Stresa in the Footsteps of Hemingway
Mon Vieux,
So fresh from the footsteps of Hemingway I was delighted to receive your article on those who won't disappear gracefully. You captured those poor poor souls perfectly, and which of us can truly deny a certain frisson of schaudenfreude remembering each and every time one of them drove by in their bloated foreign sports cars with a corporate credit card in one hand and a pneumatic blonde in the other. I imagine your editor is of limited vision and I have no doubt Granta is looking for just such input.
My allusion to H's footsteps is not only in relation to my enduring love for the bottle, glass, flask, barrel and cask. It refers in addition to the couple of weeks that M and I have just spent on the Tour. We began in the Birmingham of that country, aka Milan. Having made myself enormously popular with the hotel management by smashing a glass table and then completely denying any responsibility I went on to berate various restaurateurs for the lack of speed in supplying me with the necessaries. It took a few days to purge myself of this New York taint.
Knowing that Jenny-Jet-Lag would make us evil for a few days M and I only went onto Venice when we'd fully calmed down. Once there I of course made for the Hard Rock Cafˇ of Venice known locally as Harry's Bar. There skirted the ubiquitous hordes of American tourists and managed to enjoy a brace of superb Bellinis. The following day the heavens opened and Venice was submerged beneath a foot of water. I of course was well able to cope sporting country tweeds, moleskins, a Cordings Tattersal and green wellies. A fun time was had by all, well except for everyone who didn't have the right kit, they were stuck like sheep on the narrow walkways provided by the city.
Beyond that we drank like fish, ate like Lords and dressed like Kings. By the way I must say Gianni foreigner really doesn't dress as well as I seem to remember, even the women were a huge let-down.
From Venice we took to the mountains in the North and the lakes. We spent time in Stresa and from there went on up to Switzerland, once more in the steps of Hemmingway, though his character went by row boat and we went by luxury automobile. Travelling the winding mountain roads we were fortunate not to bump into the local Mafia so I had no need to adopt a Michael Caine accent and threaten all the ice cream shops, cappuccino bars and Italian restaurants in England with a brick through the window. In return I was not forced to watch the desecration of two Jags and an Aston. Quelle bonne chance.
All right so I didn't drink from a leather bag or gallop off on a charger with a buxom maiden slung across the saddle. I didn't plunge a stiletto blade into the heart of a chef who'd got the pasta sauce wrong and I didn't get buggered in the showers by the local carrabinierie. But I feel like I had an Italian experience nonetheless.
And here we are back in the New World, I am now able to dive back into the opus and do my best to avoid the fickle mistress of fashion. Having said that M and her erstwhile employer have parted brass rags so one of us will have to get some gainful sooner or later.
I'm planning to come back to the bosom of Blighty around 3rd January so let's plan unspeakable acts of random enjoyment.
Ciao,
Sxx
PS I've just finished reading Dorian by the well known heroin fan Will Self - excellent.