Babbo Natale* is not seated in an eccentric grotto. He’s not surrounded by glorious, svelte elves handing out candy. He’s not fat or loveably pudgy. He doesn’t even bellow ‘ho ho ho’.
Milan; Fashion. Economy. Italian glitterati jet-flying set. The original seat of fascism. Imposing architecture. WWII. The Last Supper.
I’ve just touched down in London. The brunt embers and hues of summer have passed, and the city is now enveloped in an autumnal aura: the leaves are the colour of mahogany and the air is crisp and fresh. The day’s (alas) are shorter, and the nights longer.
Summer in Europe is an effervescently frenetic time. August, when the entirety of Europe (bar the UK, naturally) shut away their computer screens, switch off emails, telephones and take their annual summer pilgrimage, is the most vibrant and saturating month of the European summer calendar.
I really don’t know how to put Venice into words.
One really should try and visit all of Italy’s capital cities. Rome, Florence, Milan, Naples – these historical arts and cultural European capitals warrant a visit.
Twenty kilometres southwest of Milan is the small, classic and historically relevant commune of Morimondo.
Milan, I would wager, is to the parochial tourist Italy’s most disappointing city.
Tomorrow, I return to Italy. Unsurprisingly, you can hear the titillating excitement in my copy.
‘Meeting the parents’ – the venerable ritual of getting serious with the boy/girl of your choice. Dating for a few months till finally you tentatively ask; ‘would you like to meet my parents’. Honestly, I’m usually filled with utter joy and jubilation that anyone would think of me seriously enough to meet their parents. But this jovial attitude lasts a…