ARE YOU WONDERING WHAT I DID WITH THE CHICKEN?
Transformed into it of course! That is what happens when you eat it in a row for several days. Anyhow, when I am not metamorphosed into a rooster, I feel like a salmon. I seem to be swimming in the right river and more positive work might be coming my way. Keep your fingers crossed for me, not something a fish can do, so had better get back to the poultry mode.
Other than that, did you know that the next Drag Queen Capital of Europe, and maybe even the world, after Amsterdam, is Principina a Mare? I found that out before being blown of shore by gale force winds on Saturday. Missed the drag night by a couple of days though so had to believe what cousin Matteo was telling me. Then I drove over some of the most scenic routes in the whole of Italy in the pouring rain - Sunday, normal, it always rains at weekends – and literally ran though Montalcino. The Brunello wine I just had to miss…

REFREEZE IS NOT AN OPTION
Panic, panic, Italian dinner guests have just cancelled at the very last minute (with no plausible excuse) and I now have a full unfrozen chicken on my hands… what do I do?
Post a “comment” below with your suggestions please.
Anyone fancy coming round for dinner?
The only other option I can think of is to stick it on my head, like Mr Bean, and pretend it is Christmas. I could also go running round the square with it on to create a bit of entertainment. Si?
Not sure the Cortonese would see the funny side though.

THE INVERSELY PROPORTIONAL BALANCE BETWEEN FEMALE EMOTIONS AND MALE HORMONES
Just yesterday, I was standing at the door of an art exhibition here in Cortona, listening to Terry recount her fate with older men. It transpired that male hormone levels are inversely proportional to female emotions. The more down and depressed a women is, the more interested older men become. Terry assures me that she has proof of a variety of old biddies that have done their best to console her when she was very unhappy – that was last week – and ended up trying to get her in to bed… That said, it also included one old fellow who did a jig to cheer her up and snapped his hamstring. I guess he will not be up for much physical exercise for a while.
This is just a heads up for those of you out there who have this magnetism with the past-mid-life-crisis bunch (that means just about any female), you have been warned, so be aware, and if anyone spontaneously starts dancing, move away immediately.

A GIRL, A SOCK AND A MERCURY PROBLEM
Can anyone explain why i am wearing wolly socks and have cold feet again when this is August in Tuscany ???
Pass me Bush please, I want a word about climate change and extreme weather patterns. This is penguin business. Bikini well hidden under layers of goretex and too early surely to be accumulating blubber?
As a consequence, il Cinema all’Aperto (aperto not being the name of a bar) was moved back inside, into the relative warmth of the theatre. So I had the misfortune to watch “Ma quando arrivano le ragazze?” Confirmation that in Italy, you can do anything if you are the friend of somebody. A whole bunch of not-actors and the worst script writer in living memory. Some of it was filmed in Perugia though – ajhh, such a popular area we live in now!


More like, when are they leaving...

AND SO TO COMPENSATE
Just had time to adjust to the brilliance of friends and family in Geneva and now I am back in Cortona. The contrast was made even sharper by the women who really did dress up to go to the Festa dell’Unità of Pozzuolo di Castiglione del Lago, a speck on the map. And they went all the way, right up to the nines, gold everywhere, sparkles so brightly amplified by the neon lights that I needed my shades on.
Please, if you see me in wedding outfits to go to the Festa dell’Unità, anywhere in the country, come over and salvage me!
On the other hand, the sausages were good…


Pozzuolo, reservation desk for the Festa dell'Unità crowds.


The moon shining through the moskito net made this weird cross-like reflection that you cannot see on film... well that was useful.

LA GENTIANE : UN DELIRE COLLECTIF.
Si ce n’était pour vous, je pourrais tout à fait écrire une thèse à ce sujet, mais je laisserai cet exercice à notre guide de montagne. Pour ceux qui ne le savent pas, Laetitia a décide de se bourrer de muesli à partir de 4 heures du mat pour ensuite avoir une excuse pour cueillir la gentiane, plante bien évidemment menacée d’extinction, sûrement à cause des indigestions collectives des Bourquins. Et ce, jusqu’au passage des examens de guide aspirant, le mois prochain. Les expirants sont pour l’année successive, après le jet de touristes de la falaise en guise d’animation, et le meurtre du chamois au lance pierre.

Ca me mène tout droit à notre deuxième poule écolo qui passe ses weekends au dessus des pâturages, las de bouffer de la vache et en quête de nouvelles saveurs. Le doux bouc des montagnes, non moins menacé que la gentiane, s’occupe de ses oignons alors que Mère Sig pense plutôt le cuire à la vapeur et l’enfoncer dans un viscère.

Mimiche, il est l’heure de revenir de chez le pote du pote du pote qui a un plan de la folie de la mort pour garder un œil sur ces poussinettes avant que la faune et la flore de notre beau pays n’y passe à tout jamais.

Donc merci Val, tu sauves la journées avec ton nouveau né, un potentiel pour motiver le reste de la meute à faire un petit effort pour la nature ?

Entre-temps, je voulais aussi remercier Freda et Pixepat pour nous avoir fait découvrir une nouvelle dimension à l’épilation et je vous invite a lire la news sur BBC avant de booker vos prochaines vacances, même si il ne s’agit pas spécifiquement de touffes en crête : http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/wiltshire/4165198.stm

Ayant fait le tour de table, je n’oublierai pas le courage des dindons Fredo et Giardini qui on fait semblant de rien des heures durant malgré les gloussements hystériques, et de la brave Sabine qui a sacrifié un souper de poules pour sauver l’innocence de sa fille.

Mes poules, est-ce nécessaire de souligner que vous me manquez déjà…


Gentiane vu du fond d'une bouteille.

GVA BRACE YOURSELF
with little over two days to go before we hit Switzerland, I'm just giving you advanced warning that if you would like something bringing over from here, this is the time to email.

Paquis from the plane.

GRAHGH
My feet are frozen this morning and I am finding it difficult to focus on work. Ahouhgaurh. I should really be getting on with this brochure but I keep sidetracking.
Blogger is so much more fun.
I want to redesign the whole site and fiddle around with the posting section. The only thing is, I live in terror of loosing the whole lot. Ahaht. Primal fear. The one they inculcate when you first start using a computer and you are convinced that pressing the wrong button will make the machine implode.
So, coding coding, see if I can remember any of it?
First will be going to GVA to see the girls (ok, and all the newborn babies) then will be doing some animal feed website, then who knows what.
Tanti baci & DISCIPLINE…

Channelling the focus, like a mouse on a treadmill

SKINNING STUFF
Sabrina found a new love in the shape of a barbarian dressed in a skimpy skirt and fur. It was passion at first sight. She dragged me along as she ran behind him, trying in vain to catch a glimpse of his undies (was he wearing any???).

The intro to the website of the Festa dei Barbari di Castel Rigone is well worth a visit: http://www.castelrigone.com/

They were serving wine from insecticide sprayers, which I am sure Miss Sig would have greatly appreciated.

Girls, this is for you!

Looking very catching in my new hat.

Sabrina having a special moment with the man of her dreams.

PEASANTS DON’T DO APERO
Seven pm, Casa dei Tigli, Cortona. Attracted by the superb setting and having forgotten and forgiven the past terrible experiences, I bounce in, not only to book a table, but also to – guess, 7pm, have an aperitif.
“Hi, I’d like to book a table for Saturday night”.
“Yes”
“For 8 people.”
“Yes (so what, we are always empty anyway)”
“The name is Olivia (this is like drilling at the dentist’s…)”
“Yes”
(any chance she will write it down????)
Ok, that failed but we are still going to sit upstairs and make the most of their sign saying “Non Perdetevi l’Ora dell’Aperitivo” – don’t miss apero time.
Andrea, rooted in Italy’s aperitif cot (the north of the country) bravely asks for a Caipiriniah (yes, please, me too). “No. not possible” “Ok, gin tonic?” “No, not possible.” “Ok, spritz?” “No, not possible.” At which point, I completely loose it. Cut in and enquire what that sign on the wall means about not missing apero time – does it mean we should be having it somewhere else???? She stoically answers that they have lots of aperitifs – ohhhh aye, and in the form of what?
Crodino, san Pellegrino bitter (if she says coke, I am going to slap her). Nothing cocktaily though, she cannot cope with that.
Andrea, who has so far not lost composition, asks for a Prosecco (now that comes out of a bottle, straight, no mixing, no ice, no nothing) No was the answer. Only spumantino. Placid, yes, si, fine.
I have a beer.
The spumantino turns out the be the most disgusting drink Andrea has ever had and its sweetness contrasts sharply to the mouldy but very spicy peanuts we are given when we ask for crisps…
By the way, don’t bother with the booking.

WHEN MILAN HITS CORTONA AND A POTATO THE TABLE
Moving along with more incompetent waiters – was there some kind of international incompetent waiter symposium on in Tuscany that I missed and then all the wannabe incompetent waiters stayed on doing internships in the area?? – anyhow, the scene where a single, lonesome potato was produced on a huge plate, about half an hour after we had finished our meal, topped all our expectations. The waiter was actually looking for the plate of grilled vegetables it belonged to (brought to the table over an hour earlier) and was quite upset when we all chocked with laughter… What will these people from Milan think????’

The shores of Lago Trasimeno are famous for their potatoes.

The incriminated.

YOU WERE SAYING?

Andrea spent the evening trying to convince me that stag nights only end up in strip clubs because alcohol consumption in the early evening is above average… nothing to do with the attraction of the European Lap Dance Champion who can swing from a pole, attached only by her legs, for hours. The elaborate description and the smile on his face gave it away though.

Sabrina on the other hand is adamant that she is in fact Italian, even if she eats no pasta, hates olive oil and prefers Nescafe to normal coffee. She is also very blond and has pale eyes, yet Andrea still believes her origins lie in the Puglia region down South.

Yes, that is who we are spending the next couple of days with. Not surprising when you consider we met them on the Gili Islands of Indonesia, some time about a year ago from now, when I was on that other planet, called Travel.


Sabrina is German, we, at least agree...


Andrea on the other hand could well be Italian.

A SERIES OF COCK UPS

In true Pasini planning mode, Daniela and the beagle never materialised and the trip to Paris turned into a logistical nightmare. The Seine says hi though, as do the baguettes and the terraces; the Parisians though are too mopey to bother saying hello. That said, it was tres joli indeed and I could really have done with a few more days swanning around.

As for the gossip, I confirm, Ben and Betta seem firmly intent on leaping off the cliff (ie getting married). Loris and Nath cannot cope with the idea for now as she is too busy getting up at 4 am nearly every morning, whist Loris tries his hardest to keep her up all night! Fish markets, I tell you.

Anyhow, should I still have enough energy, I would present the gripping details of my trip back on a silver platter – yes, it is worth it – but I might just stop at saying that AlItalia lives up to its reputation.

In fact, no, I am going to make this into a monster blog and tell you all about it.


From A to B in Paris.

MONSTER BLOG
(cheating here, lulling you into a fall sense of security, as it is in fact the same blog as the one above!!!)
Being late, yes; not being fed, also; but most insultingly, not having any G&T. Now, please, enlighten me as to how you can do a trans-national flight without a glass of G&T? It just does not make sense. It would be like having a melon with no seeds inside, or a television with no screen. It just cannot be. Especially if the ticket cost over 1000 euros, just to get from Italy to France.

Next time though, I’ll take AlItalia out of the equation, apero or not, as I never landed in Milan, and even if I had, I would have missed to connecting flight to Perugia anyway since we took off virtually two hours late. So, from Genoa, where we were re-routed to, I was rescued by a very very angry Guido who was being very very latin about the whole thing (that means he was going bananas, flapping arms in air, getting scorching hot under the collar, and pacing up and down the business isle screaming). He was going to drive back to Perugia and, having discovered the existence of a fellow passenger originally destined his way, kindly invited me to join.

By the time we got to the car rental desk, I was having serious second thoughts as Guido was adamant that he could get from Genoa to Perugia in under two hours – and that would be about 400Km… Hello Michael?! But AVIS does not rent Ferraris and I cannot remember any F1 drivers for Renault.

Yo. We made it back to Perugia by 1.30 am and ended up actually enjoying the trip until I found the airport locked, paramilitary everywhere, no drop box for the AVIS keys – but that, is another story…


Driving home.