Expatriation//What I’d Do Differently

Making a hash of immigrating wasn’t my intention.

This is what I’d do differently, if I were to move from England all over again.

Research the Final Destination thoroughly

In some ways, I’m very fortunate. As a retiree, I had all the time in the world to research and plan my great escape. If I was to do this all over again, I would certainly spend some more time carefully considering where I’d like to live, instead of flying off on a madcap adventure.

Luckily for me, I had an easy option. My friends Maria and Joseph may well live in one of the most expensive areas of Italy, but their spare room came free of charge. This gave me plenty of time to get settled into living in Italy and make an informed decision as to where it is I’d want to eventually lay down my roots.

As with all things, you can find some great advice online as to where might be best for you to move. You can try sites like Nomad List ( for a quick rundown of the pros and cons of a certain city. However, the best way to find out about a place is to visit it.

Take the Drive a little easier

When I drove down to Portofino a fortnight ago, I did so in a mad rush that spoke volumes about my fractured state of mind. Motivated by impulse more than anything else, I didn’t plan the 800 or so mile drive down to Italy and I really wish I had.

If you’re considering driving yourself to your new home on the Continent, then it’s best to do some preparation beforehand. Relying on your phone as a Sat Nav might get you so far, but you run can the risk of losing signal in rural areas and losing your way.

Always plan your route ahead of schedule and buy a physical map, if you can. It’s best to load your car with essential travel gear as well, many traffic police in Europe will stop and check your car for this – so, unless you want to avoid a hefty fine, it’s best to be prepared before you set off.

Consider Using a Removal Service

For example, if you’re considering making a move from England to Spain, then there are companies that specialise in helping you do this.

Advance Moves ( take care of the logistical issues of immigrating. So, instead of cramming your car with your most precious belongings and leaving the rest to rot in your last house, you can take as much of your home comforts with you as you’d like.

They’ll help with everything, visiting you in your home to explain to you how the process works as well as packing and loading your items, making sure that precious items are well protected when they’re stowed away.

Have a Long Term Plan

I went into this adventure head-first and without a paddle. Everything from packing my vehicle to the drive down was essentially borne from improvisation. This had it’s benefits. It’s been an incredible exciting and invigorating experience. However, there have been drawbacks from not planning for the future.

I have enough money to keep myself happy here for a long time, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t want to work. In order to get paid for any services that I render as a teacher, I’ll need to apply to the Italian government and make sure that I’m paying tax.

Of course, that’s if I even want to teach. Although it sounds unlikely, at the age of 65 my future is more unclear than it has ever been. However, I’m trying not to let this bother me too much.

There aren’t many people my age who have the opportunity to essentially start their lives from scratch in a brand new country – so I’m going to make the most of every day.

Camogli//Pasta Fresca Fiorella

Comgli for delicious pasta and complicated conversation

Joseph is roughly the same age as me, 65 give or take a few months.

We met at University, what feels like aeons ago now. We weren’t even great friends at that time, more like acquaintances. Somehow though our paths continued to cross throughout the next few years, until we discovered that we were suddenly the best of pals.

Still – he had neglected to ask me of the reason why I had thrown my most precious belongings in my car and driven 800 miles to stay with them for seemed like an indefinite period. No queries were forthcoming, Joe preferring to keep to the tried and tested mode of masculinty:  simply ignoring the elephant in the room.

Rather predictably it was Maria who, after a couple of days had past with relative ease, slyly suggested a little sojourn to the neighbouring town of Camogli.

Joe was out for the day, playing chess in the park with some fellow retirees.

“Whenever he comes back, he always reeks of cigar smoke. He tells me it’s always them, but I’ve known him long enough to know when he’s lying.”

We set out before midday, driving along the 227, the gorgeous road set in the cliff face of the Portofino coastline. To my right lay the glittering Ligurian Sea, to my left was Maria amiably chatting away to herself, as she was wont to do – lithely avoiding any of the intrusive questions that I knew lay in wait.

Maria was a good decade younger than Joe and I.

At the age of 54 or so, you’d be surprised how much difference that can make to one’s state of mind, never mind the state of one’s body.

She’d only stopped teaching English a few years ago and was still enjoying the challenge of retirement. The house that she had inherited from her Mother had come to her and Joe at the right time, allowing them to move out and enjoy the good life as soon as they finished work. I’d been to visit them a number of times since and had always been a little jealous of their relaxed domestic bliss.

The coastal road soon gave way to the hilly sprawl of Santa Margherita Ligure.

Then it was up and up, through the narrow curves of the town and into the hills, over to Camogli – one of Italy’s best kept secrets.

This village shares much in common with the wildly popular town we’d just driven from – a gorgeous harbour, a thriving fishing community and quintessentially Italian rows of multi-storied houses. However, the defining difference between the two is the world hasn’t heard of Comogli yet, preferring to remain distracted by the starry inhabitants of Portofino.

An image of an Italian harbour

I knew Maria’s motive of stealing me away for the day.

She intended on pulling at the loose threads of my thoughts that were so evidently in disarray. However, she made a good show at pretending that it was the Spaghetti Aglio Olio e Peperoncino served at Pasta Fresca Fiorella that was really her main agenda.

There are few things that you must eat if you are spending any amount of time in Italy.

The pizza. The gelato. The pasta.

I’ve not yet learned the fine art of making my own pasta and I certainly won’t be learning, whilst I’m staying with Maria and Joe. The artisans at Pasta Fresca Fiorella prepare fresh pasta for cooking at home, as well as serving food to the customers in their restaurant and the hordes of hungry beach dwellers.

Us English have done our best to bastardise the Italian pasta classics. Dolmio pasta sauce for our bolognese. Double cream in our sickly microwave carbonaras. And tinned ravioli, of all things.

An image of Spaghetti

Our stunning disrespect for their culture has not deterred them however. Simplicity is at the heart of these dishes, with only a handful of ingredients artfully combined to create a delicious whole.

For Maria’s favourite dish, garlic, chilli and olive is thrown together with spaghetti. Much like her own prying questions, the execution is key here.

Cook the garlic and chilli for too long and the dish will be acrid.

So it follows, if you hastily probe a 65 year-old man going through a very late mid-life crisis, the answers you receive will also be decidedly bitter.

Maria was unusually quiet on the drive back to Portofino.

Paraggi//Crash Course in Italian Cafe Culture

Peaceful Paraggi for a quiet few coffees

My first few days had been enjoyable.

However, after a week spent in the comfortable but rather confined space of my hosts’ terraced home I felt like I needed to get out and spend some time by myself.

The move from England, had taken a bigger toll on my state of mind that I had initially thought. The long frantic drive had left me a bedraggled mess on my friends’ door step still lingered in my head. Plus, I was still waking up with a start most mornings, with the feeling that I was running late for work.

I didn’t like the idea of reforming another routine that I would be stuck in once more. Still, I definitely needed to submerse myself in an environment where I could start to erase the habits and mental pathways that I’d spent the majority of my life building up.

I rose particularly early on Monday morning to the sound of the front door being closed.

Maria had left to teach English down in the local school, Joe would be out on his own errands until the early afternoon. I had the house to myself but I had no intention of staying inside. Outside, the sun was shining with a fervour that I’d not seen since I got here, I decided to go for a drive.

After our trek to Camogli the other day, I had no intention of going back through the hills.

I kept to the coastal roads and found myself in the picturesque bay of Paraggi, desperately in need of coffee. I decided to take a load off at Baya Paraggi, a ludicrously well placed restaurant that looks out onto the crystal blue waters of the Ligurian Sea.

Coffee in Italy is not the overblown flavoured mess you’ll find in the States or back in the UK. Here it is a ritual, with it’s own set of rules that should be followed, if you intend on avoiding any icy glares from your barista.

Here’s a few pointers to help you navigate the exclusive world of Italian Cafes:

Shout it out and pay later.

The first thing you need when entering a restaurant or cafe in Italy, is confidence. Italians are friendly, welcoming but rarely patient. Get your order straight first then say it loudly and clearly. The best baristas are busy and might not reply, don’t be disheartened, they’ll have your order in their head.

Milk is for the morning.

Speaking of orders, you’ll get some strange looks if you choose to order any kind of milk-based drink after 11am. Cappuccino’s are the drink of choice for Italians in the morning, even then they are much smaller than you’d usually get in England, so don’t expect a big beverage.

Keep your order simple.

Although there are variants on the classic Italian coffee, such as the latte macchiato, cafe shakerato and americano – it’s best to stick to the standard drink of choice: A single shot of espresso. Just order ‘un cafe’ and this is what you’ll receive, a quick dose of caffeine that can be downed in a matter of seconds.

No time for a sit down.

Speed is the aim of the game here, so don’t even think about taking a sit down, not only will you get charged more, you’ll also stick out like a sore thumb. The Italian coffee experience is a quick one known as una pausa (literally, a pause or little break). So order your drink, wait, down it, pay, then leave.

Of course, you are completely free to order your coffee whichever way you please.

If, like me, you’re simply looking for a place to sit down and relax; find a restaurant instead of a cafe and order at your leisure.

A Broken Cooker//Spaghetti Arrabbiata+Chicory Salad

Perhaps my unexpected arrival in Joseph and Maria’s home had brought bad luck.

When I strolled downstairs to properly greet my hosts (I’d been a jumbled mass of garbled sentences the night before) I found them in a state of slight confusion.

A little pool of olive oil settled in the centre of a rustic cast-iron skillet pan which sat patiently alongside their little gas cooker. A box of eggs were lying next to a slab of pancetta on the counter. Something wasn’t quite right though.

The issue soon became evident: the gas cooker had stopped working and was in need of repair.

“Breakfast might be a while, old chap”. Joseph had a sorry look in his eyes. I soon dismissed his apologies and headed off into town to grab some groceries; leaving Joe to search the typically slow Italian internet for a man specialising in gas oven repairs.

At this time of year, Portofino is not quite hitting it’s stride in terms of tourist saturation. With it’s iconic harbour and port, the village is a haven for celebrity holiday makers and Hollywood stars. The Summer sun had yet to truly grace the North of Italy so, for now at least, peace and quiet reigned supreme.

Of course, there is never any real kind of serenity at an Italian marketplace.

Italians like to get their produce early in the day – no lazy Sundays for these people. The little square was packed with busy shoppers, all of them in animated discussions with the sellers and each other. I drifted through the stalls, in no rush, admiring the variation of goods on offer.

With a sudden urge to cook, I reached out for the simplest, freshest ingredients and set back to the house with a raging hunger and desperate hope that the cooker had been fixed.

It wasn’t. However, Maria had set a wood-fire going in the back and settled a grill over the top, which was all I needed to cook my first meal on Italian soil. 

Spaghetti Arrabbiata+Chicory Salad

{Serves 3-4 hungry old folks for a smashing lunch}

For the Spaghetti:

2 fresh red chillies

olive oil

3 cloves of garlic

3 or 4 fresh anchovies

good teaspoon of dried oregano

8-10 ripe, red tomatoes

300g dried spaghetti

150g pancetta

single ciabatta roll or similar italian bread

parmesan for grating

For the salad:

2 heads of chicory/olive oil/2 tbsp white wine vinegar/1 tsp wholegrain mustard/1 tsp sugar


First, give the chillies a good pricking all over with a sharp knife, then drop into a pan, cover with  a good layer of oil and let them cook on a super low heat for a good ten minutes. When they feel soft, pour the majority of the oil into a jar to save for later.

Then slice up 2 cloves of garlic and add to the pan, along with the anchovies and oregano – fry for 2-3 minutes then add the roughly chopped tomatoes and let this cook on a medium heat for 15 minutes.

In the mean time, get your spaghetti on the boil and prepare a crumbly ‘pangratto’ topping along with your salad.

Either blitz the ciabatta in a processor or use a box grater to produce some breadcrumbs. Throw these into a large skillet pan with a good lug of oil on a medium heat. Take your final clove of garlic, chop it up along with the pancetta and add to the pan. Let this fry until everything’s a lovely golden brown colour.

For the salad, simply pour a dash of oil, with the vinegar, mustard and sugar into a jam jar and shake up. Pull apart the chicory leaves and lightly cover with your dressing.

Once your spaghetti’s almost cooked, add it to the tomatoes and chilli. Combine then serve in bowls with that lovely crumbly pangratto on top and your salad on the side.

Grate a little parmesan on top to finish, along with a good crack of black pepper.

[Ideally cooked on working gas hob, but an open fire/electric/induction hobs will do fine.]

My Eventual Arrival//Portofino

The drive from England is now a blur.

Have you ever stopped and taken a look back at your actions over a 24 hour period and questioned if you were really in the right state of mind?

With little or no preparation, I’d decided to leave England, abandon the home that I had lived in for the past 30 years and embrace my retirement with a kind of reckless abandonment more befitting a teenager on their gap year.

To my neighbours, a young family on one side and elderly gentleman on the other (perhaps a shade of my future if I had stayed?), a quick note was scrawled and hastily stuffed through the letter box:

Hello – Goodbye!

I’m leaving the country for a while, not sure how long. Help yourself to the veg in the garden.

I’m not sure if I’ll come back, if not, good luck and good bye!

Come to think of it, I don’t think I ever bothered to sign the damn thing, so it’ll probably confuse them more than anything else…oh well!

Sat here on the veranda of Joseph and Maria’s colourful terraced abode, it feels like more of a dream than an actual event that happened to me.

map of a car route through europe

Throwing my things into the car, quickly tapping in the coordinates of Joseph and Maria’s place in Portofino and then setting off.

Head first into the wind and spitting rain of the abrasive English weather that I’d somehow grown to love over the years, I passed through the Channel tunnel in what felt like a second and, before I knew it, had descended into the maelstrom of sounding horns and shaking fists that are the roads of Europe.

Although I made good time (I’d forgotten how much fun it was to drive fast!) I soon hit traffic jams and road works. I was stopped on a couple of occasions by curious motorway police, but after taking 50 or so Euros off me, they let me on my way.

photo of night sky in italyBy 11pm I was coasting into Portofino.

The sun had long since set, the night was clear and blue, with only the twinkling lights of the harbour serving as a guide. My phone had ran out of battery hours before and I was relying on my memory of past visits to guide my little car to its destination.

The enormity of my journey didn’t hit me until Joseph and Maria welcomed me into their home. I caught a glance at myself in the mirror as I entered their quaint little terraced house – a haggard ghost looked back at me, looking not too dissimilar to the neighbour that I had just left behind.

That night I slept in their guestroom, usually reserved for Air B&B guests, feeling like I’d travelled ten times the 800 or so miles that I actually had.

I woke to the sound of seabirds calling, the rolling of wooden carts and Italian conversations drifting through the open windows.

My mouth still held the sour taste of the port I’d drunk the night before. I might have taken half of my kitchen’s worth of tools and knives, but I’d forgotten my toothbrush.

A banal thought struck me as I swung my legs out of the bed, with a little more gusto than usual: last night must’ve been the first time I’d gone to sleep without brushing my teeth in over 30 years.

The sweet life had indeed begun.