Don’t get your daughter in a rage, Mrs Worthington. She’s
already moist eyed, although it’s hard to tell if that’s from the beauty of
Florence or the tear gas. Lift your Dr Scholl's, Mrs W, we must reach the bus
before the next polizia baton charge. Look! She’s waving frantically from
the bus wind … dear, dear. Perhaps next
time not with a red bandana. That rubber bullet is going to leave a nasty
bruise.
All aboard Chow Bella
Gourmet Tours. Not all, you say. Davvero?
Mr Condomine is apparently still queuing for the Uffizi loos. A show of hands:
who’s in favour of circling back to rescue him? A wise choice. You’d miss San
Gimignano by candle light, and he’d miss the opportunity to show his resourcefulness.
Speaking of loos, we’ve almost cleaned up the bus’ after Madame
Arcati’s distressing incident post her seafood linguini lunch. If someone in
the back row could wedge the door shut with an umbrella tip, we should be safe-ish
until at least Siena.
Yes, yes. I realise the protesters are rocking the bus. It’s
a local custom when farewelling friends. No, I’m not certain why they’re
rioting. The Italians are such an emotional people. Now, everyone give them a
wave while Marco reverses quickly.
I felt the bump too.
Heavens, it’s Mr Condomine. Edge forward, Marco, you’ve
pinned his satchel under the rear wheel. Agreed. He really shouldn’t have worn
it so jauntily over his shoulder. I’m afraid he went native at the San Lorenzo
markets. Purtroppo, a bag stitched
from old goat hide doesn’t make you Marcello Mastroianni.
So. Volunteers to get him on board? Noone? Then let me
suggest Mr and Mrs Chase, our honeymooners … if you’re not exhausted. I realise
the Pensione Dantesque has somewhat
thin walls, but last night it was almost as if you were sharing my narrow bed. Fortunately
enough for the other passengers, I’ve made an iPhone recording which … and there
they go to help Mr Condomine. Grazie.
Mrs W, I know you won’t mind if he sits on your picnic rug. Blood is so difficult to get out of
leatherette seats.
Patience, everyone. The Chases are making wonderful progress
despite the demonstrators’ eggs. They should have Mr Condomine inside shortly. Push
him higher up the steps, Mr & Mrs C, I’ll get a purchase under his arms. Buon lavoro!
Everyone comfortable? Andiamo,
Marco. Tuscany awaits our discern
ing palates.
Naughty girl, Miss Stillington. You know what I said about
eating gelato from street vendors. Combine temperatures that melt the bitumen
with heavy cream and vanilla bean paste and the result is a rum tum tum.
Fortunately, I can let you have Imodium at cost price plus the industry
standard mark-up – and a bonus €10 map of San Gimignano’s public lavatories. There’s
no need to thank me, just don’t look back. The slightest hesitation could put
your fellow travellers off this evening’s Pasta-thon.
Could there be anything more Italian than this long table
beneath coloured light bulbs with the flicker of candle light, the scent of
mosquito coils and Chianti from – let’s see that label – Albania? I’ll do a
taste test. My, my. It’s certainly not an approachable wine but it should
distract from the ravioli. And there’s plenty of that left. Some nit-pickers
amongst you have complained there appear to be things moving within those pasta
pockets. A rap with the back of a spoon usually fixes that. This is the
Continent, after all. We can’t bring our sniffy bourgeois prejudices on
holiday.
Please, Doctor Bradman, I wasn’t referring specifically to
you and your … your niece. How generous to bring her – a lass barely out of her
teens – on such a grownup tour. Although the more judgmental aboard the bus
have called you a fussbudget, I personally find the sight of a medical chap lathering
up with hand sanitiser before touching the bread basket quite reassuring. In
fact, if you don’t mind, could you take a peek at this rash on my inner thigh? If
the others wouldn’t mind looking away for a moment I’ll unzip and – there, you
can see it more clearly under the street light. You don’t think it has anything
to do with the bite mark left by Madame Arcati? I thought not.
Mamma mia, I
didn’t realise it was so late. The pensione’s
manager locks up at 8 p.m. If we hurry, most of us should get through the front
door in time.
Tomorrow we’ll be in Siena. Ssssh, the Piazza del Campo will be our little secret. You’ll be
the only tourists there – possibly because our piazza visit kicks off at 6am.
No need to set your alarms tonight, I’ll nip around before dawn tapping on
doors. If you don’t answer promptly, I’ll pop my head into your room. See you
then.
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Copyright © 2014 GREG FLYNN
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