop in Cuore Adriatico rather than over the phone. This would also allow us to draft in backup in the form of Computer Luca, who, unlike us, not only has a firm grasp of modern technology but, being Italian, would be able to help us navigate through any linguistic niceties. Before all that though, it was time to shop, even before we made it to the mall. First we stopped at the wonderful Smal lighting shop, where in search of a red LED light a nice lady took us down into the bowls to their storeroom and workshop where an equally nice gentleman managed to find one, as well as one in yellow, even though both he and the lady said they didn’t exist. Not only that, but he then sold them to us at what seemed to be a bargain price because, presumably, such colours are only in demand at LCDDB.

Next stop was a garden emporium just past Cassette D’Ete, where Stephen, on one of his travels, had spied firewood. He was getting a little anxious as we are nearing the time when a fire of an evening is going to be a good thing and wanted to get a stock of logs before all the suppliers sold out. The man in charge took us out to his yard and escorted us round his available hoard but not till after a dodgy moment when he asked, for delivery purposes, where we lived. When we said MS Pietrangeli, there was a pause and a pitying shake of the head. “Mmmm, è lontano,” said the man, who no doubt wanted us to fully appreciate what a favour he was doing us before he agreed to the deal. Well, I can see his point, as we are ten miles away and what with the terrible state of the roads it would take a good 15 minutes to get to us. Anyway, he agreed and we inspected his crates of logs and tried to look as if we understood as he explained the differences between them before writing our name, in black marker, on the two lots we chose.

It was then on to Cuore Adriatico, and to kill the time while we were waiting for our 6pm rendezvous with Luca, we took a look round the shops, which included, fresh from Copenhagen, a store called Flying Tiger, a chain of what are apparently called ‘variety stores’. This doesn’t mean, unfortunately, that you can buy reruns of Seaside Special featuring Lena Zavaroni and Rod Hull and Emu, but rather a shop that sells a random selection of items ranging from folding hairbushes to mini marshmallows. In a pre-globalisation world my granny would have called it a ‘jenny aa thing’, describing a local shop run by a local woman serving the needs of a local community, which in its ignorance knew nothing of the joys of Scandinavian design. They had to make their own fun in those days…

Needless to say, we purchased, and were served by a young woman who, it turned out, spoke perfect English, albeit with a slight North American twang, having spent, she told us, six months in Canada. Her dream, it appears, is to live and work in Britain and she gasped in horror when she discovered that we had actually chosen to relocate to Le Marche. Why would anyone do that? Why would anyone actually want to live in Italy when they could live in London? Ah the folly of youth; why indeed.

Armed with our goodies, we met up with Luca and descended on the Tim counter, where we strangely harassed a young gentleman for fifty minutes. I won’t bore you with a blow-by-blow account, but at least after that time we left having achieved most of what we had gone for. I can, once more, actually make phone calls from my mobile; Stephen has a sim card to replace his UK Vodafone one; we know now that we can arrange to pay our bill by direct debit (and avoid the €1.50 charge for paying at the post office) if we take a bill to our bank and ask them to set it up (this being contrary to the information we were told initially) and we can dispense with our TIM Vision box (sort of like a poor man’s Sky) if we phone up Customer Services, get an address from them and post it back. And there were we, thinking nothing was simple in Italy.

To celebrate, and as a thank-you to Luca for his help, Stephen treated us afterwards to dinner at Mishi Mishi, a Japanese restaurant of fabulous value where you can eat as much as you want for €15 – which in Luca’s case was quite a lot. The tables are arranged so you sit next to a conveyor belt of continually replenished bowls of sushi, and Luca’s cries of delight whenever he spotted a new variety were touching in their artlessness. There is also a central buffet where you can help yourself from an array of noodles, vegetables, meat and fish. While it may not be the finest Japenese food you are ever likely to eat, I have certainly paid more and eaten worse – and, in an interesting joining of hands across the sea, the number of Chinese eating in the restaurant was a testament to its value for money.

After all this excitement, you may think we were in need of a quiet weekend to recuperate, which indeed is how it seemed to be panning out. Friday was haircuts, a quick visit to Giordano to see how he stood regarding starting up his lessons again (the answer: too busy till October but could I again do an hour a week with his daughters starting next Tuesday?) and, now the nights are drawing in, a return to our Friday evening pizza and DVD date night in. Yesterday was just stuff then today, as the weather looked far from promising, we sacked the idea of a stroll along a promenade in favour of shopping at Corridomnia. Here, in another acknowledgement of the approach of shorter and cooler days, I augmented my autumn wardrobe. We also, though, bought a small guidebook to places of interest around Le Marche as a sign of confidence that there may still be days ahead for getting out and about.

Our confidence in TIM, however, which rallied somewhat on Thursday took a plummeting dive on returning from our afternoon shopping trip. I was in the middle of talking with my mother on Facetime when our Internet connection, which had been a bit tenuous throughout the call, gave up the will to live. At first we thought it was due to the rain, as wet weather always has a deleterious effect on the service’s reliability, but as the minutes turned into quarters and then into hours and there was still no sign of returning life we knew that for the third time in our nine month relationship with TIM we had been forsaken once again. An expanding broadband is on Prime Minister Renzi’s to do list in his desire to pick Italy up but its boot and give it a good shaking. Well, as a control test he can see if he can sort out our access to global communication and if he can, then the rest of the country should be a doddle. So, Matteo, what time will you dropping by?