April 25th is a bank holiday in Italy, ‘Festa della Liberazione’, so everybody is going to the beach. It’s just hit me that this is the first year I’ll miss the bank holiday madness of May in the UK, where you practically forget what it feels like to work on a Monday. Weirdly this makes me feel a bit sad.
Camolgi is full of people today; people walking hand-in-hand armed with focaccia, Italian tourists who are visiting en-route to the Cinque Terre, and chubby children scooting around the Centro Storico with chocolate ice-cream smeared faces. Everybody is out for a little passeggiata and we bump into people all over the place.
After lunch M takes me to the supermarket with G, to buy provisions for the week. All in all I find this a very thrilling experience. M does not and has clarified that he just wants us to get in and out as quickly as possible but I fear he has underestimated how much I love a supermarket.
They sell oil by the pint and they sell an Aperol Spritz equivalent of an M&S G&T tinny. There is at least half an aisle dedicated to mozzarella and there are six different Nutella jar sizes to choose from. Mind. Blown.
Maybe it was fair of them to call me pazzo (crazy) as I did spend quite a long time oggling the olives. Perhaps if I was in the UK and I saw someone gasping over the cheese counter in Sainsbury’s and taking pictures of sausages, I might judge.
Interestingly, M and G do refuse to buy a few things from this supermaket: Pesto (G says it is ‘blargh’, ‘very very not good’), bread, gnocchi, fruit and specific meats. There are specific shops for such items apparently.
G takes on the responsibility of being my spokesperson, and guides me around the supermarket, picking up packets of crisps, marshmallows, frozen cheese pasties and french fries, saying ‘you like, you like yes’, dumping them into the trolly and shouting ‘lei vuole, lei vuole!’
We end up with a trolly of a ten year olds dreams.