A Little Bit of Me

Jottings and Writing, miscellanous misgivings

Goal time in Italy

There us a painting (print?) On the wall of the apartment bedroom, two single beds pushed together as if sleeping together is forbidden in Italy, that land of passion and romantic figures. The painting is of a little girl holding a ball or a transparent globe. She stares at it, as if wishing it to turn into something valuable. The painting is in dark, swirling colours, the ball a dull red, as if waiting to explode into a fiery orange.
The bath w

as great. The meal (spaghetti carborna – albeit with an egg tagliettini) was great and the Sicilian wine made a nice end to an indifferent day. I must get over the dirt and smells but they interfere with my enjoyment of what had become a lifes dream. Imagine yourself waking up, rolling on your side a staring at your life partner and seeing a tired old hag, cigarette stuck to her toothless mouth, smelling of last nights alcohol and garlic. You get the picture?
Tomorrow I will be the temporary owner of a 2016 Alfa Romeo Guiletta. Not the first time I have owned a Guiletta but that was an older and more sedate version. I am filled with trepidation. I also wonder how long it will take me to use the horn.

Later in the day.
Here I sit, sweat dripping onto the caribenia cell floor. An angry policeman screams at me to get back behind yhe yellow line. My heart races, my testicles shrink, my hairline recedes another three inches. And what has caused me to be in this predicament, this dilemma, this disaster? A car crash? Assaulting a smoker? Berating a litterer? No! I left my fucking wallet at the supermarket and the helpful staff handed into the carabinieri. What has made it even worse is the 4km semi walk/run from the supermarket to Police Centrale to claim it back, trailing after a helpful busboy who is showing us the way because the dazzlingly beautiful, non English speaking supermarket managress cant work my gps. And its 32C and 90% humidity AND my arthritic knee finally decides to tell me that Alisons 14km forced marches have to come to an end. I am kept waiting for nearly an hour and the few interactions I have with the desk sergeant indicate (if I interpret his Italian correctly) that I am a cretin, not a man, and just plain stupid. Probably right on at least two of those counts.
And today was the day I was going to swallow my pride and fear of contracting cholera and go for that swim. The no14 bus takes us to the Station Centrale which is a stones throw from the beach and the picture on Trip Advisor shows white sand, little umbrellas and clean water.
Suddenly there is a knock on the door. Oh God there is a black Alfa with bar lights parked downstairs. Did my grazie come out saying something different as I departed the compound?


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