Far-Away Places

I often think of all those years when I was bullied as a child. I would sit in my bedroom, from 7pm to 9pm reading stories about far-away and imaginary places. My bed was always the same, and I always read in the same place. My bedroom didn’t change.

But I did.

I was on an island, or out at sea, or on a horse. I was being chased or I was doing the chasing. I was free, I was in chains, I was the best, I was the worst, I was the last, I was the first, I was rich, I was poor, I was here, I was there, I was far, I was near. I belonged to something bigger than me. I was everywhere and nowhere, I was everything and I was nothing. And it felt so good.

But at 9pm, every evening, I had to close the book, jump back into my skin again and become me. I didn’t want to be me. Every time I opened a book, it was like opening a door. And closing the book was like hearing that door shut behind me.

Little did I know at the time that one day reading would help me to keep that door wide open.

And now stories are taking me to the far-away places I used to read about and dream of when I was a boy, and making them real. Next month I am going to Japan, and the month after that to Brazil, to talk about stories. 
I will keep you posted :)

You say Tomato, I say Tomato

When I first started shopping for food in Italy in 1990, the problem was of a linguistic nature. I remember one of my first ever shopping expeditions. I went to a supermarket called, ‘The Centre of Delights’. ‘Well, that can’t be bad,’ I thought. ‘It’s in the centre, and everything in there will be delightful and delicious’, I thought optimistically.

Indeed, everything did look quite delicious. But I didn’t know my way around an Italian supermarket at that time. A lot of the purchases seemed to involve conversations with one member of staff or another. I was used to just wheeling my trolley around, and throwing things in there. No, this seemed more complicated. This involved conversation. This involved negotiation.

I didn’t have much Italian at my disposal, but I found some eggs, and I knew the Italian word for mushrooms. I began to think of omelettes. Armed with this knowledge, I made my way confidently to the fruit and veg section. I looked at the mushrooms and pointed,

‘Funghi per favore.’

‘How many?’ asked the lady.

I hadn’t thought about that. ‘How do I explain how many mushrooms I want?’ I asked myself. And then I had a brainwave. I remembered the word, ‘kilo’. ‘There are kilos in Britain, although nobody uses them. And it’s the same word.’

‘Un kilo per favore,’ I said confidently

But soon I was crestfallen. I didn’t realise that a kilo of mushrooms, was a lot of mushrooms.

And I didn’t know how to stop the woman, who began shovelling an enormous quantity of mushrooms into a bag.

I did know the word, ‘Basta!’ -  ‘Enough.’

But it seemed too rude to me.

Enough!

No that was too rude.

So I smiled shyly as she shovelled a quantity of mushrooms that could feed a whole town, into a gigantic plastic bag.

By now I have learnt how to say ‘stop’ politely. And I have learnt all the words for quantities. One etto, two etti etc. I have also learnt other subtleties like, ‘un etto e mezza’, ‘un etto scarsa’ ‘un etto abbondanti’. All of these nuances I have mastered.

So you would think that shopping for food has become easier for me.

Oh, I wish that were the case.

The problem is that my difficulty with expressing quantity has been replaced by one of understanding quality.

The other day for example, I strode into the greengrocers to get some tomatoes. Now when I was younger, and living in Britain I am sure that things were much simpler. A tomato was a tomato. I could ask for four tomatoes and the shop assistant would move to a crate full of regular, normal tomatoes, and put them in a bag.

But in Italy it is much more complicated.

As I went into the greengrocers I cast my eyes around the shop to find the tomatoes. There were so many different kinds. Big ones, small ones, medium ones. big and green ones, small and red ones, medium reddish-green ones, fat ones, pointy small ones. Tomatoes that are good for sauce, tomatoes that are good for salads, tomatoes that are ripe, tomatoes that will last longer. I could go on and on.

And on.

The tomato is no longer a tomato.

I took out my phone and tapped a message to my wife.

‘What kind of tomatoes shall I get?’

The response was rapid. ‘Not too ripe, but not too green, and make sure they are cheap. Get something local, but only if they are not too expensive.’

When did it get so complicated? When did a tomato stop being a tomato?

My mind was whirring. Should I take a risk and buy one type of tomato, or one of each kind, so that at least one of them would be right?

And so, once again, after many, many years of living in Italy, I came out of the shop with an enormous bag.

This time, full of tomatoes.

That is the beauty of Italy I suppose when it comes to food. There is so much choice. But it is too much for someone like me with a minimum level of tomato knowledge.

And that is why you can say tomato, and I can say tomato, but we might be talking an entirely different language.