We Beat On...

The title from this post comes from the closing lines of F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby: 'So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past'. A long way of saying 'keep calm and carry on'.


The Great Gatsby is one of my favourite books. I love how tragically glamorous everything is: Gatsby and Daisy are perfectly formed characters crumbling to pieces in front of the stunning backdrop of the lake. I can't help but get swept along all the way to its terrible conclusion and when I get to the end I can't help but starting again.

But on my camping adventure I wasn't reading F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby, I was reading Joseph Conrad's The Secret Agent at the side of a lake in an unknown location, slowly melting due to the intense heat. I wasn't enjoying myself.

We'd left the previous day for our surprise camping adventure. It had taken an age to get to wherever we had got to (I still don't know - if you recognise the pictures, answers on a postcard at the usual address) and because it was so last minute we hadn't pre-booked. We tried all the campsites in the area and drew a massive blank - they were chocca-blocca with Dutch people.

The problem wasn't as grave as you might think (though I would have preferred it to have been so we could have turned round to go back to Brescia); we were in our own home! All we needed to do was park up and everything would be just dandy.

We found a car park and did just that. Now I don't know if you've ever spent a night (or even two) in a box with four other people but I can tell you it's not much fun at all. So the next morning we'd gone lakeside to sunbathe and chillax. We can now pick up from where I left it earlier...

I wasn't having much fun at all. I would read a bit then look out at the view: something about it haunted me.

 I don't know what it was about that view in particular, but I was struck by that same feeling I had when I read The Great Gatsby. In my head the lake where Gatsby lives is pretty much identical to this so I suppose it's no surprise that I ended up linking the two together.

That might not be all. The 1% of my subconscious that regretted my decision was growing by the minute and I was hit with the inevitability that Gatsby and Daisy were subjected to. I realised I'd made a mistake and I should have gone to Cinque Terre with Kitty and the others. Don't get me wrong. I love my family and I was really touched by their kindness, but this wasn't what I really wanted.

The location may have been stunning, but I couldn't relax. I was starting to miss Kitty and the others and realised that I'd made the wrong decision. It was at that point I resolved never to take the easy way out again on my year abroad.

On the way back to Brescia I was a little desperate. Everyone was a little tired and short-tempered due to the lack of sleep and a proper house. I closed my eyes and thought of the song Whatever by Oasis. I love this song and much like The Great Gatsby it struck a familiar chord with me at the time: 'I'm free to do whatever I, whatever I choose and I'll sing the blues if I want'. In that moment the song appeared on the radio of the campervan. My family didn't register and so I sat there enjoying it and coming to terms with my poor decision.

That evening I showered and got myself ready to leave the next morning. By then I was ready to leave. I hadn't been before, but at least I could go without regretting it, which may have counterbalanced the regret of not going to Cinque Terre.

Surprise! Surprise!

The night after the restaurant debacle had been interesting. Kitty had a bit of, let's say digestive discomfort and she was up a few times in the night. She admitted it was probably psychological, but she was still up four or five times to try and rid herself of the rank profiteroles.

The following morning we headed en masse down to the station. We went back through the impossibly long tunnel and split into two parties: to Monaco and Cinque Terre, to Brescia. When I say we split into two parties, everyone went the other way and I was the only one heading back towards the east.

I boarded my train and waved to my friends as we accelerated out of the station. It was a proper goodbye because I never saw them again. We kept in touch sporadically on the internet, but if you spend a month with someone and it's another month before you next speak to them, that's like your whole acquantaince all over again. It's not long before you realise that all you ever got to see was a snapshot of their lives.

I had a lot of time to ponder this on the train over to Brescia. I had to change at Milan - yep there again - and was in Brescia by early afternoon. I was in minor discomfort due to my interesting sunburn, so I arrived in 30 degree heat wearing my jumper so my backpack didn't chafe. I was roasting.

My host dad collected me from the train station and I had my first ride on a scooter. To date it's still my only ride on a scooter. Apart from nearly flipping off the back due to the incredible weight of my backpack, I thoroughly enjoyed the experience. He took me to my host mum's work as she only had half an hour left on her shift. Then he went back to work.

It was so nice to see my family again. They are such wonderful people and I was glad I could spend more time with them. When I texted to ask them if I could come back, they said they had a surprise for me. I was intrigued to find out what this might be. I didn't have long to wait.

We were going for a weekend away in the campervan.

At this point I should just interject and say I don't really do camping. I like home comforts - running water, television, somewhere I can plug my laptop, and a proper toilet. Camping doesn't afford you these luxuries. Still I was going to be open-minded about my pending experience. I was touched that my fam were going over and above to give me the best time possible.

We were to go in a campervan that they'd borrowed off a friend as a kind of trial to see if they should buy one. We were also going to a different region of lakes. It was going to be epic.

So as I snuggled down in bed that night I was excited to be back and happy with my decision. Nearly. There was 1% of me that regretted the decision I'd made and wished I was in Cinque Terre. I ignored it and went to sleep.

Jimmy'll Fix It

So Thursday morning was to see a massive exodus from Baiardo and indeed Sanremo. Kitty and the other Canadians were off to Cinque Terre, my Sanremo roommate was off to Monaco with her new friends, and some people were even headed for home.

As it was to be our final night altogether we decided to have dinner together. At this point I feel it is appropriate to tell you a little something about Jimmy...

If you have ever been to Baiardo, you will have met or heard of Jimmy: he is a part of Baiardo folklore. He is not Italian. I don't think he can even speak Italian. He is a handy-man. From London. With very few teeth. Now Jimmy is a great person - he fixes stuff and so we had no reason to believe that he wouldn't fix our dinner plans.

'Now Jimmy' we said. 'We all want to have dinner together. Can you fix it for us?'
'Sure' says Jimmy.
'We have two very simple demands: cheap, and no set-menu.'
'No problem.'
Jim was going to fix it.

So that evening we met Jimmy and he walked us down to the restaurant. It looked a bit ropey, to be fair. We sat down and I got used to my surroundings.
'Yep,' I say to myself, 'that is a stuffed squirrel behind me, just above a large hunk of cured meat. Nice.'

Our first course was brought to us.

Hang on.

Our first course was brought to us? But we didn't want a set menu. Oh well. It was probably the cheapest option. Jimmy knows what he's doing.

The first course was pasta in a sauce - vegetables and the like. It wasn't the best I'd ever eaten, but it was passable. Oh well, it's only the first course. We were soon brought the second course - bolognese. Lovely. I take a mouthful. Not so lovely. There is a hum that goes round the table - don't eat the meat.

So far, not so good.

We were brought the meat dish next. We were understandably a little tentative at this moment in time. We passed it round - 'Oh, rabbit, my favourite.' Now I did have rabbit with the Brescian banquet my host family treated me to and it was ok. This was not. It was incredibly dry. I put a dollop of vegetables on my plate to moisten it a little. I have never eaten something so repulsive. I kept eating them as I couldn't work out how it was possible for a courgette to taste that bad.

By this point we were on a downhill spiral. Then dessert came. We realised that we'd been looking at dessert all evening. Next to the cured ham and the squirrel was a tray of profiteroles. No, not refridgerated, and yes, covered in a selection of neighbourhood flies - the very same flies that we watched crawling over stray cats and dogs outside.

Boke.

We ate as much as we could stomach so we wouldn't go hungry and then asked Jimmy if we could settle up. Jimmy has a word with the restaurant owner and walks over to us apologetically.
'That'll be 15Eur. Each.'
Silence fell in the restaurant and then the murmurings began: 'I can't pay that'; '15Eur! He must be joking!' and so on. I was sitting at the end of the table with Kitty and the other Canadians. We made eye-contact and decided against saying anything. The murmurings became louder and the tension began to augment. This was not going to end well.

Kitty made an executive decision.
'Let's pay.'
We looked at her.
'We ate their food, so let's pay for it. It's so disrespectful to refuse - what kind of impression are we giving!?'
I agreed with her and could tell things were about to get nasty. We collated 60Eur between us, handed it to Jimmy and left.

I believe at that point the poo hit the fan.

Thankfully we were long gone at that point, walking back to our house with a smashing view to boot.

We watched this stunning sight and hung around for the other diners to return. It transpired that most people had left within a few minutes of us, putting down any pile of cash - 5Eur, 10Eur, 0Eur... The other tutors couldn't understand why we had paid up - Kitty played the disrespectful line; I said that although we hadn't got what we wanted, we'd paid for an experience we certainly wouldn't forget - when Jimmy didn't fix it.

No Regrets...

There are only a few buses a day to and from Baiardo. It is potentially the only place in the world where you are completely relaxed one minute as you have breakfast looking out over a beautiful view and then suddenly there is sheer panic as you might miss the only bus down to Sanremo.

Because of this, I was treated to an early get up the following morning as it only really takes one day to do Baiardo. Even the prospect of getting further with Joseph Conrad's The Secret Agent couldn't tempt me to stay and sunbathe any longer.

Kitty and I therefore took the bus down to Sanremo to spend the day doing fun things. Shopping was a high priority.

At this point I am going to tell you about my biggest regret of that whole trip.

Kitty, from Canada, had been spending the extra weekend I spent with my host family with a couple from her native land. So much had they got on, that they decided to go to Cinque Terre together on Thursday morning. Cinque Terre is a beautiful stretch of coastal land, spanning 5 (cinque) villages (terre - sort of). I had been invited on this trip. Kitty had organised accommodation and trains and all I had to do was say yes.

I said no.

I don't know why I said no. Now I would say yes, yes, yes - try holding me back. But back then - when I was only at the start of my adventure, something crept inside me that told me to go for the safer option.

The safer option was by far and away the most complex. It was not staying in Baiardo. Most of the tutor population was leaving for one reason or another and I didn't want to be rattling round on my own. One of my Sanremo friends was coming at the weekend, but I was facing Thursday and Friday on my own.

So I took the easy option. I texted my host mum and asked her if I could come back. She couldn't have been happier. She was thrilled that I wanted to return and sample some more of her hospitality: to be honest, I felt instantly relieved.

I think Kitty was a bit bummed at this. Not at me personally, but because she would be spending a couple of days with just that - a couple. But I think it was the thought of travelling back to Baiardo alone that made me nervous about it, so instead I decided to go back to Brescia - travelling alone.

The depths of my intellect astound me, they really do...

So that day in Sanremo, as well as buying some harem pants - the first of many - we also bought our train tickets and that was that. My decision had been made, and do you know what, I still haven't managed to make it to Cinque Terre...

[Wo]Man vs. Wild

I like to think of myself as intrepid. I love exploring new places and discovering nooks and crannies rarely trodden by the majority of modern man - you'll see that as my year continues...

It was this attitude that I decided to employ the following morning in Baiardo. I say morning, I really mean afternoon, but as we've mentioned the morning, I'll tell you what that entailed too.

So I got up and went to the shop. No, wait - before we get to that I just want to share this photo with you.

A room with a view.

This was the view from my bedroom window. I say my bedroom, I actually mean the bedroom that I was currently sharing with about ten other people. Snug and cosy, yes siree! But when there's a view like that, you can never feel claustrophobic...

I got up and went to the shop - I had nothing to eat for breakfast, you see. I went with Kitty to the local shop and bought things like yoghurts and fruit. There were several people that were there on a semi-permenant basis that cooked for us in the evening, and we could probably raid the supplies to get some lunch. Breakfast, therefore, was the only meal that was up to me.

After this I joined the rest of the gang out on the terrace. I say terrace - imagine a terrace that's made by nature and has a fence round it to stop people falling down the mountain. A terrace then.

Oh, that's the view by the way.

So I spent the morning reading, soaking in the view and one other thing - oh yes - getting a hand print in sun burn on my back. Yes. I am that intelligent...

 I didn't realise that until much later, but I did have what Kitty called 'sun head'. It was at that point that we decided to do some exploring.

Everywhere we turned there was another stunning view - I could have walked around those hills for hours and hours. But it was really hot. Really hot.

We made our way out of the village and walked back along the road. I wanted to take a picture of the view as you come into the town - there's none quite like it.

 When I say Baiardo is a town perched on a hill, I'm not lying. What I want to know is how they got the crane up there. I also want to say how grateful I am that I never met it on my way up on the bus...

The rest of our walk was largely in the shade - in a garden that was supposed to take us to the fountain of everlasting life or something twee like that. We never found it - I'm still mortal. Oh well, I'll live (but obviously not forever now)...

We walked all over the village and the surrounding countryside until we got to this point. I looked up and took a photo. It was only months later that I realised I'd taken a picture of our houses. La dolce vita indeed - not so [wo]man vs. wild after all...

Delapidated Beauty

Things were a little sombre after my arrival in Baiardo. When I signed my e-contract with the company they said I would get a week of training, two weeks of camp and one week in Baiardo. During orientation I was so excited about the prospect of everyone being reunited at the end. But it wasn't to be. As you may have read.

Oh well. That's life. I'll get over it.

That evening I wandered round Baiardo with Kitty. The company director had escorted them all when they first arrived and he explained a bit of the town's history. The medieval church was a ruin, for want of a more elegant phrase, but apparently it was like that for a reason. One Easter morning the roof had fallen in killing everyone inside. It stayed like that as a reminder and as a monument.

The rest of the town was remarkable. Everything I'd noticed about Sanremo's old town was true here, but so much more. It resisted change from every side and sat on top of this hill refusing to bend to modern ideas like capitalism and television.

I don't have much more to say about our exploratory voyage - the pictures will do that well enough for me.

 The view from Baiardo

 The ruined church

 The rest of the village

 Living standards

Delapidated beauty

Friends for a Season

My Sanremo roommate had arrived in Baiardo with three other girls - girls she'd taught with. As we were the new arrivals it made sense that we shared one of the spare houses together in the village.

At this point I feel I should interject with an explanation. This owner of the company also (as far as I could understand) owned a lot of Baiardo - at least he helped build a lot of the village and came to own some of the houses there. Anyway as he had little use for all these houses, he gave them to the company to offer tired-out tutors a break here and there.

So on the Monday this is where I ended up. There were two types of houses - in town and overlooking the hills. The spare one was in town. We all went in together to have a look at this house and found it was inhabited - by Lydia, and Lydia's, ahem, man friend. It was a hot building anyway - sandwiched in the middle of other buildings in the town. I looked around. Found what would have been my bed. And to my great relief, Kitty said that she'd been keeping a bed spare in her house down by the edge of the village, overlooking the mountains.

Thank goodness.

You see I had been hit by a nasty feeling. I really got on with my Sanremo roommate, but she had since bonded with the tutors she worked with. It's like I said before, we were no longer part of the same experience.

I saw her that evening and we caught up on what had happened in the last two weeks. she had done two camps and they'd been completely different to mine. She'd been in a suburb in Milan and hadn't so much as smelt the country air that we'd been inhaling solidly over the past fortnight.

But the more people I spoke to, the more I realised that everyone's camp experience was different and that I'd been so fortunate. Despite all its foibles, my camp had been one of the better ones. I hadn't lived with nuns who gave me leftovers from lunch to eat, neither had I been abandoned by my family, or been left to explain why dancing like Lady Gaga wasn't appropriate for 10-year-old girls.

It was at that point I remembered the friendships I had made laughing over the tablemat debacle and oversized pasta. At that point two things were settled in my mind - that I would never risk the programme again (in view of the fact that striking it well seems so rare) and that friends for a season really do exist.

They're Trying to Make Me Go To Rehab and I Say 'Yes, Yes, Yes...'

The Monday brought a really emotional goodbye at the train station in Brescia. There were tears and vows to come back as soon as I could manage. In all the kerfuffle I forgot to stamp my train ticket. Now for those of you that don't know, the yellow boxes scattered all over Italian train stations are so you can validate your ticket for the journey you're taking - if not you could use your ticket again and again and that tends to be... frowned upon, let's say... They come down really heavily on people that do this - to the tune of 50Eur.

I remembered just as I was pulling out of the station.

Oh.

When the guard came along the train I was ready to pay. It was my mistake and I should have known better. I hand him my ticket. He speaks to me in French. I speak to him in French - though what I need right now isn't a chance to brush up on things I learnt at A level, but I ran with it. He realises I'm not French and tries again in English. I tell him I'm very sorry. He smiles apologetically and validates it for me. 'Don't do it again' he says. I could have kissed him.

The rest of the [very long] journey passed without incident. I arrived in Sanremo that afternoon and met up with Kitty outside Grom - the world's BEST ice cream parlour. (This won't be the first time we'll hear about Grom.)

I also ran into my old Sanremo roommate outside another ice cream parlour and we all traipsed to the bus station to get up to Baiardo. You can see Sanremo from Baiardo, but it takes an hour to get there because, let's be honest, you're scaling a mountain.

We got there early evening and it was beyond belief. It clings to the top of a hill and to your left is Italy, to your right is France. It is quite simply wonderful. Cars are a joke there, so there is no roar of Alfas or Fiats, the population is getting on a bit and so the pace of life is slow. I don't know why rockstars and filmstars don't go there for rehab, because it would be the perfect place.

Killing Two Birds With One Healthy Dollop of Polenta

About lunchtime on the Saturday, we headed off for my special weekend in the mountains. The whole of my family was coming as well as my host dad's sister and brother-in-law and several of their friends. We were going to be a merry party indeed.

The house belonged to the brother-in-law and it was very traditional as well as very beautiful. It was nestled in a valley inamongst the furry hills of Val Trompia (funny, I know) and beyond. In a way it was one of life's great missed opportunities as if it had been built just a little higher the views would have been really incredible; anyway it wasn't. So we move on.

There was loads of nature and other miscellaneous pretty things to look at and at last I could get down to some proper relaxation. I don't regret a second of my time in Concesio, but after two weeks of camp after having never taught before, this was just what the doctor ordered.

The family welcomed me in, gave me a room and as it was Italy we probably sent out for pizza for dinner - really good pizza too. Come on, all pizza in Italy is good...

(At this point I'm going to interject with another anecdote. One evening I went with my fam to visit my host mum's brother. He lives in a beautiful plain just beyond Val Trompia in a wine region. We went so I could sample some pizza the like of which "I would have never experienced before". Apparently it had a thicker base - Italian pizzas are known for being crispy thin, whereas American pizzas are the thicker ones. Anyway, this revolutionary new pizza, it transpired, was an American pizza. That said I didn't have the heart to tell them it was the kind of pizza we buy in the supermarkets...)

So, back to the mountain house... It was chilly that night - July it may have been, but in the mountains, there's always a bit of a nip in the air at night. Keeping the food-y theme, I woke up the following morning to the smell of something really good cooking. That morning my host mum and the antagonistic pregnant sister (I don't blame her, it must have been 35 degrees) had got up at 7am to prepare a traditional Brescian Sunday banquet. I love my food - I'll try anything once, and fortunately, that mantra came into its own...

The centrepiece of this magnificent banquet was uccellini - baby birds. Yum. They'd been cooked all day and instead of eating them warts an' all, you ate them bones an' all, oh, and the beaks. As I was the guest of honour, I got three to myself. Goody. There was a heathly dollop of polenta and a very rich creamy sauce. I helped myself to a selection of vegetables and then eyed the uccellini again.
'You used to be a sparrow. In fact you still look like one.' I said to myself...
There was no way I could refuse to eat them and it would have been grossly offensive to their strict ideas of hospitality. So I ate them. All. (Except the beaks. That was too far.)

You know what... they tasted good. They tasted even better with the polenta, and they were delicious with the rich creamy sauce. I'm converted. Completely. I take pot shots at sparrows in my garden in the hopes I can re-create it. Jokes. But I'd definitely have them again.

So after a shaky start to dinner, I had a wonderful afternoon: amazing food and I was taught to play an unusual Brescian card game. I tried really hard to make the most of it all, as the following day, I was moving on.

All Good Things Come to an End

All in all my first camp was a bit of a nightmare. I had a class containing a child who spent the majority of his time on the desk and not sitting quietly on his chair; my final show was based on a highly complex story my kids had told about the Loch Ness Monster - to this day I'm not entirely sure where they got it from; things had got a little strained between Wickham and Lydia and the rest of us; and I still had very little idea what I was doing.

I knew that I probably wouldn't choose to do the programme again - just because it was highly stressful and only made palatable by my amazing family. I didn't want to risk having a bad camp and an equally bad family. So with this in mind, I made my peace with teaching and I taught my last class, resigned to the fact that it would be just that - my last class.

(For those that enjoy irony, you might want to read about what happens one year on...)

Therefore, with the Loch Ness Monster play still ringing in my ears, I left the school and went home with my family. Some of the other tutors were moving onto new camps the following morning, Kitty, Lydia and myself were finished (in more ways than one). We'd only signed up to a 2-week teaching contract after orientation, but we could stay in a little village (part-owned by the man who pulled the strings at the company) for another week if we wanted a little holiday.

Kitty and Lydia decided that this is where they were headed. As the fortnight had gone on, I actually got really close to Kitty, even though my first impression was that we weren't really that compatible. I too wanted to go with them, but I also wanted to spend some more time with my amazing family.

In the interests of killing two birds with one stone - watch out for the birds in the next post - I thought that if I ask for another weekend with my family, I can train over to Sanremo on the Monday and then meet up with Kitty and head on up to this mythical mountain-top village with her. That way I didn't need to lug my stuff over with everyone else and I could say a proper goodbye to my fam.

I put it to them. They were thrilled that I wanted to stay a bit longer. I, as you may remember, am more than happy to just relax. My family operated using a different philosophy and so decided that my last weekend with them should be special. (I wanted to stress to them that it had all been special - the Garda road trip, the out-of-body experience of watching X:Men Origins: Wolverine at the castle in Brescia, embarrassing myself on two wheels in front of a bella vista...) Anyway they wanted to make my last weekend extra special.

We were going into the mountains...

Never Work with Children or Animals (Part II)

I've left my favourite camp tale until last. It's one of my favourite dinner party stories due to its complete and utter unpredictability and bizarre outcome. When it happened, as you will read on to find out, I was utterly speechless, felt hysteria rising inside me and wondered why I ever thought teaching English in Italy was a good idea in the first place...

The Tablemat Saga
When you arrive at a camp run by the company I was working for, all the tutors set upon the resources like gannets. Shouts of 'I need the markers, I have the young kids!' and 'Who's taken all of the size 7-8 t-shirts!?' ring out from the staffroom and often full-on fist fights break out over the animal masks and cut-out clocks.

These resources are by no means necessary to teaching, but when things are getting rough on a Friday afternoon sometimes whipping out the bingo cards gets the kids off the tables and back on track.

One of the more useful resources for this is the tablemat: a simple white piece of cloth with a blue border, can be combined with the fabric pens with wonderful results. My children were of an age where they could understand a lot of English - specifically vocabulary - and when I taught a class on 'I like' and 'I don't like' I decided to give them an easy second lesson: to draw 'something they liked' on these hallowed tablemats.

Kitty saw my plan and wanted in on it in a big way. Her children were far too young to understand the difference between Italian and English let alone 'like' and 'doesn't like' so her children were given free reign. I chatted with Kitty while my kids drew British flags, cats, dogs, love hearts, and other such things that tempt the magpie-like eyes of chidlren.

Kitty's children integrated with mine really well, despite the age gap - with one exception. A little boy had segregated himself from the main group - quite happily, mind. He was naturally a loner and ever-so slightly odd - a lovely little boy, but very much a space cadet (not on the planet).

Anyway, after a while this little boy had folded up his completed tablemat and was busy throwing it up and down. Kitty called over to him: 'Have you finished? Can I see?' The little boy was more than happy to oblige. He ran over and handed Kitty the little parcel. She unfolded it gingerly.

In amongst the aforementioned childish frippery going on in the room, this little boy had drawn a perfect technical diagram of a toilet. Plumbed in and everything.

I was utterly gobsmacked. I wanted to laugh more then than I have ever wanted to in my life. Of course I didn't - I didn't want to break this little boy's heart. I bowed my head to compose myself, then joined Kitty in enthusiastic encouragement.

I fear we may have encouraged him a little too much. Later on that day Kitty got a further three technical drawings of a lav. From different angles...

Never Work with Children or Animals

Camp always gives the most entertaining tales and reaffirms in head of the teacher that it is never a good idea to work with children, let alone animals. There are a couple of stories from my first camp that I don't think I will ever forget...

Mr Darcy's Gift
At the end of the fist week we said goodbye to some of the kids. Seaside holidays and mountain treks meant that for even the most conscientious of students couldn't stay the full two weeks. Now the Italian hospitality is a funny beast. In the same way that some Italian Mammas will be mortally offended if you offer to help with the washing up, some families believe that helping their child in any way deserves a little thank you.

Gifts can come in all sorts of shapes and sizes. I've had hospitality as a gift - staying a few extra days with a family; I've been sent with care packages on long train journeys; I've been given coffee, hair products, books and even a dictionary of Italian etymology. None of these compared with the oddity of the gift that Mr Darcy was given.

The mother handed the package over first thing that morning: it was long and tubular. We pestered him enough that he decided to open it at lunchtime - and just in time too! Mr Darcy had been given extra-long spaghetti. Useful.

Tourist guides I can understand, even coffee and a commemorative notepad - all these things can be used in the moment, and packed neatly into a suitcase. A pack of 1m long spaghetti does not fit into this category. We were all travelling light, but Mr Darcy, on his journey out of Brescia had an extra addition to the sleeping bag holder at the top of his rucksack. Needless to say the other occupants of the train carriage weren't too impressed with the generosity of the child's mother...