Looking for a lost African lady

For those of you who haven't read the previous Italy post... I strongly advise you do! It's alright, this one will still be here afterwards.

For those of you who did read the previous post; welcome back! I'm sure you're all wondering what happened to Mother's sausage-feet after disembarking from the plane. Well, I imagine by now that you all regard me as the caretaker of Mother - an accurate assumption indeed. Upon arriving at the baggage claim, I suggest that Mother opens her suitcase and changes out of Ke$ha's shoes and into some appropriate, tourist shoes. Anything would be better, really.

"Okay darling. I don't remember what I packed though...." Mother looks a little sheepish.

"Right. Well, let's have a look" - I say, as Mother releases the tight string encasing the swollen cankles - "Flip flops might be a wise choice. Give your feet a bit of freedom. Where are they?" 

I am raiding her suitcase (sweeping aside the multiple kaftans and Hawaiian-print sarongs).

Right.  I have practically emptied her suitcase on the floor now. Only two shoes are among the pile of colourful clothing.

"What are these, Mother?" I say, holding up a seemingly brand new pair of Barbie-pink, suede heels with about 80 large pearls encrusted all over the top. Fantastic.

Mother pulls out her justifications; "Well, what on earth did you think I was going to walk around in? I mean, we are in two of the most romantic cities, darling! I highly doubt a handsome sailor will approach me if I'm in sloppy flip-flops, will he?!"

We will have to go shopping.

Upon arrival at our hotel in Venice, Mother begins her ritual. She is completely incapable of giving up DIY and therefore the hotel room suffers a bit of 'feng shui'. The window has been tied up, strategically, with a plastic bag - so as to allow the correct amount of fresh air and city noise in. Mother has also installed a fire alarm within approximately 4 minutes of arriving.  Interestingly, Mother also 'fixed' the kettle (by wedging a piece of paper in the lid to keep it down), however Mother had less than zero interest in tea or coffee...

"Wine, darling!! Let's go and find somewhere to have some wine!"

"Um - what about.... food?" I am concerned that the concept of 'dinner' has flown out of the (strategically-sized-gap) window.

After a good TripAdvisor hunt for a great pasta place, Mother and I topple into a typical Italian bistro and are shown  to our seat. Only to be re-seated to a 'better' table upon Mother's firm request, of course. Wine is instantly ordered and arrives within seconds, to Mother's delight! Down it goes! ..... Oh. Oh, dear. No it doesn't, actually. In fact, it nearly comes back up in a very dramatic fashion.

"OH!!!! Oh, no! No no no no no no no ..... darling, it's .... it's cold!" Mother looks at her glass of wine as if it were poison. In fact, she can barely hold it. She puts it down and clasps her hands together to reheat them.

"Is it? It looks pretty normal to me..."

Mother ignores me and calls over the (lovely) waiter, who immediately asks what's wrong.

"In England, darling, we don't drink cold wine. Sweetie. Darling." Mother tries to be some form of 'nice' but it proves difficult. You know, due to the shock of the 'cold wine'.

"Oh really? Ah - ha! Here we have it in Italy this temperature when it is the summer"

"Mmmm." Mother, again, nods sympathetically. "Yes. Well, I'm English actually..."

Duh.

Mother continues; "Is it possible, sweetie, to find a warm wine? Or... warmer? Please, darling? What's your name?"

Oh here we go. Mother establishes a very intense relationship with every waiter in every restaurant/cafe/take away etc. This is no exception. In fact, as we are in Italy, the effort Mother puts into relationship-building is far stronger.

Speaking of relationships and non-existent boundaries, I must also tell you about our departure from Italy. Don't worry - I have vlogged every day of the Italian trip on my YouTube channel, so be sure to keep your eyes on that.

Regardless of the successful shoe-buying in Italy, Mother still opted for her Ke$ha-cages as footwear for the flight home. I am not sure why she doesn't remember the absolute fiasco on the outbound flight revolving around these shoes but there we go.  Another downfall of these ridiculous shoes is that the tassel that ties up does not do a very good job of remaining tied (as you may recall from the previous blog post) and therefore, during the short security check, they untied themselves. I say 'short' security check... I mean short for me. It is a lengthy process for Mother, who refuses to travel with minimal jewellery. Instead, she prefers to be scanned by an airport security guard as the alarm goes off. The people at security ask her to remove her bangles but Mother insists they are 'stuck on forever'. So personal scanning is inevitable. Mother is released, eventually, and slides over to me, signalling to her untied tassels grazing the floor.

"I need to re-tie these, hold on, darling" Mother spins around in order to locate a seat to perch on.

I too look but - as this is security at a rather small airport - there is no seating available.

"There'll be some through here, in Duty Free, come on" I say, starting to move on.

"No, wait, darling. I'll just sit here." Mother signals to a large and in-charge black leather spinny-chair that has just this second been vacated by the head security guard, as he carries his guns on his hip. There is a very important machine by this chair and it is clearly forbidden to be anywhere near it unless you are an authorized member of airport security. This does not phase Mother (despite my best efforts to dissuade her) and she immediately plonks down. I am on edge for the duration of the shoe-lace-tying, hoping desperately not to be arrested. By contrast, Mother reclines and spins around happily before eventually leaving the area.

Now, we are waiting at the gate. Ready to board the plane. Mother does her usual scan so as to locate who she would most like to be seated next to. She selects approximately seven inappropriately-aged 'men'. The boarding process seems to be taking quite a while (ie nobody is moving and we are supposed to be taking off in 4 minutes...) As we are waiting, Mother sighs in a majestic, know-it-all way and says;

"OH! I see why we're running late - we are waiting for somebody! See, we're waiting for Ultimah Chumata, see? That name up on the screen, flashing, darling? They're calling for her."

I look up and see the words "Ultima Chiamata".

"She must be African. Oh, poor lady! She's going to miss this plane if she doesn't hurry up, I wonder where she is...." Mother frantically looks around for this poor, late African woman."

There is no African lady, speedily jogging towards the gate. In fact, she doesn't exist, considering Ultima Chiamata is Italian for 'Last Call'.

We finally board. Thank goodness, no more disasters. Oh no... wait. I hear Mother behind me as we head onto the plane. She seems to be huffing and puffing to someone.

"God! I was here first! NO, no - wait! I was here first!!!"


Mother is cross. Her arms are flailed to the side in a bodyguard style so as not to allow this imbecile to jump the queue.


As I turn around, I see who the imbecile is. Oh, it's the pilot. He is trying desperately to slide past Mother and into the cockpit. Thankfully, Mother had no neighbour-passenger on this flight.

xoxo

P.S. Stay tuned to the YouTube channel for videos of our Italy trip! Teaser: Mother got extremely sloshed on our last afternoon and it was rather amusing.    

GLOBE TROTTING WITH TROTTER-FEET

Hello wonderful friends around the world! Such a globetrotter I do feel! Mother and I have just returned from ITALIA! Yes, the land of gorgeous pasta, gorgeous pizza, gorgeous gelato and gorgeous... men! Well, according to Mother - although I do agree with the first three gorgeous-es.

A 2pm flight means a relaxed morning, am I right, ladies and gents? Uh, well no. Not when Mother is involved. The alarm rang aggressively at 7am (earlyyyyy!) in order to alert Mother to all the household safety precautions that were necessary to set up before leaving. I used this extra morning time to make green smoothies, which I'm sure you'll agree is the appropriate preparation for a flight. Mother used this valuable time to stuff hangers into the window blinds.

"What is that you're doing, dear?" I say, with caution as I enter the kitchen (early-morning-Mother is not sensationally rational)

"What does it look like, darling?!" ..... (told you) Mother replies, as she is perched on a stool.

"Urm, well I couldn't really say... to be honest...."

"I'm obviously using these clothes hangers that I've sawn in half to wedge between the window and the blinds so that nobody can break in!" Mother says, looking at me as if I'm stupid.

"Right. Of course. I see it now, yes. Indeed. Makes sense. Sensible. Mhmm."

As Mother dismounts the wooden stool, I offer to put it back.

"I haven't finished yet!"

I glance at my watch; it is precisely the time that Mother said we would be leaving. Yet, she has returned to the kitchen with a mop.

"Oh.... what.... what's that for?" I am looking for the spillage.

"I'll show you, sweetie!"

As she says this, the mop is whipped up in the air and Mother glides it between the handle of the window and wedges it into an alcove of the wall.

"There, see! Now, if the burglar does manage to break through the hanger-wedge, he won't be able to open the window anyway, you see, darling? Mummy's very clever, isn't she?" Mother is a tad flushed but evidently very pleased with herself.

I am concerned that Mother thinks we live in the ghetto.

We are finally ready to leave the house. It is half past ten in the morning and about 52 degrees centigrade. A 15 minute walk to the station actually took 30 minutes due to Mother's choice in footwear. Again. For those of you wondering, I am wearing a sports bra, running vest, jogging bottoms and sneakers. Backpack, water bottle and suitcase in tow.  Mother, in high contrast, is wearing a silk dress (with a crossover flap that flies open during a breeze, exposing more than we all bargained for) and... oh, no, not the famous diamante pumps this time! Instead, Mother has beige, suede heels with a very long tassel that ties up from her ankles to her calves. Much frill. Much tassel. She is channeling some strong Coachella vibes. So, this explains the time it takes to reach the station; as we had to stop every 7 minutes in order to re-tie her tassels (they were untying themselves in an attempted escape perhaps).

Eventually, we arrive at the airport (in just enough time) and navigated to the correct terminal (a slight rigmarole) and arrived at the gate. Judgy-Judgersons (us) were in full swing as we (not-so-quietly) discussed the family in front of us. A family of four; two little boys and their parents, dressed immaculately.  I immediately spot the mother's Louis Vuitton handbag, Levi jeans, Prada sunglasses and a new Burberry purchase (looking at her grand shopping bag over her shoulder). The children have slicked back hair, brand new Nike's and Porsche polo shirts. HOWEVER, they are not obnoxious fancy-pants. Actually, they look very approachable and the mother is talking quietly in Italian to the boys. Mother and I stand discussing the beauty of Italian fashion and ... "oh, her hair is so lovely!" .... etc. We stop instantly when the father spins around and tells us, in a very English accent, that we are going to board now. Oh. Whoops. It could have been so much worse!

Right. On the plane! I whip out my spelt crackers and sesame snacks (wow I'm so annoying) and settle down with my podcast and neck pillow. I'm very anti-social on flights, usually - as you may remember. Mother, on the other hand, is very excited to find out who will sit next to her.

"Ooooh, darling! Do you think it will be him, he looks like he's travelling alone, doesn't he, sweetie?"

"Oh, what about him? He's a little bit old but he looks like he might own a yacht,  darling!"

"OH! GOODNESS ME! I hope it's him, I hope it's him!" (Mother is pointing at a 16 year old Italian boy, boarding the plane with the rest of his class as the teacher follows behind).

Alas, no bachelor is seated next to Mother. What a shame. Instead, however, is a lovely lady from America with her three children (two boys and a girl ranging from about 10-21 years old). She is apologising profusely for bringing McDonalds onto the plane, assuring us that this is a very unusual meal for them, despite being American!

Anyway, Mother - of course - engages "friendship" mode and for the rest of the flight they got along like a house on fire. Nattering and showing each other pictures of their respective children.... which I found most odd, considering we were literally all there, sitting within three metres of each other but anyway.  I even engaged a little 'socialising' with one of the older children, discussing high school and university, which was a rather exotic experience for me and my neck pillow (it ceased fairly soon after we took off as he fell asleep and I returned to my crackers and tomato juice).

2 hours later, we land. We are all trying to collect our hand luggage and may I just say what an absolute nightmare this process is. It always has been. Everyone stands up as we pull into the little 'parking spot' for the plane as if the first person to stand up is the first person off the plane. Idiots. You can hear everyone's mobile phone switching on and messages zooming in (before we're officially allowed to even turn our phones on WHAT ARE YOU DOING, PEOPLE?). At this point, three people on each row simultaneously struggle and fight to whip their elephant-weighted luggage from the cabin part... above everyone's head. Upon successfully squeezing it out, they then have nowhere to put it. Nowhere to even turn around due to the other six people surrounding them tightly. Everyone is now standing, holding their luggage above their heads like morons, waiting for the doors to open (which is never within fifteen minutes). I, however, remain seated. I really do not mind being the last one off the plane. What is the rush?!

Anyway - I sidetrack. Whilst everyone is fanning about, Mother and her new bestie are exchanging multiple contact details (business cards, twitter handles, emails, addresses, twelve phone numbers etc) and are still chatting as the new BFF's children and I glide down the aisle and off the plane. We are about to say our goodbyes and separate when we look back to our mothers. My mother is not able to glide down the aisle quite so swiftly as her nimble daughter. Instead, she is unsteadily sliding. Dragging. She gives me a worried glance. It seems as though her weight has trippled during the flight, as she seems unable to carry herself (or it might have been the gin and tonic she had....). Oh no, I see it now. As I glance downwards, towards Mothers feet, I see the problem. Mother's feet have swollen to the size of baby hippopotamuses. Her trotters have, in fact, trippled in size. They are trying desperately to escape the confines of the tassels wrapped ever so tightly around her ankles. The purple pastry puffs have indeed risen within these utterly unsuitable shoes. Mother has managed to restrict all blood flow to her feet by dressing like Ke$ha at Glastonbury and her bff and I have to help her and her hippo-feet off the plane.

Suitable shoes...

More Italian anecdotes coming soon, stay tuned!  

xoxo