Winning over Italy

Okay now, knuckle down and concentrate.  Time to get back to the keyboard without any excuses.  It’s that time of year when it starts to feel colder inside than out.  There’s no central heating here and when it’s still a mid-afternoon 18 degrees on the Lungomare at the end of November, requests for such are looked upon with understandable disdain.  So blog!

“Why have I shown such disregard for those that might wish to read?”

Well Judge, there have been some reasonably mitigating circumstances over the last four or five months and perhaps, if you will allow, I can explain.  First off, there was the house, yes the one we started last year and is at last weather-proof and habitable.  There was no Santo’s Clause this time…oh no.  Far too smart to fall for that one again, not for stage 2.  No, this time we got quotes and other quotes and then threatened just to do it all ourselves which had the expected effect of bringing quote number one down to a more sensible level…without add-ons.  The windows and shutters I have to say are just about complete, 2 months after they should have been.  This was entirely our own fault for having paid the full amount in advance when we started to feel sorry for the installer who kept coming round with a hang-dog expression asking when we’d be ready for his part of the jigsaw….a now ex-friend of a relative.  I now lean towards the philosophy that having no project manager is better than six who think they are.  After scrubbing, sanding, cleaning, sanding, varnishing (the rather lovely wooden-beamed ceiling), sanding, filling and finally preparing the walls for their 3 coats of paint the summer was over and we were, tanless, ready to move in.  I should perhaps mention that the famous English phrase ‘like watching paint dry’ is lost on the Calabrese….nothing could be less boring. In the summer heat the paint is usually dry before you’ve managed to apply the loaded brush/roller to the wall.  Extremely frustrating! So, somewhat bare on the furniture front I’ll admit and with a couple of internal doors still to be found let alone fitted, we took the leap.  I was particularly keen to wake up on the first morning and try the new en-suite, hi-tech (by Calabrian standards) thermostatically controlled shower which we had chosen deliberately to counter the vagaries of the village water supply.  Two years of trying to wash with one hand whilst trying to alternate taps between freezing and tepid with the other, had invariably met with the soap squirting out my grip and shooting across the floor while I screamed at the sudden rush of scalding steam as someone next door decided that the garden had had enough watering for the morning.  No more!  A shower should be a thing of joy.  Sadly, that morning, it was not to be.  The higher I turned the temperature, the colder the water got.  Not wanting to confess that he’d never seen anything more complicated than two straight taps, the builder had installed the unit upside down.  “It’s red on the left in Italy.” He said. “This thing’s not Italian, look the instructions are in a foreign language.” Gently I explained that the ‘red bit’ wasn’t the hot water tap but the thermostat and that if he’d read the whole instruction sheet he’d have maybe seen the big picture with about 25 different languages.  “Were the numbers being upside down not a bit of a clue?”  At last, however, all was fixed, an early morning shower is bliss and all the window man has to do is fit the shutter catches on the outside wall.

“The other mitigating factors, your honour?”

Well, As I said, summer was over and I’d forgotten that September and October are the harvesting months.  The grapes, the tomatoes, the chestnuts….It all takes time you know.  What with work starting again and having to turn your feet and hands a deep black-purple while you make the next year’s wine and then see how many jars you can fill with passatta from a truck load of tomatoes,  it’s easy to forget about the laptop.

“I beg your pardon?  I seemed to have had enough time to fiddle with my guitar?”

Ah, that is true.  I may have got a teeny-weeny bit sidetracked there I have to confess.  But it’s all in a worthy cause, I promise.  I just have this little project called ‘The Dark Tourists’ which is ticking along nicely to some sort of conclusion….or beginning, I’m not quite sure.  The songs had to be written first of course (9 now in the melting pot)  but I’m hoping you’ll like what I’ve done.  Finding the musicians was a bit of an adventure in itself but that’s nearly done and something should be ready for the public in the new year.  Just need to find that elusive accordion player.

So, yes I guess that’s all the excuses out of the way and I promise I’ll work much harder in future and make sure the notepad doesn’t go to waste.  If your lordship pleases, the recent hours of community service should produce some half-decent posts.  Perhaps ‘Watching the Detectives” (a flight with the flying squad)  or ‘Spotting Dark Tourists’ (a musical journey in a strange language) might be fun reading in the next few weeks.

I’m hoping I’ll get away with a suspended sentence……….

aka "Knuckles"

Just about this time last year we were taking a day out in Gambarie, a small ski resort in the Aspromonte mountains, not forty minutes drive from the beaches of Reggio.  At the right time of the year you can wake up and choose whether you spend the day on the beach in swimming shorts or take a right turn into the mountains for a day’s skiing.  However, at the tail-end of summer we were driving through the forest, passing columns of Apé vans parked up and creaking with giant melons and soft peaches whilst their rough-bronzed owners sat by cardboard price lists offering nectar for a few centesimi.  A scented recipe of pine, campfire smoke and sausages drifted through the trees from the picnickers who’d arrived at some unearthly hour in the morning to enjoy the sweet and sour pleasures of woodland dining.  I wasn’t concentrating, I needed a pee…badly!
“Just drive along a little further and I’m sure you’ll find it a little quieter.” Suggested Maria.  “Find a tree.”  Sure enough once we were round a few corners and I was certain there weren’t any more secret campers around I pulled off the road and onto a little dirt track.  Leaping out the car with the engine running, I dived into the undergrowth and twisted along till I found what I was sure was a safe spot.  Big tree, lots of bushes and no picnics.  AaaaaaH! I let a smile play across my lips in my reverie.  Aaaaah!
“What the…!”  Cold fear took over from relief.  Something hot and very wet suddenly touched the back of my neck, I froze for a moment.  It was the loud, gruff snort which made me jump out of my skin and destroy my aim.  I bolted, simultaneously trying to zip, run and shake my left leg as I hopped and tripped, petrified back to the car, thanking heaven for having left the engine running.  As I clambered into the car and slammed it into reverse I managed a quick glance back.  My assailant stood at the edge of the trees, head tilted slightly to one side frowning at me and chewing slowly on a branch.  Maria was in tears, her eyes wetter than my trouser leg.
“It’s only a cow!” She cried.
“How was I to know?  It could have been a bear!”  I reversed back onto the road feeling both relieved (well, half-relieved) and very stupid.  “What’s a flamin’ cow doing in the middle of a forest anyway?”
“It’s a Mafia Cow.” Said Maria, still laughing.
“A what?”
“A Mafia Cow.”
“Now you really are taking the ‘P’ out of me.  What the hell’s a Mafia Cow anyway?  Does it sneak around the countryside extorting milk from other cows for organised cheese laundering or do they just steal grazing rights?”  I scoffed, beginning to imagine some sort of Sicilian take on Animal Farm.
“A bit of both I imagine.”  She stated seriously.  “They’re owned by the Mafia.  They’re allowed to go where they please and you have to be careful you don’t knock any of them down when you drive round these roads.”  She grabbed my arm, as I swerved to avoid one which had appeared in the middle of the road round the next corner. “You also have to be careful of brown snow on the ski slopes in winter.”

This has all come back to me as I wait for the dreaded call from Diego and help Toto roll out the (empty) barrels in preparation for making this year’s wine.  Both a stark reminder that the holidays are over and September is all hands to the mill-wheel to harvest the sun’s work.  Diego had caught me at a weak moment during one of our massive family lunches in the mountains (massive applying to both family and food).  Plied with enough wine, he’d seen his moment to get me to help him with the crops.  “I’ll teach you some dialect as well of course.”  He’d said as some sort of further enticement.  Of course I would help, they’d shown me nothing but kindness and hospitality over the last two years and I wanted to do something to show my appreciation.  However, it was 37 degrees and the thought of working on the farm was not quite as appealing with a clear head.  In fact, after the recent 5.30am starts to make the passata last week I was beginning to remember the difference between the dream of self-sufficiency and the harsh reality of farming Calabrian-style.

You’d think that farming would be in my blood when you consider that my great-grandfather wrote the definitive ‘bible’ on rearing short-horn cattle and that my greater great-grandfathers had -between taking time off for the odd Jacobite Rebellion or Napoleonic campaign – been true men of the soil.  I have let them down badly.  It’s probably ironic, though I’m not sure, that I chose to live in a place where clan cattle still exist, free to roam without fence or wall.  Like a jump back through history to before the Clearances, I’m sure that my forefathers would have been at home here.  You won’t find ordered pastures liberally dotted with sheep or cattle in Calabria.  Of course there’s commercial farming in the onion fields of Tropea and the vast orange groves of Rosarno but mostly it seems to be down to the smallholders, wandering shepherds and back-yard pig sties.  I wonder if priority number one is often food provision for the family with market sales as a by-product, though I’m pretty sure where the restaurants get their veal from.
In fact, restaurant menus appear to be a pretty good indicator of farming methods in this region.  Beef doesn’t feature much and they change with the seasons, except of course in the pizzerias where mozzarella and passata are as fundamental as your knife and fork.  A tourist from Rome recently asked if anyone knew of a good Lebanese restaurant in the city and, as few had even heard of The Lebanon far less what they ate, he was faced with blank faces.  The tourist changed tack and asked “What about a good Indian then?”  This time he was met with laughter.  If it doesn’t grow here it won’t be on any menu.

The form of horse power may have changed with the times but when I witnessed an old Ford Fiesta pottering along the Superstrada in front of me the other day with a sheep in the back seat, I couldn’t help wondering if this was just a by-product on its way to market or something far more sinister.  Maybe there’s Mafia sheep as well.  Maybe this was Larry ‘the chop’ Lamb I was following…..

As a (past) amateur sailor of the lochs and islands that abound in the gulf stream that sweeps round the Scottish west coast, I can only gaze at the Med and wonder. With this climate of endless blue skies and friendly warm winds, surrounded by matchless scenery, why do I not see far more white sails tack and beat their way round Sicily, heading for the clear sandy lagoons and bays to anchor overnight before exploring the Aeolian Islands? Why no smell of bacon and eggs wafting across the flat-calm of the early morning to the shore?

“I have my own theory,” a keen local dingy sailor tells me. “Ever since the Tsunami of 1908 the people of Reggio and Messina have a deep mistrust of the sea. They’re more comfortable as fearless landlubbers and prefer something a little higher…generally about a thousand meters higher.”

When I think about it he’s probably right, the mountains, even the very high ones, are not at all like the vast soulful wilderness of the western Cairngorms. No, they are pretty well smattered with towns and villages, all within a goat’s scramble of each other, even along ridges three times higher than Ben Nevis.

There is, however one group for whom the sea brings no fear, only fun. You know they’re active long before you actually get sight of the water, their multi-coloured stripes and emblems snake through the air against the clear sky telling you that you’ve arrived…in KiteSurf paradise. Amazingly it turns out that my home town, Pellaro, happens to be its epicentre.

“Pellaro Point probably has the best kite surfing conditions in Europe, and certainly one of the best in the world,” says Agostino Martino, proprietor of the NewKiteZone surf club. “The wind is always to land so it’s got the best and safest conditions for learning the sport and having good strong winds makes it exciting for the more experienced surfers.”

He explains, as we watch some of his instructors help three or four young female students get to grips with their boards and lines. Agostino has invited me down for a free lesson after having helped him translate a press release for the 4th annual Continent-Island Kite and Wind-Surf race between the mainland and Sicily. I already knew that five years ago there had been nothing along this wide stretch of sand apart from a few die-hard (and possibly extreme) sportsmen, yet now here was a thriving school and club.

“So how did it turn from a hobby into all this?” I asked.

“It’s an odd story really,” he mused. “I was working in Rome as a computer consultant and doing quite well, to be honest. Well, one day after work I decided to go kite-surfing and headed down to the sea with my girlfriend and, after getting all the kit out and ready, I discovered I’d left my control bar (for the kite) at home. So I asked Stefania to stay and look after the equipment while I nipped back home to get it. Two and a half hours later I got back through the Rome traffic to find a very stormy looking girlfriend and no wind. That was it for me! I took a year’s sabbatical and tried to work out what I wanted to do while I did as much kite-surfing as I could on the way…..It wasn’t long before the penny dropped.”

Agostino takes a few minutes to go and help some surfers land their kites while I watch the action on the water. There’s no doubt that it’s a fascinating sight. There were kiters weaving in and out of the wind surfers, some of them taking off and doing acrobatics in the air while the beginners were just concentrating on making steady progress up and down the shore line. The sky was full of colour and against the backdrop of Etna in mid-eruption it was easy to see how you might become addicted to this kind of buzz.

“We set up a hut on the beach here at Pellaro and took from there really,” continues Agostino after a few minutes. “ We got our IKO teaching accreditation and didn’t have to look far for our first students since the area already had a reputation in Italy for its naturally ideal conditions. We had people coming from Florence to Milan with a few from northern Europe at that point.”

“So how did the school develop so quickly then?”

“Well, the water’s a good couple of degrees warmer than most places ten months of the year which means there’s virtually all-year-round surfing so we also started getting more and more people coming wanting to train to be instructors, from as far away as Mexico. In fact,” he added modestly, “We’ve trained more than 120 instructors in the last four years. We’re also the only club I know of in Europe using a new technique developed by an Argentine surfer where we use short lines to make it much easier for beginners. It means we can get more students learning at the same time without worrying about the wind carrying them off anywhere.”

“Is it mostly guys you get coming?” I asked spying Gino, the barrista from Piper cafe, try a couple of mid-air spins a few meters above the waves.

“No, not at all! In fact this year until spring we had practically all girls, even when it was quite chilly out there. There’s me wrapped up in hoods and fleeces on the shore while they’re out on the sea in shorts and tee shirts…don’t know how they do it, tougher than me that’s for sure.”

He shudders at the memory.

We withdraw to the Pizza Lido next to the club for a cooling beer and some shade to continue our chat.

“We often have parties or BBQ’s after lessons here,” Agostino tells me, “Always a good crowd.”

“So what do you need if you want to come here and learn?”

“Just some sun-cream and a pair of sunglasses, it’s that simple,” he laughs. “Mainly the sun-cream! We have it all here, Kites, boards, wet-suits and we even have our own apartments for people to stay. If you want something a little more private then we have special arrangements with the local B&B’s, all of which are very good. You can be a beginner who wants to have a course of lessons or a tourist hitching round Italy and fancy a bit of surfing for a day, no problem, we can sort you out.”

“So, tell me, how did the race go this year? Do you organise it all?”

“Yes, with help from sponsors and the club guys of course. We didn’t have as much wind as we’d have liked on a couple of the days but it was a great battle and amazing to watch…..and we had live GPS coverage of it all this year, we were recording speeds of over 35 knots across to Sicily and back, which is fantastic fun.”

He finishes off his beer and gets up.

“So…ready for your lesson then?”

“35 knots?……on a three-foot plank of wood?…..across the sea with a big kite and some string? Maybe tomorrow Agostino, got a wee problem with my knee at the moment… I’ll call you.”

For more about Kite Surfing in Calabria go to: www.NewKiteZone.it

Dance man, Dance!

A few days ago I asked a young lad of about 8 years old whether he played an instrument.  Proudly he told me that he had been learning one for the last two years.  “Piano?, guitar?  or maybe violin?” I enquired.  “No!” he said beaming. “Tambourine!”  If you smile, as I would have done a few years ago, then you underestimate its place in the order of things in Calabria.  For the humble tambourine is the key to Calabrese music.  It is the conductor for the accordion, singer and (sometimes) guitarist and the subtle step-caller for the dancers and it’s very encouraging to know that the young take it as seriously as their great, great grandparents.  Tarantella is uniquely Calabrese (a sort of cross between delta Cajun and free-form highland fling) and when you visit you will hear and see it performed in village squares and forest clearings, by the sea and in the mountains, usually impromptu.  If you do, then don’t stand too close…you will undoubtedly be pressed into dancing.  I warn you, it will lure you into its web like a tractor beam until you’re unable to escape its trance-like effect.   This is an apt analogy as Tarantella means “Dance of the Tarantula.” The dance is meant to mimic what happens to victims when they’re bitten.  Basically you hop around a bit!  Before dying of embarrassment!

My own attitude to old music with a young heart changed some years ago, the first time I came to Italy.  I was staying with a Scottish friend in a village near Florence and it was during a rare World Cup venture by our homeland.  We had found a little out-of-the-way bar used only by three old men who played dominoes all night round three empty coffee cups and a glass of Grappa.  The owner was happy to let us watch whatever game we saw fit over the fortnight as we were disturbing no one and spending more money in a week than he had probably taken all winter.  At the end of the last match we were about to leave when the owner beckoned us over.  “Follow me.” He said conspiratorially.  He took us over to his white BMW and signalled to us to get in.  My friend and I looked at each other doubtfully, there was a distinct language barrier and even as a couple of adults outnumbering him 2-1, we didn’t think getting into a stranger’s car was a terribly clever idea, especially when we couldn’t understand a word he was saying.  However he smiled and reassured us with the words.  “Me thank you for good business.”

This was in the days before mobile phones, so after we had driven up into the mountains in the middle of the night for about an hour, the lights of civilisation having long-since disappeared below us, we began to fret a little.  Eventually we turned through some imposing iron gates and arrived in the courtyard of a large villa which had been built into the rock-face of the mountain.  We got out and followed our host to the top of the wide stone steps and a huge solid-looking wooden door.  He pulled on the bell rope and smiled at us as we waited. “You like” he said.  “You like many.”  A little hatch in the door slid open to reveal the dark eyes of a diminutive woman in her mid-forties.  “It’s a flamin’ brothel.” Hissed my friend.  “How the hell to we get out of this one?”  We started to panic, looking around vainly for some means of escape.  The woman and our driver exchanged a few words before the hatch slammed shut again.   He turned and went back down the steps indicating we should follow.  Relief flooded through our veins.  “They’re shut, thank God.”  As we headed straight back to the car.  “Where you go?” said the driver.  “Go here.”  He had turned round a corner of the building and was standing in front of a very wide garage door that looked as if it could accommodate a small fleet of cars.  He opened a little side door and indeed we found ourselves in the company of three vehicles covered in canvas under one of which was the unmistakable shape of a Ferrari.  Before we could think further however, a door slid open to reveal a spacious anti-room with a large cavern disappearing into the rock beyond.  The woman whose eyes had greeted us at the hatch called us into the room.   There was a great square wooden table in the middle with eight chairs, two on each side.  From the ceiling hung rows of salumi and rounds of netted cheese whilst on the table there were a few plates, a chopping board and some hunting knives.  “I don’t think it’s a brothel.” I whispered to my friend.  “Maybe we should relax a bit.”

Our guide took us into the long cavern and switched on the single bulb that dangled from a cable in the roof.  Down each side of the long room stood man-sized Chianti bottles half-wrapped in straw while down the middle, from floor to ceiling, were row upon row of packed wine-racks.  The woman came over and explained.  “This is where all the local producers bring their wine for blending with others.  The best is bottled and the rest is in the flagons.  Come, let’s sit down.”  Another four people had joined us and, as we all shook hands and exchanged names, we sat down round the table and accepted the wine and food that was now being poured and served. 

After a few drinks and trying to answer what we thought we were being asked about ourselves, we began to relax and enjoy the evening and the company.  Without warning one of the women at the table started to sing.  This quite beautiful soprano voice treated us to a complete aria from a faintly familiar opera, so when she finished everyone clapped enthusiastically.  This was wonderful.  After some more wine had been sampled the man next to our soprano began to sing.  “It’s a Neapolitan love song.” Whispered the woman next to me.  “ It sound so sad.” I whispered back.  “All Neapolitan songs are sad, that’s how you know they’re Neapolitan.”  She grinned.  My friend and I were really enjoying ourselves now, rich wine, strong cheese and fabulous singing.  It was only when a third quality performer got up and started singing what we were told was a Sicilian folk song that the ‘Lire’ dropped.   My friend and I looked at each other in absolute horror.“This is going round the table.”  He groaned.

“What are we going to do?  I don’t know anything remotely cultural. We can hardly sing Stuck in the Middle with You, can we.?

“I don’t even know the firsts verse to that!”   We started to panic even more as we realised, shamefully, that as a nation we’d left our cultural heritage in the hands of pipe band competitions and Arran sweaters to keep dimly alive in petrol station CD racks.  We’ve been careless with our traditions!

“Okay, I’ve got it!” Said my friend triumphantly.  “What have we been listening to on TV for the past fortnight?  Quick, write down the words to Flower of Scotland!  I’ll do that.”

“And what do I sing then?  No way mate, I know the words, you don’t.”

“You can recite a little Robbie Burns, they’ll like that.”

“But I can’t remember anything more than a couple of lines of Tam O’Shanter.”

“Just put on a Scottish accent and say ‘Wee Drunken Timorous Willie’ a lot, they’ll never know the difference.”

“Sounds more like an Ode to Brewers Droop!  It’s not even Burns.”

“Exactly, but it sounds as if it is.”

In the end we settled for a duet of Flower of Scotland which sounded sadly more like a football chant than a stirring ballad about rediscovering past glories.  We were clapped politely as we sat down, humbled by the sheer variety and talent of our hosts.  They sang on, operas and regional folk songs, comic duets in dialect and tales of broken hearts while we hid our shame in the wine and eventually persuaded our driver to take us home before our ‘turn’ came round again.

Cultural identity in music remains thankfully strong in Italy thanks to the willingness of the youth to learn from parent, whether it be the mandolin or the tambourine, the accordion or just to know the dance.  We look forward to August when little Pellaro will play host to an annual folk festival, where Poles and Slovaks join Cubans and Greeks to challenge the techno onslaught of P.Diddy and Beyoncé.   Meanwhile, I try to download and learn the Mingulay Boat Song and the Brae’s Of Killiecrankie…..just in case.  

When you come to Calabria, don’t stand too close to the music and never accept lifts from strangers….unless you can sing and dance.

In the last week I’ve had a couple of gentle wake-up calls.  Sort out your Italian!  There is only so much you can blog about sun-drying tomatoes and the arrival of Latte di Mandorla (almond milk) in the cafe’s and, after nearly two years here, I need to be doing more than simple surface scratching.  I need to read and understand more about the other parts of life that make the southern Italians who they are, after all I’m not just a visitor anymore, I’m a registered voter.  Today and tomorrow are election days for the local councils and city mayors, elections that can have a powerful impact on national government.   Milan, in particular, may prove to be a defining moment for Berlusconi.   These elections are followed later this week by a referendum on nuclear power (think we know which way that’s going to go) – this is earthquake country folks!  Doing some research before casting my own vote, I was surprised to learn that Italy boasts one of the world’s highest turnout percentages (often over 90%), it may not lead to one-party domination but you can’t argue that it’s not a true reflection of the people’s will.  

All week there has been a fascinating battle going on in the streets, the poster wars.   When you retire for the night your house will bear the image of one politician, only for it to have been redecorated by the morning with one of his opponent’s.  Coming home well after midnight last Thursday after having been out for pizza with some friends, I was amazed by the sight of a small army of men, running around out of breath, up and down streets, chasing each other with step ladders.  No sooner had one climbed down from plastering a poster on the side of anything that doesn’t move and gone to the next street, than another would sneak out from the shadows and overlay it with two more.  As there seems to be at least a dozen different parties and fifty or so candidates for each district you can understand that the step-ladder business is doing quite well.  I wanted to hang around until the inevitable moment when two or more poster-boys turned the same corner from different streets and came face to face.  Would they whistle to themselves as they, nonchalantly, passed each other pretending they always took their ladder for a walk at 1.00am or would they draw glue-brushes and charge at each other, ladders poised like lances?   However, Maria was tired so I couldn’t stay to watch. 

I’m not sure what all the local issues are but I’m pretty sure that Pellaro must be a key marginal.  In the last week not only has the rubbish vanished, we’ve had an entire road resurfaced for the first time (apparently) in living memory.  An event which brought everyone out to drive up and down just to enjoy the smooth pot-hole-free experience.  I shouldn’t be flippant though, the national issues are serious and immediate.  From Libya and the waves of North African refugees that land on our shores daily (unwanted by the French and English who have done so much to encourage them – thanks guys) to the economy and another promise to crack down on the Mafia (always a vote winner).  Controlling most of the media as he does, no doubt our Prime Minister will convince enough of the masses that there’s a communist plot to take over the judiciary and the “slightly-left-of-centre-left-liberals” are really Taliban insurgents bent on ousting him from power – for no good reason other than his penchant for paying young prostitutes not to have sex with him.

 This brings me to the other wake-up call.  I was introduced to a very interesting Italian journalist at a party last week and we were talking about the forthcoming election and Calabria in general when he was told by another guest that I did a bit of blogging.  “Really?” he said.  “What do you write about?”  “Well mostly it’s meant to be gentle view of life in the South of Italy, for the folks back home.  They know a lot about Tuscany but not much seems to be written about Calabria.” I explained.  “What do you say about the Mafia?” He asked.  “Well, nothing to be honest.”  He turned and stared at me for a moment then shook his head.  “How can you possibly write about life in Calabria and NOT talk about them!”   Its true I know and I’ve been doing my best to avoid the subject, but whether I ever write about them or not, I have begun to realise that, unfortunately, life’s not all sun-dried tomatoes and Latte di Mandorla.  It’s close, but not all.  Guess I’ll have to work harder on my Italian and find out who won the poster wars.