Every shit storm has a silver raindrop.
There's no telling if it is my prickly Ligurian sunburn or something far beyond my fluorescent epidermis, but an inexplicable wave of restlessness is bubbling up to the surface.
All in all it has been a month of sweet memories, shit storms, lessons learnt and ongoing damage control.
Mental souvenirs of my last moments in Italy - outdoor aperitifs, chaotic train journeys, too much food and humid summer storms.
As the fruits of my culinary therapy jiggle about on various parts of my body, my anti-social therapy has given me the opportunity to marinate in my thoughts.
I am usually a stirrer of thoughts; I toss them all into a big pot, mix and mash them aimlessly and hope for the best... so a relatively still marinade is a novelty (and I'd say a plus).
As my plane took off from Bologna Airport and the sanctuary of San Luca became no more than a little orange dot in the distance, it struck me just how much the red-roofed city had come to feel like a place I could call "home". The city which had initially felt stiflingly small turned out to be perfect for a bite-sized getaway from the busy hightreets of London. There is not a shred of doubt, however, that the people that I stumbled across in this brief bolognese break were the parmesan on my pasta... the cherry on my sundae... you know how it goes.
Whining over wine made the shit storms seem like little more than pebbles on the road, mere lessons to pocket and take home with me. The obvious ones being fairly generic: know when to firmly say "thanks but no thanks", learn to stand up for yourself etc. But the important ones were those sifted out of little chats before saying goodnight and parting ways, or in short watermelon breaks on park benches.
After an ordeal that had left me feeling like a doormat - that had just been walked all over (in stilettos) - it was the friendly openness of my parmesan pals that reminded me of what I've really gained from this experience.
My childhood friends with whom driving on the motorway in a broken car can feel like a sound decision.
Whining over wine made the shit storms seem like little more than pebbles on the road, mere lessons to pocket and take home with me. The obvious ones being fairly generic: know when to firmly say "thanks but no thanks", learn to stand up for yourself etc. But the important ones were those sifted out of little chats before saying goodnight and parting ways, or in short watermelon breaks on park benches.
After an ordeal that had left me feeling like a doormat - that had just been walked all over (in stilettos) - it was the friendly openness of my parmesan pals that reminded me of what I've really gained from this experience.
My childhood friends with whom driving on the motorway in a broken car can feel like a sound decision.
The one-on-one chat that concluded my final pilgrimage to the Mercato della Terra.
Being driven to the middle of nowhere for a ridiculous barnyard barbeque followed by star-gazing on the back of a pick up truck.
A friendly invitation to go for a drive and a dinner in the Bolognese hills.
And finally my last chat in my favourite piazza, across from the Sette Chiese, before heading off home and preparing to depart. And those are just a handful from my last month.
And finally my last chat in my favourite piazza, across from the Sette Chiese, before heading off home and preparing to depart. And those are just a handful from my last month.
These, my friends, are the silver raindrops and golden clouds that I was able to spot in my particular shit storm.
Patient parmesan friends peppered with solo trips to nearby towns turned out to be the recipe for a perfect plate of parting pasta.
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