The Days Are Just Packed

There’s only one thing worse than stumbling out of a nightclub at dawn, wearing last nights frock and doing the walk of shame home. And that’s falling out of a nightclub, wearing last nights frock, into a nun and doing the walk of shame home. Such is the curse of living in a city with more convents than it has ice cream shops.

School is good but six hours of Italian is proving gruelling and Franceso who takes me for individual tuition remained ominously silent when I asked if I was one of the slowest students he’d ever taught. I can’t help feeling I’ve regressed twenty years and should be somewhere else with the ‘special’ kids.

Alberto, the personal trainer, being rather more expensive and far less attractive than his website would lead you to believe has been replaced by Federico - a rather handsome young chap who enjoys kick boxing, horse riding and humiliating me in the gym. He’s a hard task master but a pair of deep brown eyes, a beautiful thick mane and being able to ogle the kind of body that most gay men would die for are a small price to pay for enjoying the relentless Italian diet of gelato, pizza and pasta.

I’ve acquainted myself with a thoroughly delightful group of friends, made great use of the terrace for out of hours drinking, had a minor run in with the Carabinieri, (although thankfully it wasn’t me slumped in a shop doorway being carried home) and the car and I have fallen foul of numerous homicidal drivers about the city. Needless to say I’ve established myself on the Florentine scene. And I’m loving it.

As I found in Rio, time is passing all too quickly and there’ve been many great moments already, the majority of them involving fantastic food or wine to excess. This weekend I took the car and Nicole and Anna, (two Kiwi students in my class) to Montepulciano and Assisi, (the home of St Francis). After a minor prang with what I can only assume was a completely blind/psychopathic truck driver we headed out of the city high into the hills, revelling in the sunshine with the roof down and singing along to 80’s pop hits. We’d gone in search of one of the finest wines in all Italy - Brunello Di Montepuliciano. It’s not called a super Tuscan for nothing and we enjoyed several glasses over a fantastic lunch of toast cooked in Bacon fat, (I know, I know but I’m working out five days a week), ravioli slathered in sage butter and Torta de Nonna. I also picked up a bottle to add to the growing collection of fine wines that are being set aside for either my next big birthday, my divorce or in fact, my wedding depending on which comes first and requires more booze to get through.

Lunch and a wander through the cobbled streets of the old town under our ever loosening belts we headed on to Assisi where we ducked in to check out the beautiful frescos before catching the sunset over the Monastery high on the hill top. It was utterly, utterly beautiful.

Back in the city way after dark we called it a night which left me feeling fresh faced enough on Sunday for a run across the Ponte Vecchio. I was out early enough to avoid the hoards of tourists clamouring to buy tacky over priced jewellery that normally renders the place unbearable. Feeling virtuous, I met with Gwen a young artist on a scholarship from Edinburgh, (who also hosted a flash dance off in a launderette last week) and drank far too much Prosecco than is probably decent on the Sabeth. We chewed the cud, bitched about men and got burnt by the freakishly hot sunshine on Piazza de Senoria.

Dull as it may be to comment upon the weather, it has been amazing. But so too have the people, the night life, the food, the men and the overall quality of life. The Italians really have their priorities right and I believe Firenze is better than anywhere I’ve ever lived before. Despite the horrendous expense, the mosquitoes and the inevitable expansion of ones waistline I’m starting to think this could well be my final resting place at the end of the grand tour.

Jaq of Hearts

I've no idea why but I'm clearly something of a hit with the gents at the moment. I can’t remember the last time an entire bar full of men cheered when I took my jumper off. I can only put this down to one of two reasons: my never having pursued a career as a pub stripper or (and I fear this is more likely) it’s never happened before.

I’ve just finished the mammoth road trip from Somerset to Florence, all 1400 miles of it. Sadly Donal cried off with a bad case of man-flu so I made the journey with a bag of mint imperials, half a packet of crisps, two teach yourself Italian CDs and a can of Red Bull riding shot gun with me. None of which proved to be great conversation or navigators but all of which were more than happy for me to talk about myself for eighteen and a half hours.

The bar in question is in a small French village called Auxonne, about 25k outside Dijon. After fourteen hours in the car I’d decided to call it a night and pulled up the nearest lodgings on the sat nav. I paid the very reasonable sum of 35 Euros and checked into my small but clean room. I headed downstairs to find a restaurant but my hopes of rustic French cuisine were quickly dashed as I was informed everywhere would be closed. Clearly a woman in need of several glasses of red wine, the chap behind the desk took pity on me and invited me next door to the bar where he and some friends were having a lock in. It’s at this point I should probably clarify who the jeering crowd was; Maxwell - 68, Alex 72, Jean-Christophe 84 and a very overweight Labrador - Jaq, (77 in doggie years). All of whom had definitely eaten their and probably everyone else’ fair share or fois gras.

They were a fantastic crowd who took great interest in my journey and tried their hardest to persuade me that I should remain in France and nothing good, (least of all the men) was to be found in Italy. The wine, conversation, pate and cheese flowed long into the night and Alex took great hilarity in regaling the story of how Catherine the Great met her demise whilst making love to a horse. Oh how the guys laughed.

Feeling more than a little guilty at embarrassing my namesake in front of the gang Alex asked if I had an interest in fine wine. I responded with an emphatic “Yes!” and he scurried off returning several minutes later with two fantastic looking bottles of Chablis Premier Cru from his vineyard . He placed his palms together and to the side of his face gesturing that they should be left to sleep for at least fours years before drinking.

It was shortly after this that my school French failed me, the barman, (a youngster in his sixties) pulled from under the counter a selection of fancy women’s underwear and pointed them in my direction. I’ve no idea what he was saying but fearing some sort of OAP Anne Summers was about to commence I necked the last of my wine, said good night and left.

The following morning I drove to Verese just outside Milan via the Mont Blanc tunnel. Coughing and spluttering for all 11,8 k I eventually emerged looking like a sooty-faced extra from Oliver, (N:B: anyone with a convertible car should not attempt this journey with the roof down). With France and Switzerland behind me I had arrived in Italy.

The land of fine wine, fine food and f**king insane drivers. I say this as a woman who’s more than happy tearing her way around the streets of London but even for me, when a car appears from nowhere and starts flashing you to move over at 120 and it isn’t a copper you know you‘re not in Camden any more.

I’d arranged to meet with my old colleagues from the Vivendi Italy office, we dined and lunched on fantastic Tuscan cuisine, (mountains of anti pasti and a great mozzarella like cheese called Burrata) until I thought I’d rendered myself immobile, (too much food rather than Grappa I swear). Waving them goodbye, I embarked on the last stretch of the journey to my new home in Firenze.

So here I am, writing from the terrace of the apartment I’d always hoped I’d find myself in. The kind with huge wooden doors from the street, great stone steps, wrought iron railings, shuttered windows and a brass plaque with the owners name on it. Just moments from the Duomo and I can hear the early morning choir, their singing only interrupted by Italians chit chatting over cappuccinos and the polizei speeding around the city.

This afternoon I begin my classes with the professor at the Instituto Italiano after which I’ve arranged to meet Alberto a rather hot looking personal trainer who, according to his website will enable me to eat all the pasta and panna cotta I want for the next month and still keep my bikini boot camp body.