Saturday 8th October
A conversation occurs on Friday in the car that I completely forget to report. It concerns books, and my obviously very limited knowledge of them.
It goes like this.
‘A new book?’
‘Yes.’ (Cue wave of The Magic Toyshop’s front cover).
(Unimpressed by Angela). ‘Oh. Lolita is finished? Have you read the other Russians?’
‘Erm, well...’
‘Tolstoy?’
‘No...’
‘Dostoyevsky? Still in front of you?’
‘Yes.’
(After a pause.) ‘Lady Chatterley’s Lover?’
‘No, I haven’t read it.’
‘DH Lawrence? Sons and Lovers?’
‘I’ve read Women in Love.’
‘Oh.’
This conversation does not leave me feeling positive. Honestly, I want to say. I really do have an English degree. I’m big on feminist prose, does that interest you? Start off luxuriously with a bit of Angela, then throw in some Atwood (I recommend The Handmaid’s Tale, my first and favourite foray into her work), and then afterwards, just for a bit of light relief, why not some Plath? The Bell Jar?
The Bellomos, zipping along in their nippy little car between vespers and over cobbles, don’t hear my silent plea. If they did I’m not confident that they would like it anyway, judging by the confused look Lidia gave The Magic Toyshop.
Lidia is persistent. ‘I have read all of Jonathon Coe,’ she says. Bit boastful. I’ve never even heard of him. ‘Gabriel Garcia Marquez? Ruiz Zafon?’
Long drive home.
***
Later I sneak a look at the bookshelves to see if we do have any reading material in common. Randomly, a JG Ballard presents itself. I think, possibly, that Condominio may be the Italian translation of High Rise? They also have a Geoffrey Eugenides –but Middlesex, which I have no knowledge of, rather than The Virgin Suicides. There is an awful lot of Dostoyevsky and Chekov. Feel mildly illiterate. Then head back to Angela.
***
Saturday requires me to ‘come for lunch at 1pm, and then stay with the girls to try out your games’. This is mildly perturbing – I have no games. There was scarce time to plan games, in the five days I had between landing in Manchester and setting off again from Leeds! Argh.
The day doesn’t begin well – I suspect that the loud, loud American family who have for some reason been staying in Alphabet House and using my bathroom have pillaged my showergel. Why? I suppose we will never know. Goodbye, Natural Source. I will miss your minty freshness in the morning. Hello, weird smelling Italian showergel that I can’t read the label of.
I spend the morning Googling clapping rhymes, and eventually decide that ‘games’ will have to include painting. When I get to the apartment I find Lidia hauling numerous bags through the door –the twinnies have clearly spent their Saturday morning being treated to all manner of books, clothes and craft activity sets. They also have new trainers (‘Look, Looosy!’). A stencil painting set is rammed into my face, which takes the pressure off my so called ‘games’.
As well as ‘Look, Loooosy!’ B&B have also learnt how to say ‘Please could you help me?’ Consequently, I am looking and helping all afternoon. I look at their stencil artwork, and then I help them to create more, then I look at the new books they’ve been bought, and then I help Bene to put together a fairy picnic/ paper tea set... thing.
Or, I try.
Bene and I spend a very long time trying to work out how to fix the tiny paper cake stand together. We eventually manage, but absolutely cannot work out the miniature placemats. It doesn’t make it any easier that the instructions are in Italian and that I therefore can’t read them. But they are clearly flummoxing Bene too. On the upside she learns how to say ‘I don’t understand’ and ‘I’m sorry’, which makes me feel guilty, because it isn’t her fault the diagram is BLOODY STUPID AND MAKES NO SENSE. Eventually, after she has put in a good few minutes of thorough confusion, she loses interest and wanders off to find her sister. I absolutely don’t blame her.
I, however, will not be floored by a fairy tea set and five centimetres of impossible origami. I am determined. And I eventually work it out! What a triumph. I can’t talk to Lidia and Alberto about books despite technically being Miss Lucy Miller BA, but I can decipher instructions meant for Italian five year olds and thus construct a place setting for a miniature paper tea cup. Go me.
***
Later, the Bellomos’ friends come over with their four daughters to have dinner. They tell me that I look like Paris Hilton, and are confused by my horrified expression. I explain the meaning of the words ‘plastic’, ‘fake’, ‘horrible’, etc, to which Alberto replies that plastic is fine, he has no problem with plastic.
All respect for my hosts lost, I am reminded of the quote (where is it from? No idea) ‘You white, then you Ben Affleck.’ Italian version? ‘You blonde, you Paris Hilton.’
Urgh.
We sit down to a plate of seafood spaghetti (very good) followed by patatas bravas, grilled fish and roasted aubergine, followed by fruit flan. I will never get used to this two main meals ritual. By rights, all Italian should be beasts. It’s ridiculous, really, that they eat this much.
The alcohol selection consists of vino spumante, locally brewed Italian beer, and limoncello. My drinking habits are openly discussed, because, being British, I can quite clearly drink all the adults present under the table. Two glasses of wine and one bottle of beer down, Alberto asks how it is possible to drink this much and not be drunk? I don’t really have an answer to this, so I say the first thing that appears obvious – ‘well... British!’
Better, I suppose, than ‘Ha, you Italian lightweight!’
When the limoncello appears I question the correct way to drink it, on the continent. It transpires that they sip from the shot glass. I don’t plan to demonstrate what the British do with shot glasses (I am attempting to keep in mind that they have employed me to responsibly look after their children, not to give them an education in British student drinking rituals) -but they insist on it, and after much (not that much) protest I agree that we could all do the shot at the same time. Their faces as the shot glasses hit the table make me think of eighteen year olds in freshers’ week. It is a beautiful moment.
Sunday 9th October
Today, after my luxuriously long and dreamy lie-in, we hit the road and drive North West towards Lago Bracciano in order to ‘meet our friends at the lake and eat lake fish, from the lake’. We get stuck in traffic on the way there, which causes Alberto to swear profanely (in English) and Lidia to chain smoke angrily on the pavement when we stop in a lay-by.
Lidia has had her ankle in a splint the whole time I’ve been here. I am now informed that it is because she tore the ligaments in her foot, whilst picking raspberries so that Alberto could make jam. There follows much guffawing about the dangers of fruit picking, and how everyone should realise how dangerous it is before a fatal accident occurs. Hohoho.
Lago Bracciano, when we eventually reach it, looks exactly like Lake Windermere. We sit down in the restaurant, and I order prosciutto and melon to start, and fruttia di mare as the main. A large carafe of white wine is procured for the table, and Alberto tells everyone that I ‘drink like an ‘ooligan’. This is ridiculous. They then collectively ensure that my glass is never empty for the rest of the meal.
Afterwards I am sent outside to watch my tiny charges (as well as their friends, well behaved Martina and her brother, mildly annoying Lucio) as they practice their ‘oola ‘oop. Cue many, many demands to ‘Look, Loooosy!’
In the end, I have to tell them both off. Bea first, for running into the road to collect her unruly ‘oola ‘oop (she is suitably shamefaced) and the Bene, unusually, for flat out defiance. She blatantly refuses to stay on the ‘safe’ side of the fence –the side without cars rushing past on their way to the lake– until I pick her up and physically drag her back over. In protest, she hooks her feet over the fence posts. I am not impressed, and I make sure she knows it. Think Bea has been teaching her defiance when they’re supposed to be going to sleep.
Later, by the water, they occupy themselves climbing all over the beached pedalos and pretending to be capitani. The view and the light are incredible, and I get some good photographs. Then Alberto wanders over, says something in Italian that I don’t understand, and then, ‘Sorry, I am a little bit drunk today. Some days, I ‘ave to drink.’
Wow. I remind him that he is supposed to be driving home, and he says that Lidia can do it. When he informs her of this, however, she does not look happy. He turns back to me and says in amusement, ‘She will not drive. She would rather ‘ave a crash than drive.’
Well. I think we’ve re-established who the hooligan drinker is in this scene, officer.
A group of swans (a shoal of swans? A herd of swans?) then appears at the water’s edge, providing a massive amount of excitement. Apparently none of the children has ever seen a swan before –and then I am informed that neither Lidia nor Alberto have either. This is very bizarre. I tell them that there are swans by almost every lake in the UK. B&B look on in wonder. And then the bread runs out, and Bene decides that throwing pebbles at the swans instead would be a wise idea (no idea what is going on with her behaviour today). I have to explain, in the simplest terms, and mainly through the use of mime, how a swan is capable of wrapping its neck around a wrist and breaking it if it feels threatened. Bene quickly puts her stones down.
***
Two hours later Alberto is (I very much hope) sober enough to drive, and we head back Esquilino-wards. Bea falls asleep in the car and can hardly be risen when we eventually arrive back at the hotel. Storytime is a nightmare – clearly she just wants to be in bed, and keeps wandering off. The five stories are of course mandatory though, for reasons that I don’t entirely understand. I’m exhausted by the end of it too, even though it is only half past eight.
Back at Alphabet House, I get into pjs and climb into bed with F Scott Fitzgerald (his Best Early Short Stories, not the dead bloke himself). Lovely weekend!
<3 x
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