Category Archives: Experiences

Interlude

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Sorry but I am REALLY busy right at the moment.

That’s “work” busy, “other work” busy, “fighting Italian bureaucracy” busy and “in general” busy.

Hardly time for anything. God, I need a rest!

Not this weekend because F want’s to start cleaning the flat for Christmas and because I will be busy all day Sunday.
Not the weekend after because I have to go somewhere for work.
But the weekend after – the weekend just immediately before Christmas when I only have Christmas shopping to do ;-)

Enough! Gotta go now and do some more stuff.
Speak soon.

It seems it’s back on!

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We have been in a bit of a lull, as I may have mentioned before now.

There was a point (I think about April or so of this year) when there was, what I believed was, serious talk about us moving in together.

There are, of course, fundamental differences in opinion upon what is “the perfect flat”. In addition, there are fundamental differences on where is the “perfect area to live”.

To recap, these are “somewhere light and airy” (him) and “somewhere with character” (me). “Somewhere modern” (him) and “somewhere from the 20s or 30s” (me). “An area of Milan that’s cheaper” (him) and “the area I have always lived in Milan” (me). “New furniture” (him) and “don’t mind as long as all my ‘period pieces’ come with me” (me).

See how close we are? ;-)

As I may have mentioned previously, I was an ardent looker for flats that didn’t come through an agency (less money to pay up front). Until, that was, I gave the numbers of a couple of places that I had found and rung, to F for him to follow up and make appointments. When he didn’t do that, I stopped looking.

Recently, in the last few weeks, he has started looking again.

And, this week he came up with one through an agency which he went to see yesterday. It’s a small distance away and, more or less, in the same area. It has good transport links. The important thing (and the thing that means that he has listened to me) is that, as he pointed out, it is in a beautiful, 1920s building. And he explained that it really wasn’t so far from where we live now.

He loves it since it fulfils his requirements of being very light and airy plus it is not a bad price for the size.

Unfortunately, I have to see it in the light (the electricity has been turned off, obviously). To do that, I have to wait until the weekend after next since we are away this weekend.

But he loves it and thinks it would be perfect. He is worried that in a week it will be taken.

My opinion is that he may be right. My secret opinion is that, if he is right, then it will still be there in just over a week, in spite of what he thinks to the contrary. My secret, secret opinion is that, actually, if it is right, I will know as soon as step into the place when all other considerations will fall by the wayside. He doesn’t know of my secret opinions.

Unfortunately, I still have my concerns over this “living together” as I know I have mentioned in a previous post. But there’s no concrete objections or thoughts – just concerns. I’m sure we can work them out but, given that we don’t really discuss important things, the working out of them may take some time. So my concerns remain.

Hmmm.

Art – not so black and white

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I’ve read a couple of articles recently that made me feel a little uncomfortable but, perhaps, not “normal uncomfortable”.

There have been many times when, for example, societies have burned books. Each time this is done, there’s an outcry. And the outcry is right, after all. I mean, literature is literature and it’s an art. There was also the recent “haul” of Nazi-looted art from some reclusive guy. Paintings that hadn’t been seen (or, in some cases, were unknown) were “recovered” and may, in time, go back to their rightful owners.

But, that latest report is about who owns the art and not about destroying it.

Some years ago, however, the West was shocked to learn that the Taliban were destroying ancient sites – ancient works of art. So, one would think, the West is more enlightened. In the West we would not destroy art just because we didn’t agree with it any more.

It would seem true if you read the article about the fake Madonna and Child that turned out not to be fake.

What an amazing piece of art! Of course it shouldn’t be destroyed.

Should it? But there is a problem with this piece. It is in ivory. That is to say, the tusks from elephants. These days, ivory is (rightly) an “unacceptable material”. So much so that, recently, a lot of it was destroyed. So, what to do with this piece? In theory, it should be destroyed, surely? But it is a valuable piece of historic art and, apparently, beautiful. In the comments section of the first article, there are some suggestions that it should be destroyed. But is that not the same as the burning of books or the destroying of ancient places – just because society, at that moment, think they are wrong in some way? At the time this Madonna was carved, society did not see that it was wrong to use ivory.

It’s not an easy question to answer. And I’m not giving an answer here since there is no correct answer to this paradox.

And then I remembered reading this piece on Saturday where there was some disgust and cries of racism and calls for the offending piece to be covered up. Again, this is art. It may not be to our “tastes” now but does that mean it should be done away with? If it’s in the setting of a primary school, does that make it worse? Or are we projecting our adult consciouses onto children who will see (probably) nothing in the picture?

I collected the Robertson’s Golliwogs when I was a kid. And I’m sorry but, for me, they weren’t a depiction of “black people” but, rather, dolls (or badges or figurines). Cabbage Patch Dolls weren’t real either. Nor were Barbie or Ken even if Barbie and Ken had some resemblance to real people. And whereas I agree that we should not, in general, have golliwogs available now, to cover up a piece of art is a different thing.

At the end of this, do we have the right to determine what art should be seen? Do we have the right to destroy art from a previous society just because it offends our existing morals? Or, if we have that right, does it make us mere Western-Taliban or Nazi-like? Who do we think we are that we can permit this to happen?

It disturbs me that we think we can have the right while, at the same time, condemning other societies for doing the “same thing”. It’s not so simple – not so black and white.

Arguing about food with Italians. Do I have mad cow disease?

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Well, I have been here for a number of years now so I am, I feel, partly qualified.

Obviously, I have not tasted everything this wonderful country has to offer. For example, I learned today that there is such a thing as tomato mostarda – and, what is better, is I am promised some by a colleague :-). Mostarda is usually made with fruit (pear, fig, etc.) and has a special, very slightly mustardy taste.

The reason that I learnt about this is that we were having an argument about food.

Yes, an actual argument which, even if I am English, I didn’t lose, by the way. Even if there is a lot of English food that is really good, people here still think of English food as it was in the 50s, 60s and 70s which, to be honest, was not really great, in general. Then we found things like garlic and our cuisine improved at breakneck speed. However, I digress.

For lunch, in the works canteen, there was, for the main course, goulash with polenta. I do eat polenta but, when I sat down with colleagues at the table and one of them said something out my choice of main course, I couldn’t help but make some snide comment about polenta.

Polenta is, after all, as I pointed out, a “filler” in that it fills you up. What it does not have is taste. Nor, for that matter, a decent consistency. Imagine, if you will, some lumpy, badly mashed potato that has been allowed to get cold and then warmed up – but without any real taste.

I did say that “rough” (i.e. unrefined) polenta is much better in that it does have some taste (and mixed with a good Gorgonzola it is quite remarkable). However, I think “tasteless stodge” would be the best description for polenta.

I’m guessing that this was “poor people” food. You didn’t need to have much or any meat but some sort of sauce to give it taste and then, bingo, you had a filling meal!

The person in front of me couldn’t really disagree but tried. I explained again that it was, basically, a filler.

I then added (as I was in my stride) that Italians, who think they know something about food are, in fact, quite crazy and can’t really talk about “food” in that they have meat with fish – a very popular dish here. A number of years ago I would not have dared to do this. Now, I know what I’m talking about.

He knew what I meant. He said “You mean vitello tonato?” I did indeed. He then tried to say that it wasn’t really like that as it was only a sauce. I replied that it was a fish sauce ….. with meat. He agreed but said that there was only about 10% of tuna and mostly mayonnaise. I retorted with the fact that containing fish and tasting of fish, meant that it was, in fact, a fish sauce – and that insane Italians had it with, of all things, a piece of meat.

He then decided to try a different tack.

“Chutney,” he said.

“Mostarda,” I came back with. I think he knew he was beaten.

He didn’t like mostarda even if his wife comes from the place that makes “the best mostarda in the world”. He promised to get me some.

I Said how much I liked mostarda, especially with cold meats. He then told me about tomato mostarda and promised me some of that.

To be honest, rather than chutney, he could have come back with a lot of things but I’m getting better at this lark and can think up things to come back with.

The problem is that everyone think that Italians = food and English not= food which, of course, is too much of a generalisation and therefore, is always open to attack. In my case, whenever anyone comes out with something like “the English don’t know how to cook”, I have a number of things to hit back with – including vitello tonata and polenta. Italians don’t really equal food after all ;-)

Then again, it’s really all a matter of taste.

Officialdom in Italy – erm, this is NOT how it works!

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You may remember I was dreading going to get some official documentation thing done.

Well, today was the day.

The office opened at 8.30. Being Italy, I knew my best chance to spend as little time as possible, the first visit, was to get there about 8 a.m.

I failed. It wasn’t entirely my fault. Last night we were at some friends for dinner and F did his back in during the day so, when we got home about 12.30, I had to take the dogs out.

I set the alarm for 7 a.m., knowing I would have to take the dogs out. An hour would be enough, wouldn’t it? Even as I was setting the alarm at about 1 a.m. I knew that it wouldn’t be. F said that he would get up with me as he wanted to go and have his injection at 8 as he was going to Greece for the week.

The alarm went off. It was so nice being in bed that I set it to snooze for 5 minutes. Of course, as it was only an hour to get my act together, even 5 minutes was a no-no – and I knew that, it was just that I really, really didn’t want to get up.

I got up when it went off again. I didn’t wash or anything but took the dogs out straight away. We got back about 20 to 8 (it had to be a shorter walk this morning). Of course, F only actually got up the moment I got back. And he made for the bathroom. So, that was that. I made coffee. Just before 8 he came out of the bathroom but I was having coffee and, much like every morning, my head takes a while to catch up with being awake. In fact, I always say that I’m at my best from about 11 a.m.

Of course, it doesn’t mean that I can stay up late. Normally, I would say, my best period finishes about 2 p.m. – after that it’s all downhill to bed!

Anyway, back to the story. I did try to rush but it was like swimming through treacle. I made it out of the house before 8.30, which I thought was quite an achievement, to be honest.

I realised, just before I left the house, that I had not taken a copy of my passport or my codice fiscale sheet (I never got the card). I went to the tobacconists under my flat and got copies.

I knew I wouldn’t have everything that was needed but I’d done my best.

I catch the bus but get off too early. I walk to the place and arrive there about 9 something. I go to the office which is on the 4th floor. I really do hate doing this thing in Italy. I dread it. I thought, on the way there about turning back but steeled myself to continue. After all, this had to be done sooner or later.

I get the lift to the 4th floor and go into the waiting room. I see the machine to get a ticket. The ticket says B52. They are currently calling out B21! Shit, I think, I really should have been here earlier.

I sit down and wait. And wait. However, by about 10, we’re nearing my number. All these people only seem to spend a few minutes in the offices. I see many of them clutching folders with documentation. All my documentation is contained in my passport which is in my pocket. My heart sinks with every second of waiting. I toy with the idea of NOT doing this. After all, I maybe don’t have the need of it any more?

But, having already arranged to be late for work to get it, I have to continue.

My number comes up – it’s about 10.15.

I go into Office number 8. The guy is sat at a desk behind a computer. I explain what I want. He asks if this is my first time. I say yes. He asks if I’m resident. I explain that no, I’m not really. He asks where I am from. I tell him.

He needs my codice fiscale. I give him the original paper. He asks if I have a payslip. As luck would have it, in my bag is the last payslip from October. I tell him I have a letter from my employers but he says a payslip is better.

I hand it over. He doesn’t look at my passport.

He types some stuff in on the computer. Whilst he’s doing that, I tell him who I have selected because she is close to my flat. He nods and agrees. He continues typing.

He finishes typing and says, in English, “OK, that’s finished.”

He can see I look shocked. I say, “Finished in what way? What happens now? And my card?”

He prints out two pieces of paper. He says that one of the pieces of paper is the proof that I am “on the system” and until I receive the card I can use this. The other piece of paper gives the time she will be available.

He is smiling. He can still see I am in shock. I explain that this sort of thing has simply NEVER happened in Italy. I explain that, normally, I expect to go two or three times. He assures me that this is all done. He asks to take a copy of the codice fiscale document. I explain I have a copy. He would also need to take a copy of my passport. I say I have one of those too! This thing, of them making copies, has never happened before in Italy – for anything! Normally you must bring your own copies. He takes a copy of my payslip.

And that was that. 15 minutes! I am still in shock. I still can’t quite believe it. This, I would probably not even expect in the UK. This is stunning. This is wonderful. Oh, were it all like this in Italy.

So, anyway, now I am officially able to obtain the free health service. I have a doctor. I can go to hospital. I can be treated – and almost all for free. Like in the UK.

So, my first taste of the Health Service here is pleasant and comes across as efficient.

I like it :-)

I don’t really belong

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I don’t think I’ll ever be something other than a foreigner in a foreign land.

I mean, I’ll never be totally relaxed. I came to this realisation whilst driving the dogs to the pineta on Sunday morning. I reached the traffic lights and, as I sat there, waiting for the lights to turn green, it struck me again that it’s not the place I am “from”. To the right is a place that looks a little like a timber yard – except that it sells marble. To the left is what look like a run-down workshop – except that it is a place where marble is carved into headstones and statues. The weather is warm and there is not a cloud in the sky and yet it’s towards the end of September and I am dressed in shorts and a T-shirt. This is not deepest Herefordshire.

It’s not such a bad thing – it’s just that it is, in a way, a little bit frightening. I don’t know that you will understand that and I’m not sure that I do either. Still, there it is.

The night before I had been with the family. This was the close family. This was F’s Mum’s birthday dinner. So F’s Mum and Dad, his sister (with husband and niece), twin brother (and girlfriend) and him (with me). There’s no strangeness from his family towards me at all. I am accepted completely and surrounded by his family and, in some way, feel part of it.

We went to Ristorante Venanzio in the small town of Colonnata, near Carrara which is situated deep in the mountains and surrounded by the marble quarries, famous for their white marble. It’s also famous for it’s Lardo di Colonnato, which I love.

Normally, when we go to Carrara for the weekend, we arrive sometime on Friday night and, usually, we drop the dogs at home and then go to Bati Bati for a pizza. I always have the pizza with Lardo, asparagus and aubergine (egg plant to Americans). It is one of the very best pizzas I’ve ever had. And, even now, writing about it, my mouth is salivating (really)!

However, at Venanzio, we had Lardo as antipasto (along with a load of other, very nice, things) which was “to die for”. So tasty. F’s brother told me that they have a special source for it and you won’t find it for sale anywhere else, even in the small village of Colonnata. We had a selection of pasta dishes (my favourite being Lasagnetta with sausage sauce) and then, I had lamb. Unfortunately, like most of Italy, the lamb was only so-so. Not a replacement for La Brace. However, I tasted F’s rabbit with lardo. It was slices of a rolled rabbit joint with lardo and herbs filling it. It was incredible.

Service was excellent (but we were the first there). Sweet was a cake (as it was F’s Mum’s birthday) which was very nice.

It wasn’t so expensive – about €40 each, including wine (4 bottles), a glass of sweet desert wine with the cake and a digestivo. Would definitely go again, the only downside being getting there (or, rather, getting back). The only way is via a narrow switchback road from Carrara – so you really MUST NOT drink and drive!

Anyway, you should go there for the Lardo!

Sunday was a day on the beach and it was one of the best days on the beach. Now, being the end of the season, half the umbrellas have been taken away so there’s much more room and, of course, a lot less people. Now, at this time in September, you can sit in the sun all day without becoming too hot – the breeze is cooling, the sun not so fierce. And so we do.

F talks about coming down next weekend, if the weather is good. It will be the last weekend – the beach closes at the end of September, the café is doing some sort of buffet spread on the Sunday. F suggests we might take a few hours off on Monday so we can stay down Sunday night. Let’s see how the weather is.

But, even here, on the beach, I have the same kind of feeling as I had in the car. It’s not really my place. Even if I feel relaxed and read (I finished “Bring Up The Bodies” – Hilary Mantel, which was great, btw), I almost don’t really belong.

Second Floor?

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“It’s on the first floor,” he says.

He gives some instructions but I only listen to the first bit – “turn right out of the lift”

My room is 257. Strange that. Usually, rooms on the first floor start with a “1”. But I don’t really pay heed.

I turn left and follow the signs. I’m in a hurry. There’s a beer with my name on it. It’s Mantova. It’s what I do here.

After twisting and turning through the maze of corridors that seemed to go on forever, I see the sign for some rooms in the two-hundreds pointing up some stairs.

The room IS on the second floor after all. And now I remember him saying something about “stairs”.

I reach the second floor and see why. There are a handful of rooms on this “dead-end” floor. The only way back out is down those stairs to the first floor!

It felt like it had taken me about 20 minutes to get here.

Of course, subsequent journeys to my room were quicker – seemed quicker. But it’s always that way. When you don’t know the way the journey doubles or triples in time and distance but once you know the way, then it’s OK.

Anyway, “second floor” made me think of this. Enjoy


Suzanne Vega – Luka

Mantova – hotel and food; My “meat” place near Carrara will close :'(

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Change. It’s what happens. Some people welcome change, some put up with it and some hate change but, in any event, it’s inevitable.

People change, places change and restaurants change.

I mention this because one of the highlights of my trips to Mantova for the Festivaletteratura is a visit to Grifone Bianco, right in the centre of Mantova. The service has always been perfect, the food “to die for” and they always remember me even if I only go once a year!

So, I’m in Mantova for the Festival and I go to see M, who is the manager of the festival, to ask the usual questions – i.e. what events should I go and see and the booking of restaurants.

I was there for almost 2 days this year, staying overnight in the Albergo Bianchi Stazione. A decent hotel with rather good, helpful staff. My room was clean and tidy and as it is right opposite the station, it was very convenient. A 10 minute or so walk to the centre of Mantova.

So, my plan was one dinner and one lunch. I thought that a Saturday night dinner would be nice and then Sunday lunch – as I wasn’t driving, drinking wasn’t a problem :-)

Obviously, I just had to go to my favourite restaurant and thought Sunday lunch, in the sun (hopefully) would be rather nice. As it turned out there wasn’t to be sun and, even a smattering of rain. But that didn’t really matter for M told me that it had changed hands. Massimo, the owner, still owned the building but, so the story goes, a guy walked in last year and offered to rent the whole thing, as it was, for what must have been a ridiculous sum of money. M told me that one person who had gone there during the festival had said he’s waited over 3 hours to be served the food after ordering! So we decided on two different restaurants. Sunday was booked no problem but the one we chose for Saturday night was already fully booked. So, we booked Grifone Bianco anyway with the promise that I would tell her how it was.

In the past, the waiting staff were rather good. They seemed to have all been there for years, they knew what they were doing and it was rather splendid. As was the food. This time, however, the waiting staff were all quite young and, it seemed, they had been taken on for the festival as they didn’t seem to really know what they were doing. Having said that, it wasn’t bad service – it just seemed a bit “hectic” whereas the old staff made it seem effortless.

As for the food, well, I had the same as usual – affettato misto (a mix of local salami and cold cuts with parmesan cheese), tortelli di zucca (like ravioli with a pumpkin filling – a speciality of Mantova) and stracotto d’asino (a stew made with donkey meat – another speciality of Mantova and really more of a winter dish – it comes with polenta).

But, I’m sorry to say that, although my choice of food was, more or less, the same as last year, the food was definitely NOT the same. The thing that I like about the affettato misto is that it come with mostarda a kind of pickled fruit with a slight mustard taste. Mostarda is another speciality of Mantova. Except now, at Grifone, there is no mostarda – plus the coppa looked a bit dry, to be honest.

Then the tortelli – beautifully rich yellow squares of deliciousness – but not in this case. The taste was OK but the look was not quite so nice. The stracotto was OK and, more or less, the same as always.

But it definitely wasn’t the same restaurant which is a shame. Will it still have a good enough reputation in three years time when it goes back to Massimo? We shall see.

And, on the change note, this may be the last time that La Brace, near Carrara will be open. This is my “meat” place for Carrara and something I always look forward to – a little like Grifone in Mantova. We went there in the summer, as usual, to learn that the couple who run it are thinking of retiring by Christmas and, rather than sell it as a going concern, they’re going to convert the place back to a house and then sell up! It was a bit of a shock and now I wonder if I can survive for a whole holiday without my “meat fix”. We shall have to find somewhere else, for sure.

Back in Mantova – I took Saturday lunch in the enormous “canteen” they run at the festival for volunteers, staff and guests. With my ticket, I was permitted to go into the guest room. The food is rather good. It’s quite full but there’s a table partly free near the door in that there are two people sitting there but 3 spare places. I ask if I can sit there and am told yes. I hear that they are speaking English (although one of them is Italian). The Italian lady (realising I’m English because of my English pronunciation of Italian) asks me, in English, if I would like some water, which I take. The English lady asks if I am an author. I say that I am not – just a friend of the festival. I ask her if she is an author and yes she is. She is, in fact, Margaret Drabble! I am embarrassed. I feel I should have recognised her but, you know, authors aren’t generally like other celebrities – their photos are not splashed all over the newspapers in the way that showbiz people photos are! Still, I feel embarrassed and, as usual when I’m that embarrassed, I come out with something so annoyingly asinine which, thank goodness, I only realised was so trite and terrible some hours later. However, we chat for a little while about Mantova and Milan and where she lives, etc. Bless her, she ignored my opening lines.

Sunday lunch, on the other hand was truly delightful. The place was L’Ochina Bianca (little white goose), M’s favourite restaurant at the moment. It’s cosy atmosphere fuelled by seeming to be sitting in someone’s front parlour, was made more so by the slight informality of the place. As if I had been invited over for a Sunday lunch with Italian friends. Of course, it was a restaurant and not someone’s house. But, still, it was lovely. I chose to have the Salame mantovano to start. Now this was more like it. A delightful selection of Mantovan salami, ciccioli (which would best be described as pork scratching – absolutely wonderful), mostarda (properly “home made”), grana (like parmesan cheese) and gras pistà (I’ve no idea what this was – it was like soft polenta with something similar to creamed gorgonzola). I skipped the pasta dish although, in hindsight, it would have been worth trying their tortelli. I chose the Guanciale di manzo stufato con verdure – beef cheek stew with vegetables and polenta. Incredible! Luckily, they also do fish so should F ever come with me (I’m still hoping), it’s perfect for both of us. I will be going back there, for certain.

So, although disappointed with the change at Grifone, I’m quite happy to have found the little white goose thanks to M.

I am, now, of course, very fat!

Through the looking glass. Or not.

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Alice. She went through it didn’t she?

Except that was a fairy story and not real.

And the reason it’s not real is that you simply can’t go through a mirror.

In the same way that if you walk inside a wardrobe and step past the clothes, you won’t enter into a wonderland which has a talking lion and a wicked witch. Instead, you will hit the back of the wardrobe. If you don’t even open the doors, you will just hit the doors.

If the door has a mirror, you can combine the two by both NOT going through the mirror and NOT entering that wonderland.

And, more than likely, you can cut your lip in the process.

Of course, we were in Carrara and I was so very tired that I thought I was at home and going straight on was the way to the bathroom.

And it was VERY dark. Although maybe I didn’t have my eyes open since I was so tired.

However, it didn’t really wake me up and I was back asleep as soon as I hit the bed. The scab on my lip has now almost gone.

So that’s OK then. But just to assure you, the Alice thing is made up and not real. As my lip testified.

Wild all-nighters

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As I mentioned in my previous post, Saturday night was the Notte Bianca in Marina di Massa.

Effectively this is an “all-nighter” but rather than a single club, in the whole town. There are stalls (selling trinkets and hand-made stuff (i.e. crap), food and, in the case of the one on Saturday, beer (which, of course, we had to try)).

And what I forgot to mention in the last post was something I thought of whilst we were watching the concert.

The street were FULL! Absolutely packed with families, couples, children and ……. YOUTHS.

And, what struck me was that, in the UK, such a thing would have been a night for DRINKING. And by drinking I mean alcohol and lots of it. So, there would have been young people who, almost certainly, would have had a little (read A LOT) too much to drink – by about 11 p.m., if not before – and would be staggering around, possibly vomiting, possibly lying in the street and probably fighting. The weather was warm and very pleasant.

There were indeed “gangs of youths” – but they were walking around in groups, talking, laughing and, although they had possibly (even probably) been drinking, there was no staggering that I saw, certainly no vomiting or lying in the street and definitely no fighting. Italians don’t tend to drink alcohol until they can hardly stand up. They seem to know when enough is enough. And, even if they do get drunk, their pleasant side seems to come out.

Italy makes me feel safe. I can walk the street of a city (although I’m sure there are areas of any city where walking around could be a little hazardous) and not feel I have to keep an eye out for drunk people who just want to fight.

Maybe, after we left (about 1.30 a.m. – so quite early, I suppose) it got more like a British all-nighter – but I doubt it.

I know that there are stories about kids getting drunk more often. But I don’t really see it much (and I live in an area of Milan with many popular bars for the yoof of Milan). And, certainly, there’s not the aggressiveness between people that there is in the UK (especially when mixed with a bit of alcohol). So, one can enjoy it. If I had kids, I wouldn’t be worried about them being with me at these events. It would be OK. And there are many young children and babies around.

I wonder if this aggressive streak in something in our genes?

Anyway, for me, it’s one of the beautiful things about Italy. Thank goodness it’s too expensive for hordes of Brits to descend upon and create a more dangerous and unpleasant place.