2010 travels of Brammers part 2

I note that the most popular choice in my poll of the other day was that I was doomed to wander airports eternally, like the Flying Dutchman, unable to reach my destination. This reflects either an impressively accurate assesment of travel with me, or else a disturbingly keen tendency to angst in my flist. It was 38 hours for anyone still wondering.

At least I missed the terrorist alert!

Of course, the angst is not misplaced -- gypsies stole my Violet Crumble!

( But the rest of the news is good. )

In final news, it occurs to me that if one wishes to pass beneath the notice of Italian men while walking great distances on a gorgeous autumn day in Lazio, it is best not to wear a fitted red T-shirt with a big white heart decoration on one's breasts. It was lovely meeting you, Andrea, Claudio, and Mr I Did Not Catch Your Name. Thank you all for understanding my apologies for my bad Italian and chatting cheerfully about Australian beaches. Yes, they are beautiful, and I love the fact that is the only thing Italian men of a certain age know about the country (the women -- also of a certain age, because I am not as young as I once was -- all have a friend who has a sister there, she is down in number 67, perhaps I will have time for us to go and chat with her and see if I know her sister?)

OH! One last anecdote: when inquiring as to which bus would bring me on the last leg back to my hotel, I interrupted the bus men chatting. The lead one turned to me and asked me if I thought Berlusconi was beautiful. Convinced I had misunderstood, I replied, 'Il Presidente? Berlusconi? Bello?' They nodded enthusiastically. 'No!' I said without thinking, and pulled a face. Apparently this was the correct answer -- they laughingly described to me the size of the viagra pill the man requires, hands spread apart - 'Cosi! -- Like this!' Ah Italians, I do love you, even if half your bus drivers are surly bastards and Rome is filled with smog and ill-tempered pickpockets.

2010 travels of Brammers part 2

I note that the most popular choice in my poll of the other day was that I was doomed to wander airports eternally, like the Flying Dutchman, unable to reach my destination. This reflects either an impressively accurate assesment of travel with me, or else a disturbingly keen tendency to angst in my flist. It was 38 hours for anyone still wondering.

At least I missed the terrorist alert!

Of course, the angst is not misplaced -- gypsies stole my Violet Crumble!

( But the rest of the news is good. )

In final news, it occurs to me that if one wishes to pass beneath the notice of Italian men while walking great distances on a gorgeous autumn day in Lazio, it is best not to wear a fitted red T-shirt with a big white heart decoration on one's breasts. It was lovely meeting you, Andrea, Claudio, and Mr I Did Not Catch Your Name. Thank you all for understanding my apologies for my bad Italian and chatting cheerfully about Australian beaches. Yes, they are beautiful, and I love the fact that is the only thing Italian men of a certain age know about the country (the women -- also of a certain age, because I am not as young as I once was -- all have a friend who has a sister there, she is down in number 67, perhaps I will have time for us to go and chat with her and see if I know her sister?)

OH! One last anecdote: when inquiring as to which bus would bring me on the last leg back to my hotel, I interrupted the bus men chatting. The lead one turned to me and asked me if I thought Berlusconi was beautiful. Convinced I had misunderstood, I replied, 'Il Presidente? Berlusconi? Bello?' They nodded enthusiastically. 'No!' I said without thinking, and pulled a face. Apparently this was the correct answer -- they laughingly described to me the size of the viagra pill the man requires, hands spread apart - 'Cosi! -- Like this!' Ah Italians, I do love you, even if half your bus drivers are surly bastards and Rome is filled with smog and ill-tempered pickpockets.