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For the wanderers

DT’s and a few other disturbances…

Uh oh! lovely readers, I’m a tad disturbed! Male tourists are strolling through the Villages wearing just their DTs.* Here I am I’m sitting in a breezy little beachside restaurant sipping my Aperol when I hear the Scot at the adjoining table muttering ‘Walk doon beach leck dat e’ oome’nye’d be knifed ye wooud!’ to the back of his girlfriend’s head. She didn’t hear; too busy eyeing up a package in a pink pair, her expression vacillating between repulsion, curiosity and lust. Oh! and hey you! Yes you, stud over there proudly sporting the white ones? It’s not cold today my friend, not cold at all.

I’m also disturbed to see every female on the beach regardless of nationality, shape, size, age or original gender sporting a bikini. The ones that don’t entirely cover the butt cheeks. Clearly ‘de rigueur’ on the Italian Riviera. My elegant one-piece suddenly non ‘de-rigueur’  – my butt screaming otherwise.

And I’m particularly disturbed that, aside from the harsh disregard for ‘slip, slop, slap,’** I’ll need to hand over €20 for a ragged deck chair, a folded umbrella and the privilege of sitting on the grey pebbly beach in very close proximity to all that DT/bikini clad slow roasting flesh. Too cosy by far.

It’s all just too disturbing so I’ve poured another wine. Today I will think about the prospect of Australia clearing the national deficit in just one week by adopting a similar ‘pay for privilege’ beach plan. Tomorrow I will start a diet consisting of a single strand of pasta and an expresso. Needs must if I’m to ‘fit in’. Meanwhile, a few snaps to put you in this distressing moment (‘cept for the DT loving men – privacy and all that)

20130704-101419.jpg(Monterosso main beach)

20130704-101135.jpg(Taken in Nice, the same scene in Monterosso – uncomfortable pebbles)

* Speedo swimming trunks, commonly known as ‘Dick Togs’ ‘budgie smugglers’, ‘junk trunks’ and ‘Tonys’. (in honour of Tony Abbot, leader of the AU opposition party, who has a propensity for red ones)

**Slip on a shirt, Slop on sunscreen and Slap on a hat – an Australian anti-skin cancer campaign.

Sneaky damn Bidet…

As you’re probably aware the Bidet features in a large portion of bathrooms in Europe. No matter how small the room, one of them will have managed to squeeze itself in. And there’s one in my tiny little studio in Monterosso. I’m rather fond of it.

You see, if your clever and smart like I am, you can fill them with sudsy water, pop the lid down on the adjoining loo, sit sideways and pop your feet in for a nice little soak to ease fatigue or prepare for pedicure. Handy. Heck you can even throw undies and socks in and do a little dance at the same time. I’ve been doing both. And then the real washing machine arrived.

After much gabble in speedy Italian the installer identified the outlet hose needed something extra to make it fit the actual outlet…meanwhile would the bidet do? Sure no probs said I! A demonstration later, looking good, pat on the back and off he went, two further washes proving this was indeed a reliable option. And that’s when the trouble started.

Yesterday, while I was busy willing breath into the dead PC, clutched in my lap on the bed; battery out, fingers buried in its inner workings according to google suggestions for rebooting, the washing machine and the bidet were busy too. Conspiring.

In an effort to seek tissues to staunch the tears of frustration dripping into the computer’s nether regions, threw the damn thing on the bed, swung my feet to the floor and… Splot! Sneaky water quietly slinking out of the bidet from the latest wash had turned my little home into one massive great bloody lake! Shit!

Quickly grabbed mop and bucket and, while proceeding to push the water all around the room in a desperate attempt to prevent it from seeping under the front door where the owner would most certainly see disaster and up the rent, another earthquake occurred. The water shimmied and danced, that’s how I knew.

Well accustomed to earthquakes by now, pointed my snivelling nose to the sky and screamed in defiance ‘Yeah bring it on Louie!’ My downstairs neighbour, on whose head I’d recently released a cluster of his very own peaches, was back on his terrace. I know this because I heard a very loud mutter, ‘Pazzo Cagna’! ‘Crazy Bitch’ I know this too because I typed his words into my trusty Translate. Perhaps his name is Louie.

Finally averting disaster on all fronts, popped down to the village to get a few essentials including a fresh box of tissues. Packed with tourists being a Sunday, I couldn’t help overhearing a number of folk snickering behind me. Was it my hair? Did I have gum in it? A nest? Perhaps they’re just humouring my poor command on Italian? No. Three long white tags stitched to the back seam of my gym pants were fluttering gaily in my breezy wake, glaringly obvious, slap dab in the middle of my butt. I had my pants on inside out.

I think my neighbour has a point.

Meanwhile, enjoy my latest photo. It has nothing to do with this story

20130701-204040.jpg

Humble (peach) pie and a few new expressions…

Bonjourno lovely readers! It’s been an interesting week! Signed the SIM contract while smugly congratulating myself on my technical savvy under confirmation from the cute guy with a welcoming command on English in the Firenzian Telecom Italia Mobile (TIM) store ‘Yes madam! You can make cheap calls home and hotspot all devices from your iPhone with this 1G SIM’.

No Signora!’ Said the non-English-speaking cute guy in the TIM store in La Spezia following a desperate train journey from the Cinque Terre to find a solution to my 20130629-093930.jpglife-threatening failure to connect. Si! ‘Sufficiente per il vostro bisogno!’* Type this into trusty Google Translate and one MiFi purchase, SIM transfer, new 10G iPhone SIM for critical ‘Where the fuck am I?’ Google Maps and ‘No I didn’t ask for a washing machine!’ Google Translate later, problem sorted. Happy days. Then my mouse died.

Gesturing with a click, click motion, asked for two A size batteries for the mouse, feeling immensely proud of my clever use of sign language in lieu of the Google Translate app. ‘Si!’ Said the insouciant woman behind the counter in the small Tobacco shop lined with curling postcards and old chaps fingering betting sheets and cigarette papers. ‘Vibratore bisogno di quattro!‘** Hastily type this into trusty Translate and giggle – the bitch has a sense of humour! Five pairs of rheumy old eyes now fixed firmly on my face, smirks from weathered lips clutching smouldering roll your owns, seems laughter works in all languages. Haul myself back up the steep drive to my home clutching a fist full of batteries, pour a well-deserved wine and settle in on my little terrace to admire my clever command on Google Translate. Then the peaches beckoned.

20130629-093949.jpg
The blossoms have finally morphed into lush golden globes ripe for the plucking but there’s a slight inconvenience – the branch protrudes over the terrace below mine. Not to be thwarted, I carefully prize the bough to within plucking reach using a pole with a hook designed to open the cupboards way above reach in my apartment, then hear an almighty commotion. Seems I’ve dislodged a whole cluster over the unsuspecting elderly chappie sitting quietly in his usual spot below. Didn’t know he was there. Heard him though as the peaches slopped his coffee, smacked his noggin and trashed his paper ‘Che Cazzo!* Madre di Dio!’** Type the words he’d bellowed into trusty Translate and realise that although my neighbour and I haven’t yet met I may need to turn up the charm should our paths cross on steps leading down to the village. Oh! and speaking of steps!

20130629-094215.jpgAfter huffing up and down all 179 steps from the back door to the village below and back for 10 days straight, I stumble across a crooked little street that leads to a steep but short walk straight up to my front door. Che cazzo? Seems I have a Stair Master’ to the back door, ‘Treadmill’ on incline 30 to the front, peach stealing for stretches, backpacked groceries and wine bottle per hand for weights. Madri di Dio I smile – sufficient per il vostro bisogno**** for negating calories from a diet consisting almost entirely of pasta and Caprese salad (and peaches).

*Madri di Dio (Mother of God) I’m enjoying my newly learnt expressions! Suspect I’ll have quite a number of opportunities to perfect the enunciation as the months unfold too though *che cazzo (what the fuck) is that about **vibratore bisogno di quattro (vibrator need four)? Suspect I now have ***sufficiente per il vostro bisogno (sufficient for your need) to last a lifetime!

Stay tuned for a few of those Ligurian recipes from the recent cooking class!

 

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