Saturday and the first part of Sunday, or Classical Larks as Prelude to a Disaster

A brief step-by-step account of our romantic weekend up until The Event:

Saturday:

• Leisurely stroll up the road to Santa Maria Maggiore to see the church. Pretend to admire some mosaics on the grounds that they are well old, then am genuinely freaked out by a large creepy statue of some pope (Pius IX, pope-fans!) kneeling before a chest containing an alleged nose hair of St. John the Baptist or something.
• Shouted at by bored looking employee for trying to enter the museum without a ticket despite there being no indication that such a thing is required. Go back, procure ticket, enter museum only to realise that it is full of boring religious shit. Feel cheated, whinge a bit.
• Find area where archaeological excavation is taking place (i.e. that which we wanted to see in the first place- remains of a Roman villa with frescoes depicting a rural calendar*). Cheer up. See some actually impressive traces of early wall paintings and mosaics.
• Pass dick-head giving tour to elderly English people. Dick-head pursues, informs us that we require a ticket. Show him ticket. Wrong one, apparently. Swear at him gratuitously loudly. Stomp off and look around anyway. Run away when we hear him coming back. Fuck you, tour-guide!
• Fortifying glass of wine.
• Baths of Diocletian. Beloved drags me round three floors worth of Republican inscriptions. Pretend to be interested and not hungry. Lose plot on third floor and ask if there is anything else apart from fucking inscriptions. There is, mercifully.
• Fag in courtyard full of headless statues and manky cats, inspect remains of baths. Massive, imposing, part of the roof actually intact. Tantalising glimpse of the rest of it largely obscured by bafflingly boarded-up windows. Admire gorgeous columbarium with impressively visible original paintings. Really quite hungry now.
• Stroll to Piazza Barberini, fortifying bottle of wine at shamingly touristy restaurant. Take instant disliking to waiter for speaking to us in English. Scallopina al limone=cold and disappointingly small. Beloved inexplicably delighted with his tortellini al brodo, which is essentially bits of pasta in some Bovril. Sulk a bit, wine helps.
• Cheesy tourist kiss at Spanish Steps. Then nearly break an ankle walking down the fucking things.
• Absolutely convinced that have found way unassisted to Piazza Navona, feel quite smug. Am proven wrong, end up by Tibur. Swear a bit. Beloved salvages excursion by gently pointing me in the right direction. Feel smug again as I was nearly right.
• Palazzo Altemps. Perk up as I love this museum and there are no sodding inscriptions. Perv on sexy statues (especially Antinous, yum) and shamelessly show off in front of the Ludovisi Gaul by parroting what I learned for the art paper I took for my finals. Beloved pretends not to know that this is the case, is good enough to look impressed.
• Fortifying glass of wine, maddeningly cut short by arrival of American cretins shovelling sandwiches down their gullets and relating undoubtedly fictionalised accounts of their sex-lives. Sad.
• Stroll over the river to Lepanto where my TEFL school was (Beloved overwhelmed by nostalgia). Return to fabled cafe of 1 euro glass of wine fame. Wine now 1.20! Barman recognises us despite six-month absence. We feel special rather than seeing this as incontravertible evidence that we just drank far too much.
• Dinner at nearby restaurant on the grounds that we ate there last year and so should continue with trip down memory lane. Realise within ten minutes that it is not, in fact, the same restaurant, just one which looks remarkably similar. Keep this information to self until Beloved finally clocks. Both feel a bit silly, but share several plates of delicious fried things, so not too bothered all things considered.
• Waddle to Trastevere for fortifying litre of wine. Attempt to take romantic photo of the two of us by the river, look like have seven chins, sulk. He takes a slightly better one later, cheer up. Quite pissed by this point, so pitch concept of he and I as roving presenters of a maverick travel programme:

Me: "Cause, like... You can do the boring bits, right? Ooops... What was I saying? Oh yeah, you can do the boring bits... And I can do, like... the fun bits... You'll be, like, the Simon Schama to my Davina McCall [for the record, I detest Davina McCall so quite why this seemed like such a good idea completely escapes me in retrospect]! Who wouldn't like that?!?"

Beloved: (gallantly but clearly unwillingly) "Yeah! Great! Let's... um... look into that!"

• Stagger home, get lost. Sulk. Arrive home. Pour glass of carton wine, only to ignore it and fall asleep fully clothed. Bliss.

*Thank you, Blue Guide!

Sunday:

• Awake early to house with no food in it. Without bothering to shower, drag dishevelled selves out to buy bread. Beautiful morning, flower stalls dotted around the piazza, gorgeous crusty loaf of bread. Feel quite European and sophisticated despite looking like tramps.
• Return to espresso, bread and jam (the latter courtesy of GPN- she left yesterday, hurrah! Take particular pleasure in consuming stolen jam as once nearly came to blows with the tight cow because I had the audacity to nick one of her teabags).
• Now suitably energetic to venture out. Plan= Palazzo Massimo, Campo del Verano, early dinner then Beloved to fly home, refreshed and reinvigorated. What could possibly go wrong?
• 11.45- Settle into bar near Santa Maria Maggiore for quick fortifying glass of wine before taking on the museum.
• 11.50- Beloved starts to feel unwell. We had a lot to drink yesterday, I don't think too much of it. We sit in silence for a while. The sun is beating down, hordes of people are scuttling past, he begins to feel claustrophobic. He holds his head in his hands. He drops it between his knees. He collapses.
• Almost bang on midday- we hear the striking of the church clock. He jerks back. He loses all the colour in his face. He stops breathing. His eyes roll back into his head. He convulses wildly for thirty seconds. His entire body slumps, spent. I hear myself shouting for help, any help, although I have no idea what any of these people who are staring at us can possibly do. Fuck. What the fuck is happening?

Friday, or How the Snow makes Italian People go Mental

WELL. What a weekend. I was beginning to think that all I'd be able to share with you this week was my searing analysis of the pros and cons of Italian television (which I still fully intend to write, by the way, lest you were beginning to get anxious- my in-depth comparison of Italian Deal or No Deal versus its English counterpart promises to be a real highlight), but fortunately life became rather more eventful on Friday. For Friday was the Advent of the Beloved.

Rather a sweet story, actually- he had been telling everyone we know about his original plan to rock up and surprise me, but due to his adorable inability to keep a secret (and his typically academic administrative skills, i.e. crap) pretty much the first phone call I received when I got off the plane two weeks ago was him excitedly squealing, "Guess what I've done! Guess what I've done!" I don't know how tricky it was for him to keep up the charade, but on my end it was essentially a question of lying to my mother daily, pretending to be oblivious when she said cryptic things like, "I'm SURE this weekend will be great!" (you could practically hear her doing a conspiratorial wink to no-one in particular) until eventually the night before he was to arrive she finally gave up and said, "You know, don't you?" (Me: "GOD yes. Please make sure he remembers to bring my pyjamas.") In any case, it goes without saying that I was pretty excited. But, as we know all too well, Fate hates me.

I wonder if you happened to know offhand that this Friday morning Rome had its heaviest snowfall for thirty years? The little man in his military uniform on the Rai-Uno weather that morning conveniently failed to mention the possibility of this, and so I was left to find out the hard way. The sweet little flakes which began at 7.45 ("How LOVELY! SNOW in ROME for VALENTINES DAY! DELIGHTFUL!") had worked themselves into a full blizzard by the time I left the house thirty minutes later. My lack of umbrella resulted in an unsightly stream of mascara running down my face and an even more strained walk to Termini than usual with GPN.

Granny had departed by this point (leaving me surprisingly bereft at the loss of the endlessly cheerful spectre who was forever frightening the life out of me by her silent appearances at peculiar times), and GPN had morning classes that week, meaning that despite the fact that neither of us would actively choose to accompany one another anywhere at all, necessity and timing compelled us to trudge in stony silence to the metro each day. I say trudge- she would bound along like a perky but racist Yorkshire terrier, a frankly dreadful combination with my perilous slipping about on rain-slicked cobbles and tobacco-induced hyperventilation.

Conversational highlights included:

Me: "My hair straighteners broke this morning."
GPN: "Oh. But your hair doesn't look any different."
Me: "Yeah, but... You don't feel quite right, do you?"
GPN: "Yes. Hair is important."

and

GPN: "I took the trash out this morning. We should probably clean the kitchen."
Me: "Yes. Yes, let's do that." (I didn't clean the kitchen. I have no intention of cleaning the kitchen.)

Not so stimulating, in short, but tolerable. That morning, however, of course the smug cow had an umbrella, and having made a frankly half-hearted and unconvincing offer to share (Me [shivering and possibly hypothermic]: "No... It's fine... Don't worry... Go on without me, I may be some time...", GPN [visibly relieved, making her evident warmth and dryness all the more irritating]: "OK then! It is quite a small umbrella!"), she merrily skipped onwards, occasionally breaking the silence with such sharp observations as, "You are quite wet, aren't you!" as I pondered what would be the swiftest and most effective way to kill her (impaling her on her sodding umbrella would have been ideal, obviously, but it wasn't pointy enough).

I arrived to class five minutes late (implausibly, today was the one day upon which everyone else had decided to turn up on time, giving me a full and appreciative audience for my grand entrance), resembling nothing so much as a seriously disgruntled snowman, which delighted my Smart-Arsed Teacher.

S-AT: "Aaaaaah! BiancaNeve! Benvenuta!"
Me: "Fuck off."

Such a dripping wet spectacle was I that the Well Meaning but Overattentive Japanese Lady who sits next to me unexpectedly whipped a tea-towel out of her handbag (who the fuck carries tea-towels around?) and began dabbing frantically but ineffectively at my person.

WMbOJL: "Stai bene?"
Me: "I would be if you would be so kind as to get that tea-towel out of my face."

Such was the general state of excitement at the relentless snow that S-AT had essentially lost the entire class before we even started, and so his valiant attempts to drum up any interest in the Past Remote tense were inevitably met with fifteen people, as one, gazing dreamily out of the window and thinking in unison, "SNOW! Lovely SNOW!" (except me, obviously, I was still plotting the grisly murder of GPN and hoping that the Beloved hadn't met his untimely demise being run over by a careless scooter owner who had slipped on some ice). Realising that he was fighting a losing battle, S-AT did what any sensible (or just lazy) educator would do- he flung open the windows and let his students frolic about taking pictures for a full twenty minutes.

I made a half-arsed attempt to appear enthusiastic, I really did, but as I was freezing my tits off and frankly underwhelmed I contented myself with huddling cross-armed in my chair muttering, "It's only a bit of bloody snow", while the septugenarian Brazilians skipped about giggling like schoolgirls. I think one of them actually made the fatal error of taking a photograph of me in her giddy state (poor thing didn't know any better), and I truly hope that the hideous scowl she inevitably captured is an image she will treasure always.

Once order (of sorts) had been restored, things only got stranger. Capitalising, no doubt, on the festive mood created by the inclement weather, S-AT decided that the most fitting way to illustrate the proper usage of the Past Remote tense would be to play an Italian pop song from the sixties which I can only describe as Fuck-Off Mental. Sung with religious fervour by a man who sounds like he may well burst into tears at any minute, it is an unholy cross between a medieval folk song and some bollocks you would have heard at Woodstock belted out by a stoned and obliviously tone-deaf hippy which seems to last for around forty minutes.

The gist of the lyrics, or so I understand it, is that this blokes father went to a market and ill-advisedly bought a series of animals who proceeded to fight amongst themselves at length, and then the Angel of Death gets involved for no apparent reason, and presumably everybody wishes that they'd just stayed at home. Very intense and highly repetitive- in short, the sort of song which would make you feel like you were going out of your mind at the best of times. I attempted to attach the link to give you some idea, but being technologically illiterate I failed miserably, and so I urge you to search YouTube for "Alla fiera dell'est" by Angelo Branduardi, and I defy you to disagree.

As if listening to this testament to the fact that there is no God were not enough, S-AT had devised an ingenious game whereby upon the second listening (SECOND! PURGATORY!) we all swapped seats whenever this nutter sang certain words, forcing us to trot across the classroom every ten seconds, revelling in this enforced jollity. The Brazilian ladies enjoyed it. Warmed me up a bit, I suppose. Didn't help my increasing loss of sanity one little bit. Breaktime, finally, at which point I wisely thought, "Bugger this for a bunch of bananas", and slid precariously to Termini to retrieve my long suffering Beloved from his harrowing hour-long bus ride (not as harrowing as my morning, clearly). Cue emotional reunion, tears and cuddles, and one overpriced bottle of wine on the Via Cavour later I was feeling almost normal. Naturally, all the fucking snow had melted by this point (WHY?? Of all the three-hour periods that Mother Nature could have chosen for the downpour, WHY THAT ONE??), but by and large I was now too cheerful to be resentful, and mostly convinced that it was all uphill from this point. Wrong again.

Wednesday and Thursday, or On Sulking, and Perv Watch

Two quite dull days- Wednesday was the Beloved's birthday, sending me into paroxyms of guilt (although it's hardly as if I'm having a whale of a time here) and regret that I couldn't spoil him rotten. And it rained. And for the hundredth time, even though I was totally convinced that I had finally sussed the way into town, once again the loathed sight of monstrous Termini reared its ugly head, and so I went into deault Sulk mode and, unfit for human company, retired to a rather depressing cocktail of Gotto d'Oro, Rai Uno and Russian micronovels.

Thursday I managed to be slightly less useless, not getting lost once (well, avoiding fucking Termini, which has actually overtaken all the other life goals in the importance stakes), locating Feltrinelli, and successfully navigating my way around an internet café. Alas, tragically, this was essentially the sum total of my achievements for two entire days. I could hold forth on the fascinating vicissitudes of my language classes, but I fear I would lose you pretty swiftly (although if you have any useful information about Italian conditionals I would be most grateful).

So far, so dull. I have a few adventures in mind (and a very real need to make some friends A.S.A.P, despite every natural impulse in my body), but for the moment I have devised another diversion for myself- a little project I like to call:

"Perv Watch: The Discerning Womans Guide to Casual Lechery"

You see, I have realised that there is so much more to the oft-encountered leering, and having wandered the streets of Rome unescorted for almost a week now, I have gained valuable insight into this subtle art, and realised that it falls into distinct categories:

1. The Frankly Unimaginative: Hollering Bella/ Bellissima, occasionally accompanied by a whistle vel sim, at passing target. This one is pretty universal, employed by most groups. One imagines that these men must get pretty bored of saying the same thing all day (especially those who seem to have nothing better to do than position themselves on street corners and repeat themselves ad nauseam to any female who passes). One also wonders, in much the same way as I was always curious about White-Van-Men in England, if this has ever actually worked. Not once have I been moved by such advances to go weak at the knees and throw myself at whichever lazy cretin couldn't be bothered to come up with something more imaginitive, and it seems unlikely that anyone ever has. I could be wrong. Answers on a postcard, please.
Offensive Rating: 3/10. Too idle to think of anything better, probably too idle to commit to being seriously creepy.

2. The Irksome: Following target down the street asking questions. Another fundamentally flawed tactic, to my mind- nothing is more off-putting thanhaving your own personal stalker, however briefly (unless you enjoy that sort of thing, in which case I suggest you seek help immediately). Generally favoured by men in either their late teens or early to mid twenties (while they can still move fast enough- the old ones can't keep up). The questions are in themselves fairly innocuous, but seriously irritating if you need to get somewhere. Usually batted away effectively with a simple but forceful "scusi", but it really depends what time of night it is and how nervous a constitution you possess.
Offensive Rating: 5/10. They mean no harm, but I am not one to tolerate unsolicited conversation if I can possibly help it.

3. The Unsettling: When already stood loitering in the street, falling silent and rotating very slowly so that both body and eyeline follow the passing target until far out of sight. Groups of men over the age of sixty tend to enjoy this one (it doesn't require movement, you see, and as we already discussed by this age they are no longer capable of vigorous physical pursuit), although you do get the odd Lone Eyeballer, whose motives are never quite clear but as they were silent already you don't tend to feel so uncomfortable.
Offensive Rating: 8/10. You are old enough to be my grandfather, and you and your decrepit mates really should be doing something more wholesome. (4/10 for the Lone Eyeballer- thank you for not following me!)

4. The Confusing: Unleashing a stream of unintelligible verbiage as target walks past minding her own business. Middle aged creepy types, mostly. The reason why this is so vexing is that I am never quite sure if they are perving or just saying something unpleasant. Once I gain fluency in Italian (if ever), my gift to the world will be a phrase book- "Understanding the Things that Vile Old Men Shout at You", including an exhaustive section covering how best to respond (as witheringly as possible) in any given situation.
Offensive Rating: 9/10. Not only do I feel violated, I am furious that you have not spoken clearly enough for me to comprehend, reminding me of my inferior language skills. The situation being as it is, I am in no position to ask you to repeat it più lentamente. Shame on you.

5. The Disgusting Noise: No explanation is required. Unlike the other techniques, this actually prompts me to involuntarily assume an equally disgusting facial expression due to uncontrollable revulsion.
Offensive Rating: 10/10. Unforgivable.

And finally...

6. The Surprisingly Pleasing: This is based on one isolated incident yesterday as I was walking home. Older dude, unassuming, obviously on his way home from work. Just one word- "Complimenti," and then he left it at that and went on his way- no grunting, no incomprehensible mumbling, no rotating. Now, I hope that I have made it perfectly clear that I in no way condone accosting females under any circumstances, but if they must, I quite like the idea of being awarded compliments simply for carrying my shopping home. Is there a career in this? Probably not, worth some research anyway.
Offensive Rating: 1/10. Not flattering as such, but did not give me the impulse to punch the perpetrator in the face.

So there we have it, and I shall update as I think of more (or encounter more, obviously). Thank god for variety.

Tuesday, or Today I have been mostly getting lost in San Lorenzo

The trouble with having morning classes (and no mates) is that the afternoons and evenings do tend to drag somewhat. It seems like Fates way of showing its fundamental contempt for me- it KNOWS that given the choice I would rise no sooner than noon, and so it throws this at me- "You shall rise daily at seven and study until your preferred time of waking-and then you shall have NOTHING TO DO FOR THE REST OF THE DAY! What do you make of THAT, Slugabed?" Well, fuck you Fate, but I suppose it must be for the bast (although I have yet to work out quite why).

So, full of resolve to be a diligent student, I decided to head for Feltrinelli to find dictionaries, vocabulary guides, exercise books etc. etc. so that I could fill the long, sad hours knocking about on my own reiterating what I had learned that morning and self-teaching the stuff I hadn't. Well, OBVIOUSLY, I got lost (I do apologise for this annoying trope- am sincerely hoping that this phase passes as my feet are starting to hurt from forever going in totally the wrong direction then having to guess my way back) and never made it. But I am actually incredibly glad that I didn't, because I stumbled across something rather wonderful.

I had been heading towards Termini and, as happens all too often, just missed by a street or two and ended up in San Lorenzo on a road I had stayed on during a trip last spring. Well, I knew that I was going in the wrong direction but I could see something monument-y at the end of the Via Tiburtina and naturally couldn't resist. There was a flower market just outside the entrance for reasons I didn't grasp straightaway, but as soon as I walked through the huge arch inscribed with Latin lamentations it became clear- a cemetary. Initially it just looked like a single courtyard with a dramatic statue in the centre- I had intended to stroll around the square and then take my leave (in truth, I was after a slice of pizza and hadn't intended to stay long), but one turn exposed a set of stairs with a striking Fascistic looking church at its peak.

Well, you can't not look, can you?

Climbing these imposing stairs you realise more fully the contrasts and contradictions of the surrounding tombs; the huge and the humble, Classical and Baroque and modern minimalist all vying for attention in this sprawling necropolis. Once I reached the church it was clear that there was far, far more to it that I had expected- framed by tall, startlingly green trees you could see these memorials, thousands of them in so many dramatically different styles, spreading at least a further square mile.

I can say without exaggeration that it is one of the most beautiful places that I have ever seen in my life-you know those places where curiosity and sheer awe compels you to keep walking much further than you had intended (and given that I was wearing my customary ridiculous shoes, this was quite an undertaking)? I stayed just wandering for two hours, marvelling at the sheer enormity and ambition. But it was so much more than that.

Don't get me wrong- the spectacle and grandeur of the larger edifices were breathtaking- specific mention must go to the Monument for the Fallen which you reach if you persevere right to the other side of the cemetery from the Piazza del Verano- a fairly standard (if exaggerated in typical Italian fashion) war memorial made oddly affecting by the surrounding statues representing each branch of the armed forces- personifications in bronze. What gives it an added peculiarity is the fact that you can see through the two arches which flank the list of the dead onto a heaving motorway, and then further to the distant hills. The juxtaposition- calm/frantic/calm- seems fitting, and yet also disorientating.

To say nothing of the vast and varied mausolea dedicated to certain families or individuals, either at ground level or scaling a mountain of marbles, lined up in less than perfect rows, the impact they must have had individually now simply part of a collaborative effort, a united front to impress upon the viewer the magnitude of death and loss. But though this cemetery owes much of its visual impact to these works of art (tasteful or not), the reason why it is so charming, as is so often the case, is in the detail.

The pictures of the deceased which decorated the graves, for examples, either glamorous in their prime or stately in their late years. I lingered particularly on one photograph in what of the many chambers where cremated ashes are held, an exuberant image of a couple holding each other and smiling in the way that only those in love can muster for a camera without looking false. A loving inscription from their daughter was testament, as if one were needed, to lives well lived. There is something about these photographs- looking around your standard English graveyard the overwhelming sense is that of ones own mortality, the inevitability of death, and the anonynimity of those who have already gone. Seeing these pictures, regardless of at what time of life they were taken, allows even strangers to gain (or even to guess at) insight into the lives that their subjects lived, rather than fixating on a slab which refuses to betray anything personal about the individual it covers. The words, "Beloved Wife and Mother" upon a tombstone become a bit redundant when instead you can see an image of her in context, in the act of being beloved.

Another striking feature compounding this unexpected vibrancy- the smell of fresh flowers pervades the entire complex. As a result of this, the colours which abound make for an aura of unexpected well-being, if not joy exactly, but it is this astonishing fragrance, this reminder of life and beauty, touching that most subtle of senses, which is more provocative and more capable of stirring an emotion, a memory, than any statue or epitaph. But for me, there was one other thing. Without wishing to be mawkish (heaven forbid), amid all the show and splendour, the single thing that touched me most was one elderly lady.

You would recognise the type, an Italian donna of a certain age, immaculately dressed- painstakingly coiffed hair, a little too much make-up to look natural, fur coat right the way down to the heels. This picture of elegance, incongruously, was on her knees before her husband's grave, wielding a large plastic gardening brush, clearing the soil from the flowers she had planted and replacing them with new ones. For me, this encapsulated the whole experience. Such dignity, such attention to detail, such pride, all basically a mask for raw emotion and humility in the face of grief. Her plastic brush said "Beloved Husband" better than anything I can think of.

Monday, or Today I have mostly been getting lost near Flaminio

Not a great deal to report from my first day. Got lost on the way, obviously, but made it in time to take a test to see to what level my neglected Italian had dwindled. While waiting for my oral assessment, a preternaturally confident Brazilian bloke leant over to look at my paper.



PCBB: "British, eh? Cambridge? Does your father work for the University?"

Me: "Fuck off."



Not really, obviously, although the temptation was almost overwhelming. He turned out to be not that much of a tosser, actually, once that unpleasantness was dealt with (see how tolerant I am becoming as a result of Life Goal Number Three?). We were assigned eventually, and scuttled off dutifully. Class was fine, but for the fact that it is largely made up of talkative, aged Brazilian ladies. I am entertaining the idea of enlisting them as my personal entourage- given their impressive physical presence and obvious delight in making people feel uncomfortable, never again would I have to fear the casual lechery (or, I suspect, the traffic). No-one can get a word in edgeways, obviously, but for the moment this actually suits me fine.



Enlisted a kindly, willing soul afterwards upon whom to foist myself ("Be my friend! Oh won't you please be my friend!), who was good enough to tolerate my presence for an hour or two. I then engaged in what has become my new hobby-getting lost. It took me two and a half hours to find a pub which should have taken only thirty minutes (N.B-the Villa Borghese is nowhere near so fucking tranquil when you pass the Museo delle Belle Arte for the third time). And yes, I did say pub. What you may call failure to adjust, I call sensibly seeking somewhere comforting on my first day back. I used to come here when I was last in Rome because it was cheaper to buy a glass of wine and read their copy of the Guardian rather than purchase my own (and if that's not smart budgeting, I don't know what is). So, eventually, this haven is where I ended up, and I stayed for the evening. And to be honest I don't regret it- much as it is far from my intentions to join the ex-pat community, at that time it was exactly what I needed. Integration begins tomorrow (probably).

Sunday Part Four-So we're not going to a piazza, then?

Once Mr. Overall had finally WD40'd the crap out of my door and allowed me into the promised land (perfectly fine, if you're interested, but freezing cold), natually my first impulse was to smoke a much needed cigarette and to call the Beloved with details of the insanity to which I had unwittingly exposed myself, and so I did (Him: "She brought her GRANDMOTHER? And WHAT about Muslims?" Me: "By God, I wish I were joking"). This must have taken about fifteen minutes, after which I emerged in search of my anti-freeze. GPN was in her jimjams, and Granny in rather a splendid voluminous leopard-print bathrobe.

Me: "Oh...I was going to offer you a glass of wine, but seeing as you've already brushed your teeth..."
GPN: "Oooh, wine!"

To my horror, they accepted. And so, in a kitchen the size of a postage stamp, we sat in silence, but for Granny shuddering dramatically occasionally as she swigged (in my defence, I believe I have made it PERFECTLY clear that I did not expect to be sharing). By way of breaking the ice, knowing that they were here for the sightseeing, I decided to impart some thoughts about what they should head for.

Me: "...But for CHRIST'S sake DO NOT go to the Vatican Museums. They are vile. Full of bloody tourists with their bloody cameras, you can't get bloody anywhere! Now tell me, what are you most interested in visiting?"
GPN: "...Well, we really want to go to the Vatican."

Fuck. You're Catholics. I said so many offensive things in that sentence that the situation is now essentially unrectifiable. And so, of course, I panicked again.

Me: "Hehehe...Yeah. Well I just meant the, er, museums, obviously...The Basilica is, y'know, er...Lovely."

By this time Granny was attempting to chip an imagined stain from a pan, long since having tired of smiling, I imagine. I very much hope that this exchange was not repeated to her.

GPN: "Well, we're off to bed now."
Me: "Gosh, at 8.30? How... Sensible."

And so, off they went. And once they had closed the door to their shared room (they sleep in the same bed too, incidentally, which doesn't actually seem so stupid after one night spent in my Arctic pit), I heard a burst of uprorious laughter. Christ. What if they think I'm the weirdo?

Sunday Part Three-New Friends?

Perhaps this may have been tolerable had I the opportunity to sit and fume on my own, open my carefully protected bottle of anti-freeze and swallow several glasses at a time until the situation seemed as funny as it does in retrospect. No such luck. I was to meet my exotic new flatmates. When the segreteria had informed me that I would be sharing with other students, I had all sorts of beautiful dreams- bohemian types, perhaps, artistic, fascinating people from far flung places who enjoyed very old books and alcoholism as much as I do. One of them would probably have a guitar, to which we would sing giddily through the night, smoking joints in piazzas and falling into fountains and shit. The reality could not be more different.

Warning bells should have been ringing when I saw an elderly woman with heavily dyed hair pottering about making tea.

"His wife. Must be his wife. They'll bugger off as soon as he's found the fucking key."

Then a very blonde, very bland looking type smiling a little too broadly for my liking.

"His...daughter?"

After the thirty-fifth key had been tried, I was ushered in to join my new friends.

"I am [insert generic Polish name here], and this is my grandmother."

GPN is studying as my school for all of two weeks, and did not wish to embark upon an undertaking of this magnitude alone. Wow. Is that quite sweet, or just weird? Answers came thick and fast (not from Granny though-Granny doesn't speak English, but does smile relentlessly to make up for it, which becomes unsettling pretty quickly). An excerpt from our first exchange, by way of illustration:

GPN: "I went to London once. It was really weird."
Me: "Oh really? How so?"
GPN: "So many Muslims! I didn't think they existed!"

Gosh. How to respond? Of course, being English, I panicked.

Me: "Hehehe...Yeah."

Too tired (and, frankly, baffled) to enter into any meaningful dialogue upon racial tolerance, I decided to leave it at that. Needless to say however, I sensed from this brief interaction that we probably wouldn't be kindred spirits, and that, probably, neither of them had a guitar.