Some Italy pics

They fish from these

View of the Marone from 23 Corsa Reale, San Tommaso

Gargano Adriatic

A view from the tower in San Stefano

That's Vieste in Gargano in the distance

A stick

Monopoly

He sat confidently, ready to play. It was the aspect of his day which made it all worth while, every tenth encounter would contain opportunity, and every third of those would be truly satisfying. The beauty was that he had nothing to lose, he was protected, there was the high desk between him and the danger, behind him was a large sign warning people that his company would not tolerate him being abused in any way. The object of the game; make them do things they don't want to.

I approached and placed my case on the weighing scale, and with a smile and a "hi" handed over three passports. He nodded to himself, this could be a good one. It transpired that I had misunderstood something on the website, he wanted thirty quid in excess baggage charges despite our carrying less than our allowance, (our return tickets had come to less than £50 each). We redistrubuted the contents of our bags. He now wanted only 5 quid but he also wanted our booking reference. I have used this carrier many times and in the past my passport (and maybe my credit card) had been enough. Now he wanted me to go to the sales desk to get the code and rejoin the back of the queue. I remained fairly calm, suggesting that I would be prepared to leave my position in the queue if he called security. Gemma was less happy and wanted his name, he refused and so she called him a "scaredy cat". Eventually that issue was resolved. He then announced that he didn't want any more money from us but that "as you have been so uncooperative, we would not like to see you here again".

The end result, as far as I can make out, was that everybody in the queue had experienced a ten minute delay, Ryan Air had made no more money, we had not enjoyed the nicest start to our trip, but "nameless man", after adjusting himself in his seat, running his finger round the inside of his collar and stretching out his lower jaw, was feeling good and ready for the next passenger.

Prima Colazione (Breakfast)

Wereen is an older guy in Gemma's family's village in Italy, a real character, he is always doing nice things for me when I am there. Several times during the stay, I opened the front door to find a bottle of wine there that he had left for us; he makes wine, that is his big thing, and Grappa. Under his house in what they call the cantina over there, or what he calls his office, he has a still as well as various other grape related paraphernalia. Outside the cantina there is a bird cage where a minor bird lives, she will return your “Boun Giorno” with an unsettlingly human voice. Between her cage and the road is a high hedge, Gemma’s mother had become quite angry when, walking down the road last week, she was wolf whistled at a number of times.

Yesterday Wereen came round to the house in the morning to say that he was off to the next village to get his paper, and I suppose to see if I wanted to go too. Gemma’s mum intercepted him at the door telling him that I was busy, which I kind of was; I was writing a letter to Nat West for a lady who had an account there in the 60’s with about £200 in it; she wanted to know how she could retrieve the balance.

Anyway, when I had finished the letter I went after him. He was in his garden, he’d been and come back but thought he might have left his paper at the shop/café because he couldn’t find it. So off we went in his old Fiat Panda through the heat, down the hill across the bridge that Gemma’s granddad built in the 50’s (he was the foreman) and is now occasionally used for bungy jumping or suicides, up the other side into a sleepy village, through some very narrow streets before stopping outside the shop. When we went in we saw that the owner had ordered three copies of Il Centro (Abruzzo's daily) for the day (he showed us his manifest) and that he only had two left, the assumption being that Wereen had left with the other one. A shrug later we went through an archway into a deserted and dark room, the shop keeper followed us through and became barman. Wereen ordered two Sambucca al Centerbas.

Centerba is 70% alcohol and smells like it should be illegal. You can buy it on its own, usually only a splash is added to coffee (after dinner). Sambucca al Centerba has a slight taste of the "hundred herbs" spirit, it is delicious if a bit strong for 9.30 am. I declined, but agreed to have some in my coffee. Wereen had the drink in a measure that I would describe as being about the size of a small glass of wine. When we left there he insisted that he would like to take me to another bar. We drove through a maze of tiny streets arriving at the little square where, in one corner there were five or six mainly older guys sitting outside what looked like a very small shop, some of the men were drinking. It was very hot and bright, despite the early hour, as well as very quiet, it reminded me of a western film set. Everybody knows Wereen and he exchanged banter with some of the guys in French (he and a number of the locals had all gone off to Belgium to work in a coal mine in the 50’s) and the local dialect before we stepped into the cool of the bar. No tables, two slot machines, one not working. He asked for two Sambucca al Centerbas. The lady behind the bar produced the bottle but it only had enough for one (wine glass sized) shot left in it. There was a short debate about whiskies and other Sambuccas before Wereen suggested topping up our glasses with neat Centerba. Our hostess looked shocked at the idea, I couldn't understand everything that was said but I could see that she felt it was important that I knew what I was letting myself in for. Sambucca al Centerba is clear, Centerba is bright green and so were our cocktails. Five minutes later when I left, I knew I had had a drink.

Fave Maria?

Buon giorno from the Abruzzese town of Chieti, perched high on a hill from where you can see the Adriatic to the east and, in the distance, Grande Sasso ("Big Stone", the tallest mountain in the region to the West).

The sky is clear blue but for a few whisps of cotton wool, unlike the last few days which have seen every conceivable meteorogical phenomenon.

Optimistic, we set out to walk to the hermitage of San Bartolomeo, a cave with an extension, perched on the side of a cliff, not far from here, on Sunday. Half way back a thunder storm intervened and when we reached the car we looked as though we had swam there.

Have been eating particularly well, yesterday's highlight being fried lambs liver, heart and kidneys with onions, I think it was called Contorto d'Agnello, but that could be bollocks. My Italian is not as good as I thought. When asked how I was, despite having made the same mistake previously, I tried to be clever by saying that I was as healthy as a fish, the equivalent to being fit as a fiddle at home. I announced that I was a saint like a peach.

Fellini's 8 1/2 *****

This is very much the younger sibling of La Dolce Vita. Black and White and featuring beautiful well dressed people including Marcello Mastroianni (who featured in that other film) and the amazing looking Claudia Cardinale. This is a film about making a film. Ordinarily that would be reason enough for me to hit the eject button (I site Adaptation Adaptation, as an example of a film about making a film which is clever but leaves me feeling like I've been taken advantage of), but this for me is a mind-blowing piece of art.

I often think about the film I might write. As this film progresses I realise that, if I were able, this could be it.

There is the recurring idea that if you are not part of something, you are against it, you cannot exist satisfactorily without attaching yourself to ideas, principles or causes, without believing in things, "....happiness consists of being able to tell the truth without ever hurting anyone..." so says Guido the confused film-maker.

I notice that I have been enjoying films about people in crises; American Beauty and Citizen Kane (which I will be posting about soon) for example. They are quite theatrical (both the latter films were made by first time directors whose previous experience had been the stage). This surprises me a great deal. If you had told me that I would love a meandering, sometimes surreal wander about the very staged life of film maker experiencing a mid life crisis, I would have told you that it was more likely that DFS's sale had ended. At one point it even plays about with being a musical. As for what attracts me to this so much, I suppose that self recognition seems to be the most likely candidate. I am therefore exposing myself to accusations of being fanciful, but I can pick the elements I aspire to, as well as recognise those facets that I might be less happy about, but that does not diminish my identification with themes, even if I don't exist in the 'A' list stratosphere. Perhaps the whole idea is helped along by some small references such as the fact that it was released in the year I was born and that the leads drive about in a Porsche 356, not to mention the Italian thing.

Imagine being offered the chance to watch a film that was made by a film maker with no script who decided to go ahead and make a film about a film maker asked to make a film with not script and without a plot, about a film maker who has been asked to make a film that has no plot, and there you have it. Despite all of this, I kept wanting to know what was going to happen next.

Word of the week - mucilage

A mucilage is a secretion or bodily fluid. The word comes from the same origin as the more familiar mucus.

Is that BA's new corporate identity or just some mucilage on the fusilage?

Midnight Run *****

It was Good Friday morning, before seven, I got up (carefully) and decided that some light entertainment was in order. I selected my still celophane-wrapped Midnight Run dvd from the shelf and proceeded to enjoy the next couple of hours. There are some films which are haute cuisine and not the sort of things that one might want to consume too often. Then there is the classic hamburger, pefectly cooked, delicious relish and crispy chips; this is one of those. I have seen it often enough to have become familiar with its foibles which are most easily forgiven, I imagine that I will watch this many more times.

Robert De Niro is honest but hard done by bounty hunter Jack Walsh and the under-rated Charles Grodin plays Jonathan Mardukas, an accountant who has embezzled $15 million dollars from the mob (and given it to charity). It is essentially a road movie as the pair of them are chased across America from New York to L.A. The Grodin character is laconic, well meaning and prone to offering Jack advice about how he should change his life if he is to avoid an early grave. Jack is resigned to a lonely slightly self-ptiying existence; one that might be tempered by the big pay-off he will receive if he delivers "the Duke" to his bail bondsman in L.A. Their relationship is what the film is about and where most of the humour comes from.

It is directed by Martin "Beverley Hills Cop" Brest, but whilst that earlier film was very much of its time, this one seems to have side-stepped such a limitation. The story is comfortably well enough thought-through, not to distract from the set pieces and the interaction between members of the superb cast. Yaphet Koto who you might remember as Mr Big and Kanaga in the only properly funny James Bond film, Live and Let Die is the permanently exasperated FBI Agent Alonzo Mosely, (did you know that Live and Let die was written by the director of Eddie Murphy's first stand up movie, Dilerious)? Dennis Farina, always funny and scary in equal measure (he played Ray Barboni in Get Shorty), is as scary and funny as usual as mob boss Jimmy Serrano.

There are at least a couple of images that reappear in some shape or form in other films; there is a version of De Niro's "I am talking to a dead man" line, which he later uses in Heat and Dennis Farina announces rather prophetically that he is going to smash his telephone into someone's head; we actually have to wait for Get Shorty for him to do that to Gene Hackman's Harry Zimm. John Ashton (one of the LAPD foils for Eddie Murphy in Beverley Hills Cop) reappears here with great affect (as Marvin Dorfler, Jack Walsh's main competition).

This film always makes me laugh out loud, I am waiting like a child wanting his favourite bedtime story for my favourite jokes but, call me a sentimental piece of moist tissue, it also manages to move me a little every time I see it, that's probably the De Niro factor.

Word of the week

As I wended my way through my copy of Alan Bennett's Untold Stories this week I encountered the word "enfilade" which I am reliably informed means either a "volley of gunfire directed along a line from end to end" or a "suite of rooms with doorways in line with each other". In order to help it settle in the word section of my brain, in a place where I have the slightest chance of retrieving it when needed, I have decided that as part of this new and ongoing feature, I will supply (for my own benefit) a sentence incorporating the word of the week.

"An enfilade of piss arced from behind the bush into a noisy puddle beneath the streetlight".

End of a day

Ayrton Senna once said that he felt that "we are all seeking emotions".

This evening as I prepared dinner, I listened to All of this and Nothing by the Psychedelic Furs. Normally I would have Channel 4 News on. Actually it was on, but the Furs provided the soundtrack. Can I suggest that if you would like to view current affairs from a tangential angle that you try listening to some of your favourite music whilst watching the news. There was a report about the relationship between China and Japan with footage of war, as well as statesman doing what they do, (I don't know very much about him, but as premiers go, I would have to say that Mr Koizumi, the previous Japanese Prime Minister was a cool one). Anyway, songs that move you, played over footage of people killing or getting one over on each other, move you more, take it from me.

The fact that I spent most of the day unblocking a drain might be relevant and my tuna with ginger, spring onions and teryaki sauce was delicious in case you were wondering.

Brew hah hah

One morning last week I woke quite early and decided to have a cup of tea. As the kettle warmed up on the stove, I considered the day ahead whilst dangerously multitasking, getting the tea bag out of the cupdboard, milk from the fridge and so on. The kettle was almost ready when I was suddenly aware of a big flame on my right hand side and quite a bit of smoke. My dressing gown was on fire. One acts quickly in these situations and very quickly I was doing my naked version of the hakka on top of the combustible garment. Gemma arrived on the scene concerned that a "girl had broken in" on account of the scream that had woken her.

There seems to be an elemental pattern to my early morning traumas, I might be due to wake up spattered with mud.

Butterfly effect

A few moments ago I was to be found in the Murasaki Restaurant in the Seven Dials area of Brighton enjoying a Shogiyaki Don and a green tea. However, things might have been very different.

Last night I was rudely awoken by a the burglar alarm of a nearby house. I trust that nothing was in fact stolen except for a few hours of the collective sleep of a number of the inhabitants of the Clifton Hill conseravation area. On consulting my trusty alarm clock I discovered that this was occurring at about 12.30am. An hour or so later having tossed and turned I rose to have a cup of tea and as it transpired four rice cakes topped with Green and Black's chocolate spread. This was my first mistake; I believe the potent dose of refined sugar did not encourage my body to lapse back into unconsciousness, especially with a slug of classic boxing highlights mixed in for good measure. At about 4am I clambered back into bed but didn't manage to string together more than an hour or so of slumber at a time before getting up at about 7.

I was on the back foot slightly this morning, as a man was coming to my house at nine to make a hole in the ceiling in the hall, for the purpose of creating access to the roof space. This was a disruptive process, so much so that I had to leave the house. By midday (having visited Waterstones and Fopp) I was a bit cold and hungry and buckled quite easily under the influence of my own persuasive powers, retiring to the aforementioned Japanese cafe to seek solace and nourishment.

Whilst there I decided that I might as well investigate the possibility of visiting Japan later in the year for a holiday, something I have thought about for a number of years. The waitress was unable to share very much in the way of tips however as her English I find, isn't very well tuned to the western ear, there were some acutely embarrassing moments to go along with my pork and pickled vegetables.

But I was not put off and it would appear that burglar alarm plus loft hatch leads to Kyoto curiosity. To be continued.....

.....incredibly benevolent force

I am supine on the floor, I feel heavy, I can smell burning sage and there is the slightly acrid taste of osha root in my mouth. Soon however, I am floating way above the earth, in space. In due course I am confronted by a dark, perfectly shaped oblong obelisk which has emerged from nowhere. It is hard-looking, wet; water runs down its surface, it is difficult to guage its size but it is probably about ten or twelve feet tall. It is similar to the icon which features in 2001 A Space Odessey.

A beautiful woman emerges from the monolith, she has long dark hair and looks like she knows everything. There is calm everywhere. She says nothing but from her look, I know there is no point in worrying about anything, ever, because I am part of something I don't begin to understand. I feel grateful but whilst I like the idea that I have been singled out, I suspect that I have been given this gift because I need it.