what's the Italian for 'a French croissant please'?

Oh, hi there, thanks for popping by. Well if you stayed awake during the guided tour of my Italian home, are you up for some fresh air and a walk round the village? I’ve got to be a little careful as I don’t want you to work out which village it is. ‘No names, no pack drill’, as someone used to say.

Our first stop is Mrs. Bun the Baker ‘Due croissant, per favore – una crema e una naturale’. Mrs Bun is not always the most cheerful of people – could it be she agonises over the poor quality of Italian croissants compared to their French cousins, less than an hour’s drive away? No, I didn’t think so. A visit to the bakers is occasionally enlivened by the presence of Mrs B’s very part-time assistant – a pretty young lady who, if I understand her correctly, is studying English at university. If this is indeed the case, she should ask for her money back! One day a week the baker is closed, so off we trot to the little grocery store where bread and pastries can sometimes be found. If the bakery is Sainsbury’s, (I exaggerate to make a point), the grocery store is Morrisons, evidenced most clearly by the female staff smoking on the step outside the shop at every available opportunity.

My favourite shop, however, is the, I suppose Americans would call it a general store, but who’s asking them? This shop is run by a husband and wife team and, in terms of what you can buy, equates to Harrods. Say you’re planning a barbeque party. (Go on say it.) You suddenly realise at 7pm that you haven’t got any charcoal, beer, an adaptor for your hairdryer, a pair of shoes (you want to look nice for the guests) and insect repellent. No problem – all available at the general store. I once asked for a small block of wood, (you don’t need to know), and was presented with three to choose from. ‘No charge’, the wife said, in far better English than my Italian, ‘it is a gift.’ ‘If it’s a gift’ I responded, ‘shouldn’t you wrap it in pretty paper?’ They now make sure they can summon help quickly whenever I come in.

Next in the village we arrive at an estate agent, but I refuse to give it the oxygen of free publicity, as one of its employees is an incompetent charlatan, so we shall hurry by. We also boast a post office and a pharmacy. The former takes my money when I pay council and refuse taxes. I’d like to refuse taxes but as they are so reasonable compared with UK equivalents, I’m not really complaining. I’ve only recently paid my first visit to the pharmacy but realised immediately that my infatuation for the baker’s assistant may have been misplaced. An English-speaking pharmacist with a philosophical view of life may steal my heart; my wife, however, has suggested that I dream on.

The village is far from bereft of places to eat and drink. We wouldn’t be based there if
that was the case. Such is the range of quality, service, scurrilous gossip opportunities and hilarious anecdotes that ‘I could dine out on that one’ will be the subject of my next blog. (can you contain your excitement?)

Being Italy, we have not one but two churches. Also, being Italy, attendance is sporadic to say the least. Our first visit to the main church happened to coincide with the first visit of the new parish priest – the church was pleasantly full. The following week – about twenty of us. The highlight is the annual procession from one church to the other in honour of a particular saint – lot of people, a marching band, precarious carrying of an ornate, heavy-looking statue, a sense of community.

Well we’ve had a stroll around. We’ve enjoyed the balmy weather, the impressive mountain backdrop, the steep steps, the wild feline population, (no, not the pharmacist) the centro storico and the friendly ‘buona sera’ greeting to all we meet. It’s time for a drink. Where shall we imbibe? I know, we’ll go to …ah but that’s the next blog’s theme. See you then.