Off to Italy for the weekend because I’m so fudging international. It’s something we Britishers can do on a whim for virtually nothing if you plan months in advance and go Ryanair from Southend airport at 3 o’clock in the morning. And for a Britisher, I bear out a surprising number of sterotypically Italian traits: I use sweeping hand gestures to communicate, I am technically addicted to Bunga Bunga and I eat industrial quantities of alphabetti spaghetti. Justa likea mama useda makea.
Senora Del Monte and I were there for a friend’s wedding. Let me tell you, if you’re going to ask the Godfather on this day of the marriage of his daughter for a favour you’d better be prepared. Firstly, identifying the blighter is a tricky one. I basically asked all the grey haired men for a favour, including the officiating priest. Eventually, I got my man and it turned out I needed a phrasebook. I don’t think he got it. After 25 minutes he just started staring at me blankly no matter how expansive my hand gestures. Rude. Oh well. Simon Hubbard from primary school gets to breathe another day.
While I was disappointed by failing to have my Scalextric rival of 32 years previous butchered in his sleep, it was more than made up for by the quality of scran. In the orbit of Genoa you’re looking for focaccia and pesto. They do it properly there. Trips to Pizzeria L’Oasi, Rocce di Pinamare and L’Osteria du Cunfögu dotted around Liguria furnished me with plenty of the above and more. It’s also nice to go wandering around soaking up the local atmos and holding tomatoes meaningfully whilst wearing linen. My life is a lot like that of Julia Roberts in Eat Pray Love. If I’m honest, it’s more Drink Puke Sexual Assault. Though I don’t think it’s possible to sexually assault a bollard no matter what the carabinieri or my proctologist Dr Koplowitz say. I haven’t read Eat Pray Love, but I did watch 5 minutes of it over someone’s shoulder in the queue for the bathroom on a flight to Dubai or somewhere. Juliet Roberts is right: America blows.