So it has snowed in Rome for the first time in 26 years.
Whenever I am reminded of Rome, I remember sleeping rough on its streets for ten days, when I was 19 years old and got robbed of everything on the FIRST DAY of my one-month 'rail europe' much-anticipated summer vacation- I lost my backpack, tent, one shoe, watch, paints (LOL), green ink fountain pen, the lot basically and fck you Mohammed - and was so fcking thrifty and stubborn and pissed off that I'd been robbed and lost cash and tickets and so on, that I refused to use the money lent to me by the British Embassy for accommodation, and instead slept rough until my money came through, which took 10 days.
I slept in front of the Colosseum.
I slept on the Spanish Steps.
I slept everywhere.
Police would kick me awake in the morning.
Basta! Basta!
I sometimes slept rough with a young married couple from Scotland who had been robbed 3 times during their trip and who were also waiting for money to come through.
My money came first so I lent them 250 pounds to get home. This was all based on trust, was before email etc and they sent me a cheque in the end. Nice couple.
They were so grateful that Marco (his wife's name was May) gave me the keys to his late grandfather's house in Filignano and told me to use it for as long as I wanted.
So I hitched to the house one day, arriving at night.
The next morning I woke up to the sound of Scottish people talking in the tiny hillside street below.
Turns out that after WWII, lots of Scottish folks emigrated to small mountain villages in Italy, and this was one of those villages.
It was bizarre.
By the way, the house was so beautiful, with traditional wooden shutters that I'd fling open of a morning, like that stupid American kant in the movie about her moving to Italy to 'find herself' after a divorce.
Whenever I am reminded of Rome, I remember sleeping rough on its streets for ten days, when I was 19 years old and got robbed of everything on the FIRST DAY of my one-month 'rail europe' much-anticipated summer vacation- I lost my backpack, tent, one shoe, watch, paints (LOL), green ink fountain pen, the lot basically and fck you Mohammed - and was so fcking thrifty and stubborn and pissed off that I'd been robbed and lost cash and tickets and so on, that I refused to use the money lent to me by the British Embassy for accommodation, and instead slept rough until my money came through, which took 10 days.
I slept in front of the Colosseum.
I slept on the Spanish Steps.
I slept everywhere.
Police would kick me awake in the morning.
Basta! Basta!
I sometimes slept rough with a young married couple from Scotland who had been robbed 3 times during their trip and who were also waiting for money to come through.
My money came first so I lent them 250 pounds to get home. This was all based on trust, was before email etc and they sent me a cheque in the end. Nice couple.
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So I hitched to the house one day, arriving at night.
The next morning I woke up to the sound of Scottish people talking in the tiny hillside street below.
Turns out that after WWII, lots of Scottish folks emigrated to small mountain villages in Italy, and this was one of those villages.
It was bizarre.
By the way, the house was so beautiful, with traditional wooden shutters that I'd fling open of a morning, like that stupid American kant in the movie about her moving to Italy to 'find herself' after a divorce.
| I really need to start toning up my upper arms. |
7 comments:
That's Diane Lane. She's still hot and was hot when I was just a lad. The quality of her movies? Couldn't say, as I'm not generally paying attention to the plots.
You might enjoy a book called "Love and War in the Apennines" by Eric Newby.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Love_and_War_in_the_Apennines
He wrote some amazing travel books, including The Last Grain Race, and led an amazing, full life.
He died about five years ago.
Yeah, I like Lane as an actress too albeit I don't like soppy movies like this one.
Another of your awesome life stories. I liked the idea of that movie, you know the moving to a villa in Italy, but the movie was way too predictable.
Not to sound cruel, but from the synopsis it sounds like the fantasy of a menopausal white woman who drives a Volvo 'cause it's safe, but not too safe.
It's just like those movies where a man with a medallion drives a long red sports car, etc. etc.
Because men might very often be wanchors in what they do, but they are rarely 'bitches'.
Indeed, no man has ever left a mean comment on this blog of the personal kind.
The men have tended to criticise my political views, not my clothes or the way I want to live my life.
Ergo, anon is very much a woman, the cattiness, meow, drips off her every comment.
I feel sorry for her.
R
It was a terrible movie. I had to turn it off.
Thanks for the warning. I still think she's hot.
Of course, I think Lauren Bacall's still hot and she must be 100.
Interesting observation about men's comments vs. women's. I'm pretty sure I've been a little bitchy with you over the years, mostly because you've had periods of what could charitably (and in my view only, perhaps) of "circular thinking", and I am attempting to apply a motivational boot to the arse.
But you're right, I don't care how you appear or choose to display your charms, tattooes or unusual clusters of moles.
If we met and you hadn't bathed for a week, like a man I would probably make a face and state "Perkins, phew! Go sluice some of that off, will you? There are diners downwind".
But as long as you aren't frightening the horses a la "Basic Instinct", you could wear three mops and a life ring lashed down with eight-strand.
I tend to think that one of the greatest strengths of the independent male mind (not fucked up by patriarchy/religion) is that if it doesn't affect us, we don't care what you do. Obviously, given as I intend to follow in your wake in terms of flitting about the globe thanks to the miracle of rental income, I'm going to generally approve of your plans, but even if I didn't (and why would I not?), fundamentally, it doesn't affect me. Ergo, have at it and don't hit me in the nose in the attempt.
Now, I KNOW that women, sometimes even on a casual level of interaction (like an acquaintance at a dinner party) will object to my lack of interest in a) alerting a third party that they are WRONG!, b) giving a damn about HOW said party is WRONG, and c) using my vast powers of sarcasm to tell the woman who needs to convey this WRONGNESS to the hapless third party in the most cutting and hurtful manner.
So, yes, I've met some real bitches in my life, but they would be utterly unable to recognize themselves in that description.
Fair play: I've met many appallingly dense men who seem incapable of throwing the tiniest bone to their gfs/wives' sensitivities. I have learned that even with a wife who is generally pretty remote from "catty" (she was raised with no mother after the age of 10 in a house of men...and it shows), there is still interest to be feigned in certain areas of emotional concern if I want a peaceful life.
Which, generally, I do, even with the tendency I have to enjoy the odd poke at passing hornets' nests.
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