IN DEFENCE OF ENGLAND

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IN DEFENCE OF ENGLAND. SPELLEDT WITH A C.

People have— Ok, let’s be honest — I had, the most difficulty parting with Italy on the basis of two things:

1. Food
2. Weather

The food is goddamn good, ok. Period. No need to go on about that. Pretty obvious about the weather as well.

The thing is, England is known for two negative things:

1. Food
2. Weather

So, situation is effed up.

But now I come to her defense — I mean, defenCe. Oh, Mother England. See video below and please defend her as well in your comments!!!!

And take the poll. Winners will be announced shortly.

Don’t Take Your Table for Granted

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When I was growing up, we had a table. When I moved out on my own to Albany, NY, there was a table.  Lived in Massachusetts for a bit – complete with table. Then the big move to The Big Apple and you KNOW I had a table. I mean it was New York City, for crying out loud! Relocation to Rome, Italy brought una tavola in my life. In fact, in each of the many places I lived in the Eternal City, there was a table.

And now I’ve moved to England. And there is no table. Fantastic apartment, recently renovated. Just no table. No kitchen table. No desk either. Not even a living room table.

I guess I need to realize that “this is not Buckingham Palace” as my roommate – the owner of the apartment laughingly reminded me when I asked about a table.  Tom is a completely lovely guy in every other way except for his stand on tables.

The thing about having a table is that it makes eating meals easier. It makes reading and studying and working more amenable.

Here is a photo of me working earlier today.

Tableless

As you can see, the counter is quite ample and I would be tempted to use it as a table.

But there are no chairs either.

More soon…

I guess it’s official. We’ve moved to England.

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They really ARE white.

They really ARE white.

Yep, that’s what we could see from the ferry. The white cliffs of Dover. Through the raindrops. Through our exhaustion. Through our misgivings. The white cliffs of Dover.

We decided to move out of Italy last January. Trying to run a small business in Italy is … well, comical. Between the taxes and bureaucracy, — surprise surprise! —  there’s a huge black market.

I remember when I first opened a regular old bank account 10 years ago in Rome when I still felt romantic about immigrating to the county of my forefathers. Eugenio, the very pleasant bank manager, gave me some documents to sign in two places. I did and then I started to put my pen away.  “Non abbiamo finito,” he said. We’re not finished. I’m sure I smiled. Then he gave me another set of documents, six signatures I think. Then he gave me some more documents. Then more. More. More. At some point I looked at him and asked if there was a hidden camera somewhere and if this was a joke. He chuckled and said, “Welcome to Italy.”

Welcome to Italy, my culo. My ass.

More to come.

Terianne