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’.
I am sitting at the watered won British-Lebanese chain restaurant Comptoir Libanais. It’s one of the better chain restaurants that Britons favour, as it actually has some individuality flavour.
Milan; Fashion. Economy. Italian glitterati jet-flying set. The original seat of fascism. Imposing architecture. WWII. The Last Supper.
I really don’t know how to put Venice into words.
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…
There is really nothing quite like a European Christmas. The spirit and festivity is utterly alive, underpinned by a strong religious backbone which makes the occasion ever the more charming and spiritual.
It seems incongruous to talk about Italy and fail to touch on its sartorial repertoire. For, fashion is ingrained within the Italian culture, no?
Some places are so hyped up and over indulged, they become swallowed in commercial kitsch: tourists flock, prices rise and the innate beauty that once was is no more.