Being an avid Italophile (my business even has an Italian name), I had high hopes for this part of the trip, and the experience has actually exceeded the expectations. I love it all…the brightly coloured houses; the tiny vehicles; the crazy bathroom fittings (bidet or massage shower, anyone?); the impeccably-dressed, friendly and just a little bit crazy locals and their relaxed embrace of La Dolce Vita — morning espresso, afternoon gelato, evening aperitivo, and the Italian tradition I had most been looking forward to, La Passeggiata — where families dress in their finest clothes for an evening stroll. Even the constant noise of scooters, sirens, shouting children and construction work (wherever we stay, no matter how lovely a spot, we never seem to be more than 20 metres from someone using a concrete cutter) just seem to add to the experience.
This love affair with all things Italian culminated in sitting outside a waterfront bar on the Italian Riviera, suitably attired, while simultaneously drinking an espresso and a Negroni, having a (possibly caffeine and alcohol-induced) existential epiphany that everything in my life had led to this moment. I was aware I hadn’t just been awarded a Noble Prize for services to graphic design, or suddenly and inadvertently discovered a cure for pancreatic cancer, but it was still special for me. It truly felt like my life had peaked.
Which may have been prophetic, as it meant there was only one way it could go. The next day after a late afternoon swim in the harbour and having nowhere to change, I put my shorts back over my swimming trunks, then went a seperate way home from the rest of the family. Shortly after, I looked down with horror to discover that the trunks had not fully dried and had soaked the front of my shorts, which looked pretty conclusively like I had had a large bladder-related accident. Unfortunately, the only way to get back to the apartment was down the main street of Rapallo against an oncoming tide of many, many well-dressed Italians all coming home from work. I was faced with a decision — to leave the wet shorts on, or remove them and walk back in my budgie smugglers (and even in Italy I felt this would be considered a togs, togs, undies situation). I decided on option three, which was hiding in a doorway clutching my man bag to the front of my shorts, having PTSD flashbacks to my early years at primary school. Mercifully Fiona and the kids appeared, with much laughter (from them) and a towel to wrap around my waist. As we made our way home, it then became apparent that the towel looked very much like a skirt, my leather man bag could now easily be mistaken for a women’s purse (context is everything), meaning for all intents and purposes I was now participating in my first Italian evening stroll with wet pants, looking like a lady boy. Fiona likes to refer to the whole episode as La Pisseggiata.
We finished our time in Liguria by joining our good friends the Chamberlains in Levanto for a long talked about “coffee in Italy” (which may or may not have been the impetus for this entire trip).
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