Lazy Sunday afternoon

When August turned to September it’s like some kind of switch was flicked. All of a sudden the weather is warm, but it’s not like being beaten over the head with a  hammer, the way it was in August. It’s warm and gentle and lovely to lie out in. And, without sounding too poncy, the light is all soupy and golden and rich and just different to August sunlight. I don’t know why all the Italians choose this time to go back to work.

My cousin A called me halfway through the morning and said she was planning to drive out to her in-laws’ empty house on the other side of the valley and sunbathe by their swimming pool – was I in? Of course I was.

So after a morning of cleaning the house and pushing a few words around on the computer, I bikini-d up and jumped in her car. Spent the afternoon with her and her sister in law, baking in the sun, cooling off in the pool, talking about work and relationships and other normal women’s stuff. Then afterwards we went to my aunt’s for dinner, where I was force fed tortelli followed by pizza, followed by crudo, coppa bread and cheese, followed by profiteroles (note the absence of veg once again). Afterwards my cousin and I climbed the steep hill to the Chiesa Madonna Del Castello, and listened to a flute and harp recital wending its way across the valley.

There are worse ways to spend Sunday 6th September than this.

Long live the party

Thanks to a lift from my cousin, I managed to catch the last night of the Rivergaro Annual Communist Party Party. Of course it’s not called that any more. When I was growing up it was called the Festival of Unity and involved lots of red flags, posters of Lenin and an accordion band playing polkas, waltzes and mazurkas. But these days the Party has rebranded itself the Democratic Party (isn't every party called that these days?) and renamed the festival Rivergaro Rocks. 

Polkas and politics were in hiding, instead we got The Catastrophic Band (this is actually what they’re called, not a sarky name I’ve given them.) They’re bunch of fortysomething rockers with a sexily-leather-clad-but-pregnant lady lead singer, whose belting voice was spoiled only by her not so perfect English (at one point during U2's One I swear she sang Love is a pimple, love’s the higher law) 

Then came a bunch of lads who were absolutely brilliant. Better than lots of the other bands I’ve seen this year (that’ll be you, purple tights bloke at Farmfest) and they wrote their own stuff too. I tried to film them but my camera doesn't do night. Or sound. So you'll just have to use your imaginations. 

I munched on tortelli and kebabs, chose a drink from the vast selection (beer, water or espresso) and bopped my head like a happy idiot until the end of the evening when the band signed off, and the sound system launched into the Internationale, the one reminder that this evening’s entertainment was brought to you by the Wonders of Socialism. At least that’s a song that never changes.