She had known Tom for a year when he held her tight pulled her closer. It was a pool party; she felt herself flush in the warm water. Did he know how she longed to feel a man touch her? She suspected he did. Just as he knew his wife was glaring at them, the slash of her stained red lips set against her dark, expertly tweezed brows. Georgia knew at that moment that their marriage was sexless. She was familiar enough with that lookon the face of a frustrated woman. She gave a nod to the frisson and swam away.
Tom and Harriett separated six months later. Georgia was not the least bit surprised however she was surprised that no one else seemed to realize the marriage was in trouble. She gave herself a smug pat on the back for her superior observational powers and yes, she was just a little bit pleased.
Winter passed. He grew lighter, enjoying his freedom and success with women. “Tom is really letting his hair down. Making up for lost time.” people would say.
His wife suffered, her brow furrowed, smudged mouth, red eyes. She loved her husband and wanted him to come home. He still wore his wedding ring to kid her he might. It also served well as a warning to lovers not to get too close. He told them his life was “complicated”.
Georgia settled further into her new life. She was happy and it showed. She dropped her protective armour and started to let people come closer. She believed she could do anything. Suddenly she wanted to be seen.
He pulled Georgia onto his lap; he held her tight pulled her closer. A year to the day now freshly separated, fair game. Should she resist? A one night stand, a drought breaker was all. She kidded herself she did it for her health.
And yet she waited, hoped he would call. She knew she had to play cool if she wanted to keep him. It seemed important that he was the one dooing the chasing. He chased and they met for dinner. They both knew where they were heading later that night.
“Do you know Wei Wei?” he asked as there were walking back to her house.
Georgia had met Wei Wei a few times but didn’t know much about her. Canadian Chinese with pretty round eyes, an athletic physique and remarkably flat chest. She and her husband had two beautiful Eurasian children.
“Their marriage is volatile. She’s a bit unstable” he said. Or perhaps it was the marriage that was unstable and she a bit volatile. She can't remember now.
Tom and her Wei Wei's husband were good friends. They shared their woes about their troublesome marriages, their difficult wives, over a beer or two. “One never really knows what’s going on inside other people’s relationships” Georgia said with more insight than she knew at the time.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
London
Moving to London was a breeze and what a relief to be free of Philippe who had even had the nerve to accuse her of running away.
She arrived in December to sausages and mash, log fires and an easy familiarity. Her new company put her up at a plush hotel in Richmond while she settled in to finding her way about.
By far the nicest hotel around, stood proudly on the side of Richmond Hill, providing a grande view of the River Thames. An unrivalled landscape immortalized in paintings by Sir Joshua Reynolds and J.M.W. Turner. Oh yes, this was a fresh start indeed.
She arrived in December to sausages and mash, log fires and an easy familiarity. Her new company put her up at a plush hotel in Richmond while she settled in to finding her way about.
By far the nicest hotel around, stood proudly on the side of Richmond Hill, providing a grande view of the River Thames. An unrivalled landscape immortalized in paintings by Sir Joshua Reynolds and J.M.W. Turner. Oh yes, this was a fresh start indeed.
Monday, July 25, 2005
Amsterdam
Georgia was taken with him when they first met two years earlier. A well built type with mischievous eyes behind bookish glasses. She went for that look; sporty, academic and a little bit naughty but soon learned that he was snapped up and happily married. Weren’t they all? Harriet, his wife, popular and important in the group, was clearly in charge and enjoyed getting what she wanted. Georgia put them to a corner of her mind where she could admire him from afar and envy her slightly, with very little consequence.
She focused on getting on with her new life in a new city. Restless by nature, she was unable to settle down to the same place, the same people for more than a few years at a time. She’d been on a quest for greener pastures since she first left home at seventeen, moving from city to city and then country to county, until here she was over twenty years later, starting again in Hong Kong.
Perhaps due to an extreme fear of rejection, and certainly because she had not stayed in any one place long enough, intimacy had been distinctly lacking in recent years. She’d been in a relationship of sorts during her Amsterdam stint. Not that you could really call it a relationship, more of an unhealthy fixation. He was eccentric and she was drawn to him in a way she could neither rationalise nor resolve. His weirdness compelled her and she was hell bent on knowing this most unusual man.
Philippe was clever and good with numbers, impulsive with a huge appetite for extravagance. Men who love food usually love sex, but here was a Frenchman who would cosset her and smother her with affection and yet avoid penetration. Emotionally abusive, a boy inside a man’s body; he’d stare icy holes through anyone he didn’t like, but give generously when he wanted something. At times charming and entertaining with an easy Gallic manner, during tantrums he sweated the most fetid odour of vitriol, just like the fumes from the pissoirs that lined the pretty city canals.
The day she heard voices from the upstairs bathroom she knew her suspicions were founded. She’d suspected an affair but without proof what could she do? Tiptoeing gingerly up the narrow staircase, dreading the creak of each aged oak board, she reached the landing and put her ear to the locked door. The words were drowned out by the steady stream of hot running water. Such a waste she noted sardonically as she crouched down to peer through the crack at the bottom of the door through which the steam escaped.
There were his large flat and familiar feet, rocking back and forth on pointed toes, sending droplets splaying as his heels touched down in syncopation with the knocking of the hot water tank. The voices were his alone. One deep and assertive, the other inhaled breathy and submissive.
Unusual gait, vacant stare, nail biting, weird smell, gluttony, deceitfulness.
Google threw up references to schizophrenia, autism and Aspergers’s syndrome but what good did a Google diagnosis really do anyone?
Georgia eventually tired of the emotional abuse, the lack of empathy. She was never going to solve the mystery and he was never going to be anything more than a weirdo with a semi flaccid penis. When opportunity presented itself, she just packed up and bolted to London.
She focused on getting on with her new life in a new city. Restless by nature, she was unable to settle down to the same place, the same people for more than a few years at a time. She’d been on a quest for greener pastures since she first left home at seventeen, moving from city to city and then country to county, until here she was over twenty years later, starting again in Hong Kong.
Perhaps due to an extreme fear of rejection, and certainly because she had not stayed in any one place long enough, intimacy had been distinctly lacking in recent years. She’d been in a relationship of sorts during her Amsterdam stint. Not that you could really call it a relationship, more of an unhealthy fixation. He was eccentric and she was drawn to him in a way she could neither rationalise nor resolve. His weirdness compelled her and she was hell bent on knowing this most unusual man.
Philippe was clever and good with numbers, impulsive with a huge appetite for extravagance. Men who love food usually love sex, but here was a Frenchman who would cosset her and smother her with affection and yet avoid penetration. Emotionally abusive, a boy inside a man’s body; he’d stare icy holes through anyone he didn’t like, but give generously when he wanted something. At times charming and entertaining with an easy Gallic manner, during tantrums he sweated the most fetid odour of vitriol, just like the fumes from the pissoirs that lined the pretty city canals.
The day she heard voices from the upstairs bathroom she knew her suspicions were founded. She’d suspected an affair but without proof what could she do? Tiptoeing gingerly up the narrow staircase, dreading the creak of each aged oak board, she reached the landing and put her ear to the locked door. The words were drowned out by the steady stream of hot running water. Such a waste she noted sardonically as she crouched down to peer through the crack at the bottom of the door through which the steam escaped.
There were his large flat and familiar feet, rocking back and forth on pointed toes, sending droplets splaying as his heels touched down in syncopation with the knocking of the hot water tank. The voices were his alone. One deep and assertive, the other inhaled breathy and submissive.
Unusual gait, vacant stare, nail biting, weird smell, gluttony, deceitfulness.
Google threw up references to schizophrenia, autism and Aspergers’s syndrome but what good did a Google diagnosis really do anyone?
Georgia eventually tired of the emotional abuse, the lack of empathy. She was never going to solve the mystery and he was never going to be anything more than a weirdo with a semi flaccid penis. When opportunity presented itself, she just packed up and bolted to London.
Wednesday, September 5, 2001
Sicily and Santorini
So now its London. Job hunting, setting up bank account for non existent savings and salary, registering with agencies, daily interviews, same old thing with the CV blah blah blah. Trying to find the fine line between selling myself as "can do career woman" and coming across as arrogant stuffed shirt blue stocking type.
It's been a week and still no job. This isn't what I heard about the temping scene in London. It is supposed to be easy. Might take Liz's advice a pull a few beers at the local for a bit of pocket money. Its not all bad, there are a few nibbles. One job in Rome for three months (dream job), another in Milan (second dream job) another in Ipswich (UK) (not so dreamy but money) another in London (spread sheeting for a sandwich shop)...Its a waiting game and waiting is something I'm not good at. Hurry up next week.
Sicily. I loved Sicily. Didn't meet any gangsters, just the daily quota of dirty old men who really do seem to believe that they are irresistible. Speaking of irresistible who has tried Sicilian granita or marzipan? I tried both daily. Yum. My days went like this.
1.Leisurely Breakfast
2.Walk to town for cappuccinno
3.Chairlift to beach. Toarmina spectacularly located on a hill overlooking the sea and Mt Etna (which was putting on a puff smokey show)is reached by winding scarey taxi ride or chairlift.
4.Loaf on Beach until lunchtime
5.Pizza and Granita
6.Snooze on Beach until snacktime
7.Granita and Cappuccinno
8.Repose on Beach until sunset
9.Campari and Soda and dinner
10.Evening stroll followed by bed rest.
Then I went to Greece. See above but substitute points 1,2,5,7,9 with Greek Salad, Tzatziki, Dolmades and Ouzo and point 3 with Overcrowded bus with screaming ticket collector and loads of dirty sunburnt tourists in bikinis (like me).
Santorini is blue. Blue everywhere. Climbed a volcano, caught a donkey taxi and marvelled at the misty beauty of the Aegean Sea especially at sunset when you can't make out where the sky meets the sea and the colours leave you gobsmacked. Yellow blob, surrounded by red, then a ring of purple graduating to blue add a bit of yellow for a greeny patch and then whatever takes your fancy. Add a boat sailing into the sunset. Cliched I know, but that's how it is. True dinks.
Apparently Greek plumbing can't handle toilet paper. So I am pleased to be in the UK and able once again to flush rather than place in bin without looking.
Ciao for now
La Polly in Vacanza (not for long I hope)
It's been a week and still no job. This isn't what I heard about the temping scene in London. It is supposed to be easy. Might take Liz's advice a pull a few beers at the local for a bit of pocket money. Its not all bad, there are a few nibbles. One job in Rome for three months (dream job), another in Milan (second dream job) another in Ipswich (UK) (not so dreamy but money) another in London (spread sheeting for a sandwich shop)...Its a waiting game and waiting is something I'm not good at. Hurry up next week.
Sicily. I loved Sicily. Didn't meet any gangsters, just the daily quota of dirty old men who really do seem to believe that they are irresistible. Speaking of irresistible who has tried Sicilian granita or marzipan? I tried both daily. Yum. My days went like this.
1.Leisurely Breakfast
2.Walk to town for cappuccinno
3.Chairlift to beach. Toarmina spectacularly located on a hill overlooking the sea and Mt Etna (which was putting on a puff smokey show)is reached by winding scarey taxi ride or chairlift.
4.Loaf on Beach until lunchtime
5.Pizza and Granita
6.Snooze on Beach until snacktime
7.Granita and Cappuccinno
8.Repose on Beach until sunset
9.Campari and Soda and dinner
10.Evening stroll followed by bed rest.
Then I went to Greece. See above but substitute points 1,2,5,7,9 with Greek Salad, Tzatziki, Dolmades and Ouzo and point 3 with Overcrowded bus with screaming ticket collector and loads of dirty sunburnt tourists in bikinis (like me).
Santorini is blue. Blue everywhere. Climbed a volcano, caught a donkey taxi and marvelled at the misty beauty of the Aegean Sea especially at sunset when you can't make out where the sky meets the sea and the colours leave you gobsmacked. Yellow blob, surrounded by red, then a ring of purple graduating to blue add a bit of yellow for a greeny patch and then whatever takes your fancy. Add a boat sailing into the sunset. Cliched I know, but that's how it is. True dinks.
Apparently Greek plumbing can't handle toilet paper. So I am pleased to be in the UK and able once again to flush rather than place in bin without looking.
Ciao for now
La Polly in Vacanza (not for long I hope)
Tuesday, May 8, 2001
Firenze-La Guerra della Scarpa II
And I waited.
I lamented, to anyone who would listen, the woeful tale of my ruined sandles.
I lamented at school,"That's how it is in Italy Polly"
I lamented in the bar over my morning cappuccinno, "lascia perdure bella (get over it luv)"
I lamented to my friend Sonia, "That's terrible Polly I'll help you." Really?
Sonia and I marched off to the agency for consumer affairs. I was right, they do have one in Italy. We made an appointment, presented my case, presented the offending sandles, I paid some money, and then we waited...
And waited...
"Sonia, I didn't quite catch the whole thing, what happens now?"
"The ministry writes a letter to the shoe shop requesting them to exchange your broken shoes."
My my lovely bicycle with the basket in front got stolen? It happened in the same week as the war of the shoes.
Two weeks went by, no letter, no shoes.
And then, after another approach to the ministry for consumer rip offs (with Sonia), the letter arrived. I was directed to make an appointment with the proprietor for an "analysis of the shoes". An analysis...for what?
"To determine whether you walked in water madam. Or perhaps washed the sandles in detergent."
"Oh, and just how and who is going to perform this ANALYSIS?"
"The proprietor madam, naturally." Silly me, who else could perform this analysis?
"But, will the water analysis exclude rain water?"
"Yes madam, they are only going to test for salt water." OK then. I made my appointment.
Did I mention the stalker? Same week as the shoes and stolen bike an Egyptian fellow lured me dancing under the pretence that he could Salsa. Well, he couldn't. He waved me around the dance floor like a salami. I was furious, told him I had a headache, needed to go home and "NoI don't want to go to the soccer tomorrow" Possibly a cultural thing, but he couldn't seem to grasp the idea that I did not find him irresistible and that harassing and insulting me was not the way to win my affections.
After a couple of weeks of phone calls and text message insults he informed me that I had had my chance and he was never going to write/speak to me again. Promise? Not all bad, it helped my Italian no end, I learnt quite a few useful words that they just don't teach in Italian for Beginners.
The shoes were analysed and determined to be faulty. Yay me. So I could choose either an identical replacement pair or a whole new pair and a refund for the difference. I took my time in choosing a snazzy pair of sporty comfy loafers, some change for my effort, and something almost like an apology from the owner. "Can we forget the letter from the Minister now madam?"
"Certo, non c'e problemo".
A day later the insoles to my sporty comfy loafers fell out......
I decided after all my hard work in Florence I just had to have a seaside holiday. Wonderful but so different to a weekend at Bateman's Bay. Think beach chairs at $12 a pop, G-strings, mobile phones, sun baking, gelati, granita, no surf, and swarthy Mediterranean types jumping off rocks in manner of romantic Italian movie.
Polly in Vacanza
I lamented, to anyone who would listen, the woeful tale of my ruined sandles.
I lamented at school,"That's how it is in Italy Polly"
I lamented in the bar over my morning cappuccinno, "lascia perdure bella (get over it luv)"
I lamented to my friend Sonia, "That's terrible Polly I'll help you." Really?
Sonia and I marched off to the agency for consumer affairs. I was right, they do have one in Italy. We made an appointment, presented my case, presented the offending sandles, I paid some money, and then we waited...
And waited...
"Sonia, I didn't quite catch the whole thing, what happens now?"
"The ministry writes a letter to the shoe shop requesting them to exchange your broken shoes."
My my lovely bicycle with the basket in front got stolen? It happened in the same week as the war of the shoes.
Two weeks went by, no letter, no shoes.
And then, after another approach to the ministry for consumer rip offs (with Sonia), the letter arrived. I was directed to make an appointment with the proprietor for an "analysis of the shoes". An analysis...for what?
"To determine whether you walked in water madam. Or perhaps washed the sandles in detergent."
"Oh, and just how and who is going to perform this ANALYSIS?"
"The proprietor madam, naturally." Silly me, who else could perform this analysis?
"But, will the water analysis exclude rain water?"
"Yes madam, they are only going to test for salt water." OK then. I made my appointment.
Did I mention the stalker? Same week as the shoes and stolen bike an Egyptian fellow lured me dancing under the pretence that he could Salsa. Well, he couldn't. He waved me around the dance floor like a salami. I was furious, told him I had a headache, needed to go home and "NoI don't want to go to the soccer tomorrow" Possibly a cultural thing, but he couldn't seem to grasp the idea that I did not find him irresistible and that harassing and insulting me was not the way to win my affections.
After a couple of weeks of phone calls and text message insults he informed me that I had had my chance and he was never going to write/speak to me again. Promise? Not all bad, it helped my Italian no end, I learnt quite a few useful words that they just don't teach in Italian for Beginners.
The shoes were analysed and determined to be faulty. Yay me. So I could choose either an identical replacement pair or a whole new pair and a refund for the difference. I took my time in choosing a snazzy pair of sporty comfy loafers, some change for my effort, and something almost like an apology from the owner. "Can we forget the letter from the Minister now madam?"
"Certo, non c'e problemo".
A day later the insoles to my sporty comfy loafers fell out......
I decided after all my hard work in Florence I just had to have a seaside holiday. Wonderful but so different to a weekend at Bateman's Bay. Think beach chairs at $12 a pop, G-strings, mobile phones, sun baking, gelati, granita, no surf, and swarthy Mediterranean types jumping off rocks in manner of romantic Italian movie.
Polly in Vacanza
Monday, May 7, 2001
Firenze-La Guerra della Scarpa
One of the many things Italy is famous for is shoes. Everyone knows this, we don't doubt it, just accept it. Italy, shoes, Italy, shoes.
Knowing this, I ventured into a very nice negozzio in Florence near the Piazza della Republica. I bought a pair of shoes; quite a nice pair. I was contented. I paid too much, but after receiving so many horrified gasps and "non esista's" at the sight of my size 42's, I was relieved to find a pair that fitted. Ho comprato. I bought.
After only five days these lovely shoes betrayed me. hey fell apart. The leather torn and the soles in tatters (my soul too)... Povera Polly
Don't worry I thought, I'll just take them back and get a refund. A bit of an inconvenience, but no problem really. I'm on holiday and have plenty of time. Did Ikeep the receipt? Yes luckily I did.
So I strolled back into the shop. "Uuurrggg Mio Dio" gasped the commessa. She was shocked. "Yes", I said
"They are quite bad". She spoke to the senior manager - stronsissima
"These are sandals, you can't use them in water."
"Excuse me?"
"You have been in water, you can't do this with sandals."
"Excuse me, what do you mean I've been in water?"
"Have you worn them in the water?
"No off course not." (I avoid puddles in Florence at all costs - (remember what I told you about the dog poo?))
"There's nothing we can do."
"Yes there is. You can give me my money back"
"Impossible in Italy"
"What do you mean impossible?"
"NON ESISTA IN ITALY .... IM-POS-SI-BI-LE"
"Excuse me?"
"We can ask the factory whether they are prepared to repair them"
"I dont want patched up sandals. I only wore them for five days"
"Well then, bo (Italian shrug)" (Tuff luck honey!)
"OK, I'm going to Consumer Affairs"
"BO. Va bene"
"Arrivaderci."
OK. Think think think. What to do? Ah...my land lady works in the clothing industry here. She will know what to do. So off I went to visit Flavia.
"Ciao Flavia"
"Ciao Polly, come stai?"
"Well.....not that well actually, I bought a pair of shoes and ... blah blah blah blah,."
"Oh I know someone who knows one of the boys who works in that shop. I'll see what I can find out."
"Ohhhh thank you. That would be great."
"This sort of thing can happen to stranieri."
"Yes apparently."
I so I waited......
Knowing this, I ventured into a very nice negozzio in Florence near the Piazza della Republica. I bought a pair of shoes; quite a nice pair. I was contented. I paid too much, but after receiving so many horrified gasps and "non esista's" at the sight of my size 42's, I was relieved to find a pair that fitted. Ho comprato. I bought.
After only five days these lovely shoes betrayed me. hey fell apart. The leather torn and the soles in tatters (my soul too)... Povera Polly
Don't worry I thought, I'll just take them back and get a refund. A bit of an inconvenience, but no problem really. I'm on holiday and have plenty of time. Did Ikeep the receipt? Yes luckily I did.
So I strolled back into the shop. "Uuurrggg Mio Dio" gasped the commessa. She was shocked. "Yes", I said
"They are quite bad". She spoke to the senior manager - stronsissima
"These are sandals, you can't use them in water."
"Excuse me?"
"You have been in water, you can't do this with sandals."
"Excuse me, what do you mean I've been in water?"
"Have you worn them in the water?
"No off course not." (I avoid puddles in Florence at all costs - (remember what I told you about the dog poo?))
"There's nothing we can do."
"Yes there is. You can give me my money back"
"Impossible in Italy"
"What do you mean impossible?"
"NON ESISTA IN ITALY .... IM-POS-SI-BI-LE"
"Excuse me?"
"We can ask the factory whether they are prepared to repair them"
"I dont want patched up sandals. I only wore them for five days"
"Well then, bo (Italian shrug)" (Tuff luck honey!)
"OK, I'm going to Consumer Affairs"
"BO. Va bene"
"Arrivaderci."
OK. Think think think. What to do? Ah...my land lady works in the clothing industry here. She will know what to do. So off I went to visit Flavia.
"Ciao Flavia"
"Ciao Polly, come stai?"
"Well.....not that well actually, I bought a pair of shoes and ... blah blah blah blah,."
"Oh I know someone who knows one of the boys who works in that shop. I'll see what I can find out."
"Ohhhh thank you. That would be great."
"This sort of thing can happen to stranieri."
"Yes apparently."
I so I waited......
Saturday, January 6, 2001
Firenze - Casa Mia
Should anyone be planning a surprise visit, and I sincerely hope you are, it might be handy to know where I live, and how to find me.
The easiest way to find my new flat is to take the train to the main station in Florence, Firenze Santa Maria Novella. Walk though the station and follow the signs to Il Duomo. The magnificent pink, green and grey marble church pops up before your eyes. Impossible to miss, you'll be gobsmacked every time.
Continue along the same street, diritto, diritto, sempre diritto, keeping Il Duomo on your right. When an African man pushes an armfull of Gucci handbags or Rapheal ombrelli under your nose, don't panic. Just say "no thankyou" and keep going. Or if you are feeling bold that day "vi via!!", both equally ineffective, but the latter a lot more satisfying.
Continue towards the Arno, about five streets after Il Duomo giro a sinistra into via della Vigna Vecchia - the old vineyard. Pass by the local pizzeria, wave ciao to Micheala. You can also wave ciao to mumma, pappa, zio , zia, fratello, sorrella and cane. They are all there making fabulous yummy pizzas. There will be a gaggle of American students milling about hoping for a climpse of the living statue of David.
Continue along until you find the door number 5. Press the button named Bolognesi. If you have trouble finding the place you can always ask for Vivoli - the most famous gellateria in Florence. Everyone knows where it is, just at the bottom of my street next to La latteria and opposite the shop where I buy my fresh pesto and pancetta.
Oh yeah a word of warning. Stai attenta i stronzi, and I don't just mean the snoots in the shops. You will find the streets regularly dotted with doggy poo, no such thing as pooper scoopering in Italy. My shoes have seen better days.
I'm most likely to be at school in the day time. In the evening you will find me sipping chianti classico at the Savoy in piazza della republica or simply promenading. It's how it's done on vacanza.
The easiest way to find my new flat is to take the train to the main station in Florence, Firenze Santa Maria Novella. Walk though the station and follow the signs to Il Duomo. The magnificent pink, green and grey marble church pops up before your eyes. Impossible to miss, you'll be gobsmacked every time.
Continue along the same street, diritto, diritto, sempre diritto, keeping Il Duomo on your right. When an African man pushes an armfull of Gucci handbags or Rapheal ombrelli under your nose, don't panic. Just say "no thankyou" and keep going. Or if you are feeling bold that day "vi via!!", both equally ineffective, but the latter a lot more satisfying.
Continue towards the Arno, about five streets after Il Duomo giro a sinistra into via della Vigna Vecchia - the old vineyard. Pass by the local pizzeria, wave ciao to Micheala. You can also wave ciao to mumma, pappa, zio , zia, fratello, sorrella and cane. They are all there making fabulous yummy pizzas. There will be a gaggle of American students milling about hoping for a climpse of the living statue of David.
Continue along until you find the door number 5. Press the button named Bolognesi. If you have trouble finding the place you can always ask for Vivoli - the most famous gellateria in Florence. Everyone knows where it is, just at the bottom of my street next to La latteria and opposite the shop where I buy my fresh pesto and pancetta.
Oh yeah a word of warning. Stai attenta i stronzi, and I don't just mean the snoots in the shops. You will find the streets regularly dotted with doggy poo, no such thing as pooper scoopering in Italy. My shoes have seen better days.
I'm most likely to be at school in the day time. In the evening you will find me sipping chianti classico at the Savoy in piazza della republica or simply promenading. It's how it's done on vacanza.
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