Having lived in Italy for so long I 've lost count of the number of times I've been on a plane. If it's true that the air in the cabin ages you faster due to the excessive amount of free radicals, then it's a losing battle for me and for the pilot and the hostesses .
After all these years I still haven't mastered the art of packing. In spite of all the magazine articles I've read about how to pack a mini compact selection of clothes and my Madame Chic explaining the ten item wardrobe, there I was at midnight flapping about still deciding which jeans to take. My husband says they all look the same anyway. Now he has got a really easy ten item wardrobe - I have managed that! But mine always has something wrong.
In my imagination I am a bikini and pair of jeans girl, a bit like Grace Kelly in that film where she just has a flimsy nightie in a tiny suitcase. But no, here I am with too much stuff as usual.
The minute I step inside the airport everyone speaks to me in English. How do they know I'm
The minute I step inside the airport everyone speaks to me in English. How do they know I'm
not Italian? Is it the blue bag with the brown shoes that no self- respecting Signora would wear? Even my husband starts to speak to me in English, I answer back in Italian, people look at us in amazement hanging on our every word. This is agony for me, who likes to sail unobtrusively through life, blending into the background. You might think this incongruous as everyone in the world can read my blog, but that is another story for another post.
One thing about me this time is my passport. The photo is much more flattering than the British one. In the photo there I look like I'm in the throes of a mid- life crisis, in the Italian one I am gazing seductively at the photographer .... Ha!ha! .. I wish !!
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