I got I my letter today. The most exciting letter of my year – apart from cheques from Pacific Publications. And those Myer vouchers that are my reward for being such an awesome spender. This letter is up there, though. This letter is approval of things in writing. This letter is the confirmation that I can, indeed, do whatever the hell like between the dates of the 31st March, and 14th May, 2012.
Bring it.
And, as you will have obviously picked up through the recent flavour of this blog, whatever the hell I like translates directly to “Dove’ viaggero in Italia?” And “Screw the rest of the world.”
So where am I going to go? Being fastidiously organised – yeah, I’m laughing too; as it’s crap, I’ll start again - being extremely excitable about the prospect of international travel and espresso and international McDonalds, I have started my research. I get six weeks, but let’s cut it down to five, cos I’m a boorish old battle-axe of a bitch when I’m tired, and I will probably need to adjust for a few days before I swan into work in my swanky new boots and super cool threads.
(That I’ll need a week to buy on ebay before I come back to work, because I won’t have the money to afford them in Italy this time, so I have to account for that time too!)
So, taking into consideration jetlag and ebay, that’s five weeks in Italy. Maybe four, so I can visit people. But ideally five, so I can be fluent. (No, I don’t learn quickly that several weeks in Italy does not equal fluency).
But as you know, I’m also an extremely indecisive person. I hear good things about somewhere, I want to go – until I am enticed away with well-sourced accounts of shoes and Gucci handbags somewhere else. Or bridges.
I do like bridges.
Which leads me not just to today’s dilemma, but one that will plague me for the next 9 months or so, until it gets absolutely beyond a joke that I haven’t booked anywhere yet. I know this for a fact, because this is who I am. It happens all the time! If there is only one choice – or, the choices are between something rubbish and then something even more rubbish – there are no dramas. But take me to a great restaurant where I’m hungry for everything and it’s Sophie’s Choice! For example, I started in Florence on the 16th of January this year. I booked on the 14th. The weeks preceding it were a nightmarish internal war between dreams of wearing fluffy fur-trimmed hats and those hand muffler things on a Tolstoyan vacation to St Petersburg, and Florence. And Scandanavia. And Prague. And Belgium. And just coming home. (It’s true!) So I’d kinda like to make up my mind now, and not change my mind again, thus saving myself a world of pain.
It’s already started, however; the malady has set in. I’ve already chosen three schools that I would like to attend; three cities that I would like to “live in;” three completely different areas that are, in their way, almost perfetto as they provide me with sangiovese and nutella gelato in medicinal dosages. Actually, I’ve chosen four, but I don’t think I’ll go back to Florence – loved it, but need new memories, not to relive old ones. But four cities that I can’t decide between just proves how wretchedly hopeless I already am at making this decision, and I’m desperately avoiding doing google searches of other places in the north of Italy before my brain overheats and the cerebral juices simmer over and out through my nose before running down back into my mouth, where I suck them up again, thus effectively eating my own brain.
I’m gross, I know. But yesterday I spent no more than three seconds attempting to suck marrow out of cow’s bones, and I’m feeling a little in need of a hug right now, or I’m going to vomit.
So here are the contenders:
1. Milan. Pros: shoes. Obviously. Lots of clothes. Lots of handbags. A large city, so I’ll never be wanting for entertainment. Or pizza. Is on the major train line, so I’ll also never be wanting for a quick weekend escape if the best place in Milan turns out to be the train station (which is, actually, a very awesome place!) I haven’t spent a lot of time there in the past, so it will be a novel diversion. It has a beautiful gothic cathedral, so I’m betting there is a lot of other cool architecture to lose myself in. Or rather, I hope that there is.
Cons: It’s Milan. It’s a big dirty city that I’m worried will have no soul. Even if it does have a stunning cathedral and an opera house. And Manolo Blahniks. And I can’t afford shoes or clothes or handbags, and may just end up being suffocated to death in my sleep one night when my wardrobe explodes, should I attempt to buy any more – thus making the existence of totally awesome shops redundant. I’m just going to go and have a cry in the corner now ...
2. Siena. Pros: I already know how beautiful it is, as I went there for the weekend in Febraio. They make pici. I desperately want to eat more pici. There are also shops. The cathedral is magnificent. The setting overall is magnificent. And I could drink a lot of great locally sourced chianti as I look over Tuscany and write poetry about its magnificence. Or paint.
HA!
Cons: Yeah, it’s beautiful, but I’ve seen it. What more is there? I do find myself comparing it to Firenze – but in a poor cousin kind of way. And even though I’m also comparing Verona to Florence, this is merely speculation; with Siena, I already know the answer. Siena, tu sei il povero cugino di Firenze. Mi dispiace.
3. Verona. A last minute contender, but I’m starting to like it. Pros: Its corny and ridiculous link to Shakespeare – who is NOT FROM SICILY. And it looks like Florence. A bit. (That’s pretty much the selling point so if I’m wrong there, I’m fucked!)
Cons: I went there once and remember nothing about it beyond its corny and ridiculous link to Shakespeare; I rubbed the statue of Juliet (on her breast, if memory serves) and it did sweet F.A. for my love life; I also have the idea that it looks like Florence, and I’m basing that on about three pictures from Wikipedia.
Fucked.
So, friends, help me! I will take any suggestions. But to be kind, perhaps start with the three I already have because, like I said – if you confuse me, I may just end up eating my own brain. And I feel pretty brain damaged already, most of the time!!
Grazie Mille!
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
The Eating Game ...
If one thing is blindingly obvious in this life, it is this ... I really suck at blogging!
And also, I still really pine for Mediterranean countries, and all that the cliché entails!
Well, news just in: (or rather, news received a week ago but I am only just getting around to making it newsworthy!) – another trip to Italy looms. For real, for honest and for true! It may be 10 months away, but my next lot of Long Service Leave has been approved, and I am off to continue binging on melanzana con prosciutto and ragu.
Oh God I miss food!
In a nutshell, the difference between pretending to reside in Europe and living in the real world comes down to calories. Forget language barriers, Italian men, and the ultimate killer heels; between Google translate, the Northern suburbs and ebay, those things are still within reach. Ish. (Sometimes I feel like I’m dislocating my shoulders to get them, but you get my drift.)
But calories? No WAY!
There are NO Calories in Australia, and the streets are NOT lined with cheese!!!
Calories, instead, are the devil. They are publically shunned! They are ostracised and condemned and much maligned throughout all good society!! They rot more teeth; they break out more on the skln and they have a higher tendency to convert as fat on your arse in Australia – possibly because we’re in the southern hemisphere and therefore they naturally migrate further south. (I’m no physicist, but to me that makes sense.) They also have a higher incidence of causing bloating and fat around the jowls.
In Australia, calories are evil.
But Italy meant stuffing my face every day. It meant cornetti for breakfast, pannini laden with pork and potatoes and god knows what kind of cheese, for lunch. It meant biscotti and Baci kisses and nutella torte and calzone dripping with strings of mozzarella. And who can forget those little olive and sausage ball things? Manna from heaven, they were!
Mmmm. Saliva-fest. My stomach is making “want” noises.
And then there was dinner, after having pizza for afternoon tea. Dinner meant four courses that had any combination of beans and chocolate and beef and pasta and bread and oil and custard and gelato and FUCK ME, WHY AM I ALWAYS SO HUNGRY IN THIS COUNTRY?!!
Australia equals I am starving. Australia equals No sugar. No excess fats. No bread. No butter. No Pudding. No chocolate. No snacking. No yummy, but plenty of blah.
In Australia e' uguale ho fame! BLAAAAAAH!
Obviously these are rules that I self-impose. If you want to be an outcast with fat migrating to your bum, or you carry your love handles with finesse because you’re not a five foot midget, or you simply just don’t give a shit, OR you’re lucky enough to have one of those metabolisms that subverts my fat-migrating-to-your-arse theory, then you probably think I’m a tool who should just dive into a bucket of cake. AND you should probably go fuck yourself! (I kid. And am jealous. And go fuck yourself!) I mean, I eat, but where’s the fun in it without Chips and Chocolate and Cheese, oh MY!! The three “CH’s” – my dessert island foods, with a rather healthy dose of mayonnaise. Or unhealthy, as the case may be! (And I just wrote dessert instead of desert; an honest to god Foodian slip that has everything to do with erotic day dreams about what I would like to do with that little red smart-arse MnM.)
GET IN THE GODDAMMN BOWL!!!
I know, I know; everything in moderation and all that – and I do moderately eat my favourite heart attack inspired goodies. (And then I have to run for about six hours to make sure my bum doesn't wobble any more than it already does.) But fuck moderation. I want chocolate cake all the time! I want cheese all the time! And Italy equalled all the time!!
And somehow, with far fewer consequences than such excesses would ensure Down Under.
So, the long and the short of it is that I am going to have to use my leave to go back to Italy every year. I figure once a year will allow me to feed my face; indulge in a few weeks of culinary orgasms, and then come back and "starve" for long enough to make any weight I put on mere collateral damage. I'll probably wreck my metabolism, sure, but what can you do - sometimes, tirimisu can be THAT good!
So, going back to Italy.
To eat. And love. But not pray - except maybe to the gypsies, who've been surprisingly good to me this year! Who knew karma could really work for you?!
Amen.
And also, I still really pine for Mediterranean countries, and all that the cliché entails!
Well, news just in: (or rather, news received a week ago but I am only just getting around to making it newsworthy!) – another trip to Italy looms. For real, for honest and for true! It may be 10 months away, but my next lot of Long Service Leave has been approved, and I am off to continue binging on melanzana con prosciutto and ragu.
Oh God I miss food!
In a nutshell, the difference between pretending to reside in Europe and living in the real world comes down to calories. Forget language barriers, Italian men, and the ultimate killer heels; between Google translate, the Northern suburbs and ebay, those things are still within reach. Ish. (Sometimes I feel like I’m dislocating my shoulders to get them, but you get my drift.)
But calories? No WAY!
There are NO Calories in Australia, and the streets are NOT lined with cheese!!!
Calories, instead, are the devil. They are publically shunned! They are ostracised and condemned and much maligned throughout all good society!! They rot more teeth; they break out more on the skln and they have a higher tendency to convert as fat on your arse in Australia – possibly because we’re in the southern hemisphere and therefore they naturally migrate further south. (I’m no physicist, but to me that makes sense.) They also have a higher incidence of causing bloating and fat around the jowls.
In Australia, calories are evil.
But Italy meant stuffing my face every day. It meant cornetti for breakfast, pannini laden with pork and potatoes and god knows what kind of cheese, for lunch. It meant biscotti and Baci kisses and nutella torte and calzone dripping with strings of mozzarella. And who can forget those little olive and sausage ball things? Manna from heaven, they were!
Mmmm. Saliva-fest. My stomach is making “want” noises.
And then there was dinner, after having pizza for afternoon tea. Dinner meant four courses that had any combination of beans and chocolate and beef and pasta and bread and oil and custard and gelato and FUCK ME, WHY AM I ALWAYS SO HUNGRY IN THIS COUNTRY?!!
Australia equals I am starving. Australia equals No sugar. No excess fats. No bread. No butter. No Pudding. No chocolate. No snacking. No yummy, but plenty of blah.
In Australia e' uguale ho fame! BLAAAAAAH!
Obviously these are rules that I self-impose. If you want to be an outcast with fat migrating to your bum, or you carry your love handles with finesse because you’re not a five foot midget, or you simply just don’t give a shit, OR you’re lucky enough to have one of those metabolisms that subverts my fat-migrating-to-your-arse theory, then you probably think I’m a tool who should just dive into a bucket of cake. AND you should probably go fuck yourself! (I kid. And am jealous. And go fuck yourself!) I mean, I eat, but where’s the fun in it without Chips and Chocolate and Cheese, oh MY!! The three “CH’s” – my dessert island foods, with a rather healthy dose of mayonnaise. Or unhealthy, as the case may be! (And I just wrote dessert instead of desert; an honest to god Foodian slip that has everything to do with erotic day dreams about what I would like to do with that little red smart-arse MnM.)
GET IN THE GODDAMMN BOWL!!!
I know, I know; everything in moderation and all that – and I do moderately eat my favourite heart attack inspired goodies. (And then I have to run for about six hours to make sure my bum doesn't wobble any more than it already does.) But fuck moderation. I want chocolate cake all the time! I want cheese all the time! And Italy equalled all the time!!
And somehow, with far fewer consequences than such excesses would ensure Down Under.
So, the long and the short of it is that I am going to have to use my leave to go back to Italy every year. I figure once a year will allow me to feed my face; indulge in a few weeks of culinary orgasms, and then come back and "starve" for long enough to make any weight I put on mere collateral damage. I'll probably wreck my metabolism, sure, but what can you do - sometimes, tirimisu can be THAT good!
So, going back to Italy.
To eat. And love. But not pray - except maybe to the gypsies, who've been surprisingly good to me this year! Who knew karma could really work for you?!
Amen.
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