Where did we stay? The Holiday Inn. Yes, the Holiday Inn despite the horrifically NON-evocative, NON-romantic, oh-my-god-we’re-in-Italy-but-we’re-at-the-Holiday-Inn-of-all-goddamed-places horror kind of a thing. It was very near the airport thus maximizing sleep time and minimizing, if only slightly, time spent in transit.
As we pulled into the tall tree lined, surprisingly lovely and quite nearly bucolic entry lane I began seeing nuns. More and more nuns. Schools of nuns. Flocks and swarms of them all in vibrant shades of grey, beige and black. I began to wonder if I was beginning to have a panic attack or perhaps a nasty grappa induced hallucination.
So, there I am in the midst of what was clearly a nun convention. They have conventions. Who knew? Probably where they learn niftier, more Jedi fast, ways to whack hard-of-hearing kids for their deliberate, willful and sinful inattention.
Hey, it’s a reasonable assumption!
In any case, here I am at a decidedly un-Italian hotel at the tail end of a glorious week of conversational feasts over incredible meals (Cynthia and Giovanni are total Kitchen Gods) followed by grappa and more discussion, raillery, jesting and gossip. And then some Grappa. Here I am and it’s wall to wall penguins.
And ordered a shot of milk. No, really it was.
Suddenly I was no longer all nervoused up -- hard to stay in that state when you’re laughing chianti out your schnoz.