The majority of you that have visited the cultural boot that is Italy would not associate it with such things as pug-faced wartime leaders or ghastly string vests that unfortunately imprint an everlasting visual memory on all that see them. I, on the other hand, can think of nothing less when reminiscing of my recent trip to the gastronome’s paradise. Excuse the fairytale style opening, but it all began on a trip to Southwest Italy in a small village called Cersuta.
When I proclaim it was small, I mean it had only one taxi owned by an unbelievably hairy yet suspiciously cheery man, sporting a white string vest cruising in an N-plate metro rover. Other than that, the town was absolutely beautiful and our B&B was breathtaking with a quaint terracotta veranda overlooking the turquoise seas of the Mediterranean with rolling hills behind us.
Unluckily for us, there was a problem with our booking meaning we were only staying there for one night instead of two. However, not failing their stereotype, Italians are well known for their great hospitality and the owner said her Grandfather who had a spare room would be willing to put us up for the night.
The following day we got back in the one and only taxi, still greeted by potentially the same string vest clad chap, and jerked and spluttered up a hill at what felt like a 45-degree angle, with cyclists seemingly speeding around us with ease. After what felt like a long and painful lifetime, we arrived at the Grandfather’s place, hopefully waving goodbye for the last time to a man that appeared happy about the chequered tan forming under his vest.
In the morning we went down for breakfast, accompanied by his Grandson called Andrea. Lucky for us, we got to be used as free English oral practise and suddenly learnt that perhaps he was still being taught an old curriculum. On the subject of politics, he exclaimed:
“So, er, is that boss Winston Churchill still in charge?”
Regardless of the fact that he still believed England was stuck in World War two, I found it astonishing that even in the smallest Italian village with no more than perhaps 60 residents, they could speak near-fluent English. At the time I could do nothing more than laugh at how on earth I could break it to Andrea that his political hero Churchill has been and gone, but now upon reflection I find it truly inspirational. Why is it that other nationalities are bilingual yet most English residents can only speak their own tongue? I would happily wear a string vest for the remainder of my life if it meant I could speak another language.
Who knows, maybe in a few years Andrea will write an article describing his hilarity at talking to a 21-year-old English woman who believes Luigi Einaudi of 1946 is still President of the Italian Republic and pokes fun at her choice of non-stringed garments.
