I want to ride my bicycle

Let's share a moment of regression.

I have a hole in my jeans, a scab on my knee and a brand new bike.

The first two are because the second bike I tried totally BIT ME. It did! Probably it had heard me saying how much crapper it was than the (cheaper) first bike, the one I actually bought, so let that be a lesson to you. Watch what you say about your inanimate objects.

The last one is because Beloved wanted to buy a bike. Oddly enough, he still doesn't have one, but I do. Now, I've heard it said that women choose their cars for looks and their men for performance, and with men it's the other way around. Of course I could never endorse such a blatantly sexist generalisation, but I should point out that I found it *really hard* to deny myself the extremely cute and totally impractical Electra, or even the winsomely Victorian Pashley Provence, instead focusing on the boringly functional Trek range, that had actual gears and could get me up an actual hill if I were stupid enough to face one, and not have Beloved thumbing his nose at me and calling rude names.

Obviously, though, it gives me great pleasure that my new bike is totally the cutest out of that performance-orientated line.



(I may as well point out that as likely as not, this bike won't get ridden for, say, another two months, then we'll take it out a couple of times, then it'll hide in the shed and get rusty. It's probably a really stupid buy. But for the first time in my life, I have a brand new bike, and I am quite liking it.)

It's like exercise, only different.

So having put my running programme on hold for the past three months (for very sound and hormonal* reasons), I'm now back in the takkies** and, well, it is hard. Obviously. But still we try.

The thing is this. I quite like exercising to music; in theory it should totally beat the boredom of running the same route again and again. And I have acquired very nifty headphones for my nifty music-bearing phone, thus solving the earbud-fall-out problem. But as you probably know, exercising to music at the wrong beat is... confusing, and not very helpful. And I do seem to be struggling to find the right beat. I'm not a fast runner. But that's not the main problem. There's a few Goldfrapp tracks at about the right speed. (Look, I SAID I wasn't fast!) But still I can't quite get the rhythm. There I was, pounding the pavements (in a gentle, leisurely fashion), and I wasn't exactly hitting the groove.

Took me a while to figure out the problem. (Again: I'm not FAST. How many times must I say this?) I have a good steady breathing pattern. Three steps in, three steps out.

Any dance acts out there bringing back the waltz?

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* No, not as in "I was too moody to bother", thank you very much.
** Running shoes

Sulks in bulk!

So about this "not done complaining" business (below). I considered complaining in an email to a friend, but frankly none of my friends have done anything to deserve that. I considered waiting till Beloved came home and complaining to him, but that didn't seem like the loving thing to do.* I considered complaining some more over here, but I think it's about time to try raising the tone around here, before it hits scummy pond floor level.

So I did the only thing I could do.
I started a new blog.

I made it ugly so that no one will stick around to read it. It's like the anti-blog. It is not for reading, it is for dumping. And I would like you all to share in its whiny, pathetic, ranty joys. No! Not by reading, gawd, don't you listen? No, I want you to dump too. When the mood strikes. You can get signed up as a member of the miserable McWhineFace clan by leaving a comment, or emailing me. Act now to be prepared for any attack of sulks in future!

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* Well I mean I'm going to do that anyway, *obviously*, but it probably would be best if he didn't have the full force of my tantrumy sulks to deal with.

My un-favourite things

Screw all this fluffy cosy positivity. I'm not in the mood. Can I just talk for a minute about the things that do NOT make me happy?

Things like, say, the technojinx?

Yes yes fine, I've caught up (more or less) on six months of accounts, and mostly everything seems to still be there, and maybe I can get Photoshop back (although I don't have it *now*, and that's making me (more) grouchy), and I do appear to have sound so hooray for that. Rah technology. whatEV.

A weekend of catching up on accounts when I could/should have been doing all the many other, more interesting things I need and want to be catching up on... that makes me cross.
A computer that has (almost) everything basically there, but just a bit *wonky*, and needing yet more time investment... that makes me cross.
Being supposedly on diet, so that I can't even console myself with a large bag of cookies... that makes me cross.
Failing utterly to stick my diet (yet without sinning to the point where it gets fun), so that I don't even have anything to show for my supposed self-denial... that makes me cross.
Actually everything about diets, in practice and principle, makes me extremely cross; but knowing that I do in fact need and want to lose weight, and exercise alone just doesn't do it - that makes me GRRRRRRR.

Bollocks to it all, I say.

(You know, you should all count yourselves very lucky I haven't blogged about my previous battles with the technojinx. Normally I hold off - not so much out of wanting to spare you, as just out of embarrassment and a deeply ingrained sense that it must surely be my fault for imagining I know how to use a computer. But this is not the first encounter. Oh no.

Maybe I really shouldn't be allowed to use a computer.)

Update: Oh, now I appear to be missing most of my fonts. How did that happen, exactly? I never went about downloading lots of fonts. I had them. I was just using the fonts I already had. The ones that came with whatever programs I had. All of which I have reinstalled. So they should be there. And they're not. And you cannot conceive of how many problems this causes for me.

GRRRRRRRR.

Update 2: I am deeply unhappy.

No reason that isn't included in the above. I just don't have anyone here to complain to right now, and I'm not done complaining.

Unhappy. Booooooo. This is *so* not how my time off was supposed to go.

My favourite things: part the fifth

I can't draw. I really, really, really can't.

But these fabulous, soft, aquarelle-y pastel pencils make me imagine that I can.

My favourite things: part the fourth

My mother has always had a collection of pretty little boxes, and I've inherited that appreciation. Carved wood, mother of pearl inlays, swirly art nouveau pewter... all beautiful. I twitch acquisitively in the mere presence of such little trinkets. Partly, I suspect, this is because (unlike my mother) I really do not like ornaments that are just ornaments. Form without function? Such a turn-off. Boxes are pretty, but also useful; at least that's the theory. There is a point, alas, at which a collection of pretty boxes becomes just clutter. So I've ruthlessly pruned the smaller boxes, and moved my jewellery and such into larger, more efficient organisers.

But there's still something about pretty boxes for their own sake; maybe the mystery and potential of them. Anything could be inside there.

These two are special. Both were (ahem) appropriated from my mother. The larger, wooden one, which I call my treasure chest, once held all my loose change; now it holds a selection of aromatherapy oils, matches and so on. The little metal one is the elephant kit (named, of course, for the not-visible-here picture on the lid). It was originally my grandfather's, and it still fulfils the same function it did two generations ago: it holds headache pills, plasters and so on.

The mirrored jar was a birthday present from pinkthulhu, and I think it's almost the perfect abstract model of a present: it sparkles and it smells like dessert!* Really, what more could a girl ask for? The fact that, when the candle burns out, it will be a luscious addition to my box collection is just a bonus.

_____
* Containing, as it does, a vanilla-scented candle.

I KNEW it.

Yeah, I know, you thought I was a big fat baby for whining about the technojinx when I got off so lightly.

Only I DIDN'T. The story was not OVER.

The bloody accounts that were totally there last time I checked have been totally LOST in some weird Quickbooks updating perversion. The BASTARDS. Six whole MONTHS gone.

'Snot FAIR. Just when I was making such PROGRESS.

[Exits stage left, stamping feet and throwing toys.]

Why we love Rian Malan

'Foreigners think we're nuts coming back to a doomed city on a damned continent,' Rian Malan once wrote about Johannesburg, 'but there is something you don't understand: it's boring where you are.'

Quoted in an Observer article a few weeks ago.

My favourite things: part the third

I was hankering after a pretty teapot for the longest time. But our kitchen is small, and cluttered, and I thought it would be a good idea to avoid adding to that clutter. Then Beloved bought me a tin of organic loose-leaf Darjeeling,* so I went looking for a tea egg, but I couldn't find a tea egg so I bought an in-cup strainer, but that didn't work well *at all*, so I gave in and went shopping for a teapot.

I found this beautiful range of tea china in about five different blue and white patterns. While they were all delightful, I decided I liked them best all together. So I came home with a teapot, a milk jug, and three bowls, all different. So much for minimising clutter. But what can I say? They make me happy. And see how well they match my favourite teacup!**

Looking at this picture, I had a minor epiphany, of the blindingly-obvious-but-I-only-just-realised kind. Those bloggers who chronicle the pleasures of domesticity? Who post tightly cropped, beautifully composed pictures of cupcakes and quilts, and minor odes to the joys of lavender scented linen spray? They are SO FAKING.

No, that's not fair. I have no doubt that they have beautiful homes, and that they truly do go to the effort of, well, using lavender scented linen spray. But if you were to imagine my home life based on this picture — and I doubt you would, consciously, but I bet it's hard not to let it colour your image of me just a little, if you've never met me in person — you would be picturing something, well, girly. And... kempt.

Those who do know me, who have even been to my home, know that this is not exactly so. Which makes me feel a little bit — just a little — less intimidated by

The knitting does rather go without saying, but I include it because it matches so nicely.

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* I don't even drink Darjeeling. Every now and then he succumbs to a random impulse in Tesco, and this was one of them. More recently, he came home with four cans of Budweiser. I realise this might not sound odd to anyone else, but it was cold weather. He didn't have any plans to tuck in that night, or any time soon. Apart from at braais and such, we are not great beer drinkers. And... Bud? Really?
** I'm a mug girl, really, but how beautiful is this?

My favourite things: part the second

Warm, soft flannel jammies.
That remind me of sweets.

The pretty white and brown one (a nightshirt — the perfect sleeping attire) puts me in mind of expensive chocolate truffles. The kind that come in boxes decorated with prints just like that. And the pink ones — well, don't they just *smell* like jellybeans?* They do. To me they do.

Wearing lovely flannel jammies is one of the things that make winter worthwhile. But I'm not sorry to put them away now that the weather's turned gorgeous.

_____
* Not literally. I haven't been sleeping with sugary treats.

In which the Scrivener succumbs to the technojinx

Extemporanea appears to have lent me her technojinx. While I can certainly appreciate the desire to have the problem go bother somebody else for once, I did not volunteer for jinxsitting duties, and rather wish someone stronger and braver had come along to do the job.

To solve a relatively minor, but annoying problem,* I was told I had to reinstall Windows. (And who am I to argue with the support desk?) So. I was bold and brave. I copied my essential files and folders** to an external hard disk. I reinstalled Windows. I copied the damn folders back. I'm still in the process of excavating and seeing what is and isn't working, but the tally so far:

Points won
All my emails in place, OH DEAR LORD THANK YOU, I still haven't recovered from the trauma of last time.***
Documents apparently present and correct.

Points lost
For reasons far too embarrassing**** to elucidate, I have lost my totally legal and paid for and much needed copy of Photoshop Elements. Now, am I facing a £60+VAT idiot tax, or is there a way of convincing the good folk at Adobe to give me another one, I'll look after it for sure this time, I promise?

Even more distressingly - but totally mysteriously - it looks very much like my Quickbooks file has passed over to the vale of shadow. I can't for the life of me figure out how and why (considering almost everything else came through fine), but so far, no accounts. BUGGER BUGGER BUGGER. And also: SHIT.

Even this would be a little more manageable were it not for the minor - and even more mysterious - point that good ole MSN Money is unaccountably***** unable to open my perfectly good, perfectly present, perfectly up-to-date back-up file. Yes. I actually maintain two separate accounting packages. (One is better for t'business, one for personal stuff. Sometimes it's useful to have them to compare against, also. And plus, yes, I'm just that anal.) And now - very weirdly - they've both flunked out on me. BASTARDS.

*sigh*

Okay. So my accountant only actually asks for all my documents (bank statements, invoices) and those I can cough up. Bank statements are roughly enough for me to get an idea of how sales and expenses have been stacking up, so, whatever. I've got some spreadsheets that may or may not help. Okay. It's not the end of the world. And it's close enough to the beginning of the tax year that I can reconstruct the past three weeks and have a good record for this year. But, you know.

BASTARDS.

Update: OH THANK FUCK. Mysteries remain unsolved, but I have successfully located backups, so most of my Vital Financial Data is recovered. Which makes the above post mostly pointless, as well as ranty, foul-mouthed and boring. Um. Let's focus on the real issue here. Photoshop? Thoughts?

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* Roughly 50% of the time, on boot-up, my laptop failed to find its voice. 'Sokay, I don't need sound for my job or anything... except that trying to do some of my more brain-numbing tasks without benefit of iTunes was pretty painful. Anyway, the most recent telephone support person had managed to upgrade the problem from 50% of the time to all the time.
** I know that some of you are going to be squeaking things like "you only need to copy one folder! Why did you do it bit by bit!" etc. Trust me, I had to do what I had to do. Let's not go into it, it is Boring.
*** Remember I run a business from this machine. An online business. Pause for a second to appreciate the email implications.
**** Viz: I'm an idiot.
***** As it were.

These are a few of my favourite things... part the first

And from the "maximising content for lazy-ass bloggers" files, we bring you a photo series. Things that make me happy just to look at them. They're pretty,* and that's important, but that's not the only reason.



A well-organised address book, and a mostly empty diary.

The diary is a Moleskine weekly planner, and I can't tell you how happy I was to find it. It's the perfect size; it's softcover, so not too heavy despite the large format, and it has a nice elastic to hold it closed; it lies open comfortably on my desk, which I like for purposes of managing my to-do list and so on, but also slips easily into my handbag; and it has a whole big page for notes, *every week*, and just a few lines for each day's schedule! Perfect. (I'm not a meetings person.)

I like an empty diary because, well, I crazy busy. Looking at an empty, appointment-free page fills me with calm. This week I took off work, I flattened my freelance commitments right at the start, and I'm slowly working my way through my monster to-do list. Normally that list would be on the notes page, but right now it's too big and has been migrated to an A4 pad. (So that blank page isn't so good, really, but still.) It is my Firm Resolve to hack it down to at most a few lines, filed under "long-term projects", by the time I go back to work next Thursday.

Even the pencil is special. It's silver — my favourite colour. It's from One Aldwych, where I spent my incredibly fabulous 30th birthday weekend. And it bears kitty chew marks. I realise that might not be considered a good thing by everybody, but I like it. Maybe not on a custom made leather boot,** but on a souvenir pencil? Come, kitties, bring me your toothsome*** love.

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* In an ideal world I'd have proper pretty pictures that actually show off the prettiness. But I'm not so great with the camera. And the light in our front room is crap. Gotta love blaming the light.
** No, I don't actually have any custom made leather boots.
Dammit.
*** Before you tell me that's not what toothsome means, may I refer you to Humpty Dumpty?

SGI: Appendix

I've mentioned the food a few times in this post. But what I haven't yet explained is the dining experience. Is complicated, see. Never mind the sneaky multi-course menus; first you have to figure out what sort of establishment you're after. And where to sit. It's just not as straightforward as you might think.

Let's start with the easy ones: the bars, cafes and pasticcerie. You might not think that "bar" and "pastries" belong in the same category, but you'd be wrong; a lot of the pasticcerie actually double as bars. You can pop in for a quick snifter, or to grab a slice of something tasty, but what you can't do is sit down and enjoy a cake and coffee. (Pasticcerie very likely don't even serve coffee.) For that you need a cafe; but you do know that there's a tiered pricing system? The Italian way is to down your caffeine fix* standing at the bar, but of course you can enjoy it at a table if you prefer. For a price. Check the menu; you might see two or even three different prices — tavolo is the table price, terrazza is the most expensive: outside seating. And you'll be clearly marked as a tourist; but hey - they already know that from the Americano you're drinking.*

The whole consume-at-the-bar thing works well for dinner, too; it seems particularly popular in Venice. (Though Florence comes into its own for the traveller on a budget, since many of its bars seem to offer free snacks! A whole happy-hour** buffet! Hot and cold! And, like, really, really tasty! AND — here's the amazing bit — free wireless! God I love Florence.) Tapas-style snacks called cichette can be found at most bars, or at osterie. And here we come to the subtle and mysterious divisions among sitting-down eateries.

You might go for dinner at a pizzeria, a ristorante, a trattoria or an osteria (not counting the bars and cafes, of course). Pizzeria, that one's easy. Ristorante too. A notch down the formality scale is a trattoria; but what's the difference between that and an osteria? Not much; except that at an osteria you can also eat at the bar. I hope that's all clear. All that remains are wine bars (quite popular and usually serving meals) and gelaterie. Not that they require much explanation, but...



They understand the art of presentation, those Florentines.

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* "Coffee" to an Italian has to be espresso. Cappuccino is for breakfast only; regular coffee is for tourists, which is why they call it Americano. But you already knew that.
** Which is about 3 hours long.

SGI: What to do and when to go

The title of our two city guidebooks was Art Shop Eat. And while I have a problem with the apparent use of "art" as a verb, I have to admit they've pretty much covered the point of a city break to Venice or Florence — or, no doubt, many other places. You go to these places because you want to see the art (and architecture); this being Italy, eating is a big attraction also; and although I'm not a great shopper, it's hard to resist the urge to bring back something beautiful.*

The trick is in knowing how to do these things.

The first thing you must remember is that it is absolutely not done to tell everyone that Florentine museums are crowded, expensive, disorganised and overrated. You will be immediately exposed as a Bad Art Lover. Florence is famous for having the most and the best art in the world; ergo, if you fail to absolutely love it, it must be you who are at fault. With this in mind —

Don't say:
"Ugh, the Uffizi? We were out of there in under two hours, and what a relief."
Do say:
"It's just so overwhelming — you can't do it justice in an afternoon."
Don't say:
"Eh, you see one chubby wall-eyed nude, you've seen 'em all."
Do say:
"The paintings are so sensual!"
Don't say:
"Did all of Italy just stop painting after 1650?"***
Do say:
"It really gives you an appreciation of the roots of the Western art tradition."
Don't say:
"Why queue for three hours and pay 10 euro to get into the Accademia — which has practically nothing in it — when there's an exact marble copy of David in the Loggia della Monumente, for free, with a better view?"
Do say:
"There's nothing like seeing the original, is there?"
Don't say:
"But his hands are huge! They're kinda creeping me out!"
Do say:
"It's amazing how cleverly he worked perspective into the figure.**** Did you notice he's got a squint, too? It's a classic Michelangelo trick."

Having done your cultural duty in the museums, you're free to indulge in consumerist delights. You can buy some art, of course — in Venice in particular we found lots of little galleries that had rather gorgeous things, including very affordable etchings as well as prints. I liked the camp angels by this guy, but we didn't buy any. (Mostly because when we went looking for the gallery again, we couldn't find it. Damn those little Venetian alleys!)

Otherwise, the things to shop for are, in Venice, silk and handmade paper. (Oh all right, lace and glasswork and masks, if you must. But bear in mind that until you've gone window shopping over the Rialto bridge, you have very little idea of what kitsch is. Truly. You have much, much to learn.) And in Florence, leather goods and antiques. There are some marvellous antiques markets - including a small one up in Fiesole - and the markets around San Lorenzo and other areas are full of stalls selling leather jackets, bags and gloves, among other things. (Astonishingly, they all seem to offering one-day specials of 60% or even 70% off! Every day!) Of course some of those colourful gloves are made in China, rather than being the authentic Italian artisanal goods you're hoping for... but hey, who's checking?

If you're getting out of the cities, there are plenty of other activities to consider. Skiing, in winter. Or hiking, or cycling, or wine tasting, or just hanging out experimenting with the fine art of the siesta.***** What you want to do will of course affect when you choose to go; apart from the obvious (skiing is pretty hard to do in August, for instance), I suggest that midwinter is a good time for a serious art pilgrimage, because you'll avoid most of the tourists. Conversely, if you're mostly there to soak up the vibe and don't mind skipping the major sights, go in summer; though by all accounts Venice gets pretty stinky in the heat, so maybe try May or September.

Whatever you do, don't go in March. At least, don't go to Venice or Florence in March. The weather is crap, but the high season kicks off on the 15th and it's packed. And expensive. It's the worst of both worlds.

Dammit.

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* Preferably not an actual person. Yes, Italian women** are gorgeous, but they might complain if you tried to squeeze them in your suitcase.
** Italian men are fine too. But they wear an awful lot of bling.
*** Apparently, yes. The Italian artistic spirit goes into fashion these days. As evidenced by the fact that in the Uffizi, right next to the museum shop (selling mugs with cherubs on them, the usual) is a designer accessories boutique.
**** I've looked at David from all angles and distances, and his hands just always look massive. And veiny.
***** I have my next Italian holiday all planned.

Things to make me go aaaahh...

1. Ticking things off my to-do list. My to-do list that is currently running over (over as in "more than") two A4 pages. With columns. And that's not even counting all the stuff that it's not counting. You don't believe me? Would a look at my in-trays help?



2. Sunshine. Actual sun, with warmth that I can actually feel. Being able to go out without layering up in coat, scarf, gloves. (Although I wouldn't be that sorry to have to wear my beautiful new Italian leather gloves... but they'll still be beautiful in November.)

3. Wanton, impromptu midnight shoe shopping. (Not on the to-do list.)

4. Getting next week off so I can tick more things off the to-do list. Why do I never remember that I need to add a week to my holiday request every time I go away, so that I have time to catch up? Must take care of that next time.

Aaaaaahh.

SGI will resume after the break. (Short break. Minuscule, really.) Meanwhile, go look at some pictures.

SGI: Easter digression

Easter, for me, means a very particular kind of Easter egg. They come in boxes of six, just like regular eggs, and they are white and egg-sized, and look very much as though you could scramble them, except as any fule kno they are of course simply milk chocolate eggs with a lovely hard white sugar coating. Well, as any South African fule kno, because you just don't get them in the UK; and since for any right thinking person they are the only proper Easter eggs there are, well, I've been in some distress every spring.

So naturally, when I saw, while strolling through Fiesole - a scenic and historic site in the hills above Florence - a basket of colourful eggs in the window of a confectioner's, I recognised that this must be the pastel-coloured equivalent of our lovely white eggs, and insisted that we had to buy a couple immediately. (Despite the absolutely shocking price of 2 euro apiece. Two! Euro! Apiece!) And so we strolled on, sucking assiduously. (Childish sucking is the only possible way of getting through the sugar shell without cracking a tooth. It's messy and inelegant and quite marvellous.)

"Mmmm," we said to each other. "This sugar coating definitely tastes right."
We sucked some more.
"Hmmm," we said to each other. "This sugar coating seems to be rather harder to crack than usual."
We sucked some more.
"Mmmm," we said to each other. "This dark chocolate is unusual. But very good. But why can't we bite through it yet?"
We sucked some more, increasing frequency of experimental biting attempts.

"Oh!" we said.



South African sugar eggs generally do not contain mini plastic eggs inside 'em. Also, the chocolate layer is a lot thinner.

The plastic eggs had something in 'em too.



The duckies liked the view from Fiesole. (So did we.)

SGI: Art and architecture

Art is pretty much what Florence does. It's what Florence is for. Florence's entire persona, as it were, is based on being the spiritual home of the best art the Western world has had to offer since around 1500 (and quite a lot of classical sculptures from long before that). The tourist map of Florence, the one they hand out at hotels, has a list of "major museums and monuments" that's about 100 strong. It's rather intimidating. Similarly, Venice is positively crammed with Tintorettos and Titians, only they're mostly (but not entirely) in churches, rather than museums. That doesn't mean they're free, though, the churches do charge entrance fees.*

So these two cities between them house a positively ridiculous proportion of the Great Art of the world. Great Art that covers the full spectrum of subject and style, from gilded madonna to naked nymph. Mind you, if you happen to think that the full spectrum of art might extend beyond limpid feminine eyes to - say - sunflowers; or that style might conceivably move beyond baroque to - say - impressionism, or expressionism, or anything after around 1800 (at a very great push), you're liable to be disappointed.** Of course, if you're a Renaissance buff, or just happen to have a thing for rather camp dancing boys, you're in for the time of your life.




In any case, who cares if the range is rather limited? You can't fail to be impressed by the sheer muchness of it all. And the architecture is a delight. Florence is, frankly, rather scary; it's full of huge blocky buildings built on a scale designed to remind all the peasants on the streets of just how powerful and important the people who lived in them - the Medicis and their ilk - really were. Nowadays most of these palazzos are museums of one kind or another. Behind their monstrously large, studded wooden doors are monstrously large stone stairways and monstrously large marble halls, filled with... tourists. Lots and lots and lots of tourists. If you're lucky, and taller than them, you might get to see some art. Or you could content yourself with gawping at Santa Maria del Fiore (better known as the Duomo, though since every city in Italy seems to have at least one Duomo, that could get very confusing): the delirious pink, green and white marble facade (now with added mosaics!!!) is an object lesson in why not to allow an architect with an indecision problem loose on your cathedral.***

Venice is completely different, and not just because of all that water. (The water is fun, though.) Venice is, frankly, ludicrous. It's a beautiful,**** colourful toy town, constructed in a crazy labyrinth of canals and alleyways. (There's hardly anything that can be dignified with the name of "street".) And of course, every so often the alley simply ends, very matter-of-factly, in water.



But the true nuttiness of Venice is found in some of its many, many churches. Venetian builders clearly had Ideas about the scale and style that was appropriate for the house of god. They had seen classical temples, and they figured that what was good enough for Zeus wasn't nearly good enough for Jesus. (Not to mention, they'd gone and put up the Basilica de San Marco - that huge monument to their stolen saint***** - which gave them something to live up to.) So they stuck up these wonderful, epic buildings, with elaborate facades and trompe l'oeil decoration and suchlike, the kind of thing that needs to be viewed from a good 50 metres or more back or you can't see anything.

But there isn't any 50 metres back. There isn't even 5 metres back. There's about 2 metres if you're lucky, because Venice is tiny, and crowded, and all the buildings are really close together. Still... a builder's gotta dream, right?

_____
* Not during services, of course. But during service times they're very sensibly not open to tourists. You could try to sneak in, but I think they might notice if you were angling for a better view of the diptychs instead of muttering along to the Creed, in Italian. And if you don't mind pissing off the devout Italian mammas, you're braver than I.
** With the very noble exception of the Peggy Guggenheim museum in Venice, which has a wonderful collection of modern art, including all the usual suspects and some surprises.
*** Okay, okay, I love it. But I'm sure a truly dignified city shouldn't let this sort of thing happen.
**** Albeit somewhat decrepit. Shabby chic is the Venetian style. It's somehow impossible to imagine the city as ever having been fresh and new; and any building that dared to get a fresh lick of paint would no doubt be thoroughly snubbed by its neighbours. Proper Venetian houses would never stoop to anything so tacky as a facelift.
***** True. They pinched the remains of St Mark from the Alexandrians, then ran home and built this big damn multi-domed extravaganza, thoroughly drenched in gilt mosaics, to basically say: "NER ner ner NER ner!" Very devout, the Venetians.

SGI: Culture and cuisine

The Italian people have a long and noble past. First there was that whole empire thing.* Then, after a thousand years or so, there was the Renaissance.**** As previously suggested, most of the Renaissance took place in Florence (at least if you believe the Florentines), and they're so damn proud of it, it's sometimes hard to tell if anything's happened since then. But of course, plenty has; opera, for instance. Also, the Mafia. And Fascism.***** And fashion; in design of all kinds, as in murder, Italy is absolutely on the cutting edge.***** *

Still, in some ways Italy remains quite old-fashioned. The country remains firmly Catholic, and by and large retains a firmly Catholic attitude to womanhood (if not necessarily individual women). In dating, the men are expected to do the chasing, and the paying. (Woe betide the man who lets his date pay in an Italian restaurant. Mockery will ensue. You can try to explain that it's his birthday, but it just won't do.) The women are expected to give the men something to look at. (Watch a group of Italian men as an attractive woman walks past. The ass-checking head turns appears to be completely obligatory and unquestioned.) Well, you can see why; Italian women are gorgeous, and so well turned out. Think Monica Bellucci. Think Sofia Loren.

Sofia, of course, once said: 'Everything you see I owe to pasta.' Which is not only a great reason to show two fingers to the Atkins diet, but also leads us very neatly to the second part of this chapter.

Italian food.

Now, Italian menus are generally divided into:
Antipasti ('before the pasta')
Primi (first course, comprising pasta)
Secondi (second course)
Dolci (desserts).
And the guidebooks would have you believe that a full Italian meal actually comprises all four of these courses, plus vegetables, which are not normally included in the Secondi, and salads, to 'cleanse the palate' (ha! Not if it's a gorgonzola salad) before dessert. However, after careful observation and experimentation, I have concluded that this is an elaborate hoax perpetuated on tourists. Its purpose is clear: (1) get the forruners to spend more money, and (2) keep them out of the restaurants where they're not wanted, by claiming 'we only serve full meals'.
Because it is physically impossible to actually eat all four courses, and I have never seen an Italian do it, either. Sure, the quantity of spaghetti on your plate may (or may not) be a bit less than you'd normally expect from a non-nouvelle restaurant portion, but it's probably as much as you'd eat at home, in a full meal, without starters or sweets. So, they're having you on. Don't fall for it. Pick your course - primi or secondi - and don't let them flummox you. After all, you want to leave room for tiramisu.

Now that you know how to plan your meal, it's time to consider what you'll actually order. Italian food, like the language, has strong regional inflections. When in Naples, eat pizza;***** ** when in Sicily, eat gelato.***** *** Florence is the place for Tuscan specialities, which frequently involve beans. (But don't let that put you off.) Venice is all about the seafood: in snack form, it might come as frittura mista (mixed fried things - you won't be able to identify all of it, but it'll taste pretty damn good); in primi, a classic Venetian speciality is spaghetti or risotto nero - in squid ink sauce. It's actually worth a try. Black, fishy tasting. And you'll go home able to brag about your squid ink dining experience, which sounds satisfyingly gross, without actually being so. (Unlike, say, mopani worms, which really are gross.)

Something you'll hear a lot is how crap Venetian restaurants are - because there are so many tourists, well, they just don't need to be any good to survive. Having read too many guidebooks, I was suffused with fear and trembling at the very thought of stepping into any establishment not given the Rough Guide (or similar) stamp of approval. This was, of course, entirely unnecessary; in fact we enjoyed our impulse choices more than the sought-out, recommended eateries. But I formed a new rule of thumb, which is, interestingly, the exact reverse of my London rule of thumb,***** **** viz: if it looks really attractive and stylish, give it a bash. In Venice, that is. In London, the more stylish, the less likely to be any good. The (possibly not wholly reliable) logic is that, while in London there is an obsession with Style that leads people to (a) make their venues really ugly and uncomfortable and (b) neglect the food, in Venice, the bad food seems to come in places that are geared to simply snaring hungry tourists in the most convenient locations. So if they've gone to the effort to make it look great, they probably care about actually having good food, also. (Okay. I should point out that the entire proposition is based on the assumption that you're not going to eat in the main tourist trap locales. You're not, are you? Because that would be just horrible.)

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* Wolves, Trojan runaways,** gods and art "borrowed" from the Greeks, conquests, roads, aqueducts, orgies, corruption, murders, lead in the water (those damn aqueducts), madness, decline and fall. It's all terribly exciting.***
** Actually, those two might be the other way around. I'm a bit vague.
*** You can tell my classical education is being put to good use.
**** Art and knowledge "borrowed" from the ancient Greeks and Romans, Medicis, the sudden and dramatic realisation that pictures can be about something other than religion, which opens up new and intriguing possibilities for depicting naked breasts. Enter the modern age.
***** It occurs to me that one might imagine I don't actually like Italy and its past very much. Au contraire, I love it. Like all the best places, it's completely insane.
***** * Insert 'dress to kill' joke here.
***** ** But not only pizza, and not only in Naples, obv.
***** *** As above, with rather less emphasis on the first part and rather more on the second.
***** **** People like to claim that London restaurants are the best in the world. This is a dirty stinking lie. In London, you generally have to pay an awful lot of money to eat well, and even then it's a crapshoot. It seems that in London, you can get at best two out of the three criteria: ambience, food and service. And frequently not even that. Even for quite a lot of Poondz. Anybody who disagrees with me is invited to spend a few nights eating out in randomly selected venues in Cape Town or Johannesburg, and then claim with a straight face that London restos are, in fact, not that bad.

SGI: Geography and climate

Italy, famously, is shaped like a boot. This is suspiciously handy, considering the fame of Italy's shoe and bootmaking industry. (A conspiracy of cartographers?)* It is also famously "Mediterranean" — which, it could be argued, is as much information as anyone reasonably needs re: Italian geography and climate.

But what the hell.

It's got mountains, it's got lakes, it's got flat bits. It's got an awful lot of coastline, and a bunch of islands, whose names conjure up strong associations all their own. (Capri. Sicily. Corsica. See what I mean?) Its neighbours range from France, Austria and Switzerland to Greece and Slovenia; arguably, it shares most of its heritage and personality with the only one of those with which it shares no land border. (It's possible there's an interesting point in there somewhere, but frankly, I doubt it.)

The only thing you really need to understand is that the further south you go, the more Italian it gets. Sunnier. Slower. Crazier. Think about the big cities. In the north? Milan: smart, stylish, obsessed with fashion — a concept that is all about change for change's sake, and pretty quickly, please. In the south? Naples. Which is famous for pizza. And... no, just pizza. And being Italian. No doubt the Swiss have been exerting themselves over the centuries to civilise the northern Italians as much as possible, so that at least the trains run (mostly) on time; otherwise, how would they ever get to the sea?

Venice and Florence, of course, are both in the north. But Venice has one further geographical point going for it: it's a port city, with a long and proud history as a centre of international trade. So in addition to Italian crazy, more than a little bit of Byzantine crazy has rubbed off. It's a marvellous place.

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* No, you don't get a cookie, but you do get my respect and appreciation.

SGI: Language

Italian is one of the most recognisable languages around. This is partly because so many words end in -i, -o or -a*, partly because we all absorb a few Italian phrases from films, music and restaurant menus over the years, but mostly because even if you're deaf and the speaker has his or her back to you, you can still see them gesturing extravagantly. Hands are as much a speech organ as the tongue or throat, to an Italian. Use generously.

Not to repeat myself**, but you know as much Italian as I do. However, may I present a few notes on usage?

Greetings
Formally, one approaches strangers (shop assistants and such) with "buon giorno" before noon and "buona sera" thereafter. "Buona notte" does for "good night and goodbye". "Ciao", the books will assure you, is only for good friends (and if you need a phrasebook to figure out how to address this person, that's not you).
Careful observation, however, reveals that "buon giorno" is in practice used right up until evening, when it is replaced with "ciao" or "sera". Never "buona sera". Maybe the Italians wish to reserve judgment on whether it's actually a good evening until they've seen how you hold your liquor.

Politeness
The most indispensable word in the language seems to be "prego". Not a Portuguese steak roll,*** but a whole arsenal of manners rolled into one. Excuse me?**** "Prego." You're welcome? "Prego." Step this way? "Prego." Right here, sir? "Prego."

Seeing how useful it is, I have been assiduously practising my delivery (it's not so much about the pronunciation as about a certain modest tilt to the head); but I fear if I were ever to use it for anything other than a response to "mille grazie", I might inadvertently cause some kind of cross-cultural Incident. Words with meanings as context-dependent as this, I suspect, should be used only by the thoroughly acclimatised.

Essentials
Usage aside, there are a few words that it is simply very handy to know. Memorise the following.

For directions:
"Dritto", "destra" and "sinistra" are straight ahead, right and left, respectively; but who are we kidding? Just follow the hand movements.

For shopping:
"Questo?" is "how much?" and "e caro" is "it's expensive". But again, who are we kidding? You won't be able to understand the answer anyway, until they either tell you in English or point to the price-tag. Why weren't you looking at the tag in the first place? Stoopid tourist.

For restaurants:
"Acqua frizzante e mezzo litre vino rosso, per favore" will cover your drinks requirements. "Acqua normale" is tap water. "Fritte" is fried, and you better believe it's deep fried and (except patate) covered in batter. "Il conto" is the bill, and it'll probably include "coperto", a small cover charge. Everything else on the menu you'll recognise, more or less. When in doubt just point to a random item and hope. Go on, it's fun! This is Italian food... how bad can it be?*****

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* Which is why the Petrarchan sonnet has a more demanding rhyme scheme than the Elizabethan sonnet: because it can. See, it's little snippets like this that make these Scroobious guides worth the price of admission.
** Much.
*** Actual Portuguese Portuguese probably wouldn't understand this, but Saffers will.
**** Although if you're trying to pass someone on the street, it's "permesso". Say it loudly. And listen out for others using it behind you. When they're on the move, they're on the move, these Italians.
***** More in a later chapter.

The Scroobious Guide to Italy (bits of)

Everybody knows Italy already — even if you've never been anywhere further than your neighbourhood pizzeria. You know about Italian food (garlicky). You know about Italian sunshine (hot), Italian fashion (sexy), Italian art (plentiful) and music (operatic). You know Italian history — at least the bits about Mussolini (dangerously nuts), and Nero (ditto). You even know a bit of the language: maybe enough to read music, enough to cheer the soprano in gender-correct terms, or enough to order from a pasta menu.

I don't know any more than you. But I just spent 10 days in Venice and Florence, and damned if I'm going to pass up this opportunity for another Scroobious Guide.

Venice and Florence, of course, are hardly Italy. In fact, the books tell me "Italy" was only formed in the 19th century; before that it was just a bunch of city-states and duchies and such. Venezia and Firenze are simply two of its cities, and the two least representative of the modern country, at that. Both are simultaneously crippled and kept alive by the weight of tourism. Both are Unesco World Heritage Sites — note, they don't contain heritage sites, they are heritage sites. It's like visiting Warwick Castle and thinking you know England.

But then, writing a proper guide to Italy would probably require conducting a proper tour, all the way up and down and over the islands, into the cities and out in the countryside; and while I can't say I have any objections to this notion, at all, and if there should suddenly be a terrible journalistic crisis that created a severe market shortage in travel writers, I would have no hesitation in nobly volunteering for the job — well, that crisis shows no sign of materialising* and my own budget, and schedule, don't really support this plan.**

So, the Scroobious Guide to Venice and Florence it is.

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* Dammit.
** See above.