Monday, November 03, 2003

From Friday evening:

As I write it’s seven thirty on a Friday evening; a good time of the week.

So why are the streets dead? Why aren’t the bars busy; packed, even, as it’s a dark damp evening? (I know that the reality is that there is crap weather in Italy; however, I expected proper weather: if it rains, it rains. If it’s hot, it’s very hot. But no; this week we’ve the weather has been a model of Englishness: grey, drizzly and boring.)

The patterns of the Italian week is something that will, I think, take some getting used to. Pasta as a primo piatto, façades of devout Catholicism, free entry for girls and endless window shopping: all these things I can get used to. But heading into town with the family at 6pm on a Sunday? Not having big Saturday or Sunday papers? And not hitting the pub as soon as the week is over? These seem, frankly, unusual behaviours and it will be some time before I accept otherwise.

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