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| Ah, the Suntan. It must be the Olden Days. |
It may not have escaped your notice, Dear Reader, that Your Correspondent is rather fond of a bit of nostalgia around these pages, rather than chewing over the Issues of the Day. Although, to be fair, there's been scant enough of that lately to make this connection obvious. But a request from Mr. P the other day for me to make Ye Olde Favourite Tuna Pasta for dinner reminded me that an opportunity lent itself to regale you with a bit of colour and movement from the Olden Days. So do settle down for a little bit while I tell to you a Tale from my Vault.
Mr. P is not the only Italian Gentleman* I've had a romantic attachment to. It was, in fact, my time spent working in London in my 20s that my tastes were cultivated in that particular direction and during that time I had, ahem, a few Italian boyfriends (and I do believe that most women have a "Maurizio" in their past but I'll save him for another day). Eurotrash, the tedious English Gentlemen at the merchant banks I worked for would sneeringly refer to them as. But that did not deter me.
Eventually, my Banking Days were done and some dear friends from Australia and I took ourselves off to holiday in the Mediterranean together. Later, some returned home to Jobs that called, but T (my Cornelia Parker exhibition companion) and I found ourselves washed up on the shores of the Greek island of Patmos for a season. Before we knew what we were doing, jobs came along and life sort of settled down for us, Greek-style.
My expectation is that this place hasn't changed much in twenty-five years but, at least in the 90s, this dusty and rocky, tiny island attracted a rather chic jet-set from even as far away as America. If you've ever been to Greece you notice that each island tends to draw its own distinct holidaymakers and in the main, this particular island was popular with Athenians, with Italians, Germans and French making up the bulk of the European visitors.
Anyhow, before long, T developed a circle of friends drawn mostly from the sophisticated Athenian set, for whom their holiday on the island meant villas and yachts and nightclubs, and found a lovely little apartment in the port town to live in. My circle grew from a more local brew, peopled with the island-born and of the fishermen and goatherd variety, and my job as a Coffee Maker (not barista, please!) provided me with free accommodation in a barn (with a cold-water hose as a shower - Luxurious! - and which I shared with another, ahem, illegal worker, Maria from Bulgaria**) up in the Des-Res village around the island's drawcard monastery.
And so our days passed with work, Greek lessons (for me), chores (a barn is a dusty place), catching up, dancing in the nightclubs after work, gossip and beach***. Yes, there were Greek boyfriends for us to titter over, but this tale does not concern a Manolis or Theologos or such, but a Marco ...
Thanks to the Emperor Augustus, August is the time for Ferragosto in Italy, and when this time rolled around, the population of holidaying Italians exploded on the island. Some came for the entire month and many were revisiting the island year after year. And it was in one such crowd of ragazzi that Marco appeared. A typical Euro-aristocrat - cash-poor yet with the wherewithal to holiday for a month at a time; titled but with a jaunty job (pilot, of course!) - and who took rather a shine to ol' Pipistrello and her rather excellent coffee-making skills.
Before you could say "But espresso is not my speciality!", the Patmian adventure was over and there was a bit of wooing of Your Correspondent going on in the Eternal City. And whereupon some of Marco's Pasta-Masta-Classes were had (Tip 1: ragù aside, no pasta sauce should take longer to cook than does boiling the water and cooking the pasta) and spaghetti al tonno was born as the Pipistrello go-to pasta recipe.
If you've ever had a meal with a chic Italian, you will discover that although the food is utterly delicious, not much will actually get eaten. The concept of bella figura doesn't necessarily mean keeping your figure Nice & Tidy, rather, among other subtle meanings, it is to do with presenting your best self. The Correct shoe or nonchalantly draped cashmere over the shoulder in the Correct colour is an obvious and easily recognised cultural tic, but I discovered that relishing the delicious and abundant spread of food at table will also make a nostril flare or an eyebrow to arch on the visage of your willowy fellow diners, who are showing the Correct amount of restraint (aided, it was later pointed out to my rather naive self, by a little bit of appetite-suppressing, recreational drug usage).
If you also know me, Dear Reader, you know that my physique tends towards the Olive Oyl and I daresay it was ever thus, and although there were not many photographs taken of me around this time to verify my claim (pshaw ... we have our memories!), overweight was the last adjective I would have been described with ... Except by Marco's aristocratic Italian friends. Pipistrello was known amongst them as Marco's Fat Girlfriend!
It still cracks me up!!
* No, Mr. P does not mind me talking about these Romantic Olden Days. He sits secure in the knowledge that after experimenting with a few dyed-in-the-wool Italians, I realised that what I really wanted in my life was the Italian packaging wrapped around a thoroughly Australian Sensibility and, crucially, Sense of Humour.
** Before she was rounded up in an Illegal Worker Sting, which I luckily eluded owing to a tip-off and some quick thinking by my employer. Yes, it was an action-packed beach holiday!
*** Among other Adventures, T and I both had our portrait painted in a rather Flattering Fashion by a holidaying Greek artist while we were there. T was rather furious to discover her bikinied form ended up miraculously nude, while I don't believe I've ever had such a buxom profile in my life! Suffice to say, these portraits were spirited away to live in his, ahem, personal collection.
Image credit: Flying With Hands
