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| Version 1 | Version 2 |
|---|---|
| Letter from Italy: stuck between hard rock and a quiet place | Letter from Italy: stuck between hard rock and a quiet place |
| (12 days later) | |
| A couple of Sundays ago I had to take my son to Saronno from Mantova for an all-day engagement. A Sunday all to myself in Saronno: the thought pleased me. | A couple of Sundays ago I had to take my son to Saronno from Mantova for an all-day engagement. A Sunday all to myself in Saronno: the thought pleased me. |
| I checked the weather prospects: nonstop rain. Then I checked if there were any exhibitions on: nothing. | I checked the weather prospects: nonstop rain. Then I checked if there were any exhibitions on: nothing. |
| I resigned myself to a day flitting from cafe to cafe and taking a break in a pizzeria somewhere. I'd take lots of reading material. Ensconced with a good book in a big, old, high-ceilinged cafe and a pianist sending a Chopinesque waltzes wafting through the air. Exactly the sort of place where one might run into one's Muse. Better take along writing material too. | I resigned myself to a day flitting from cafe to cafe and taking a break in a pizzeria somewhere. I'd take lots of reading material. Ensconced with a good book in a big, old, high-ceilinged cafe and a pianist sending a Chopinesque waltzes wafting through the air. Exactly the sort of place where one might run into one's Muse. Better take along writing material too. |
| The weather forecast was bang on, as I drifted on foot towards the centre of town in pelting rain. The streets were deserted at 9am but there were sporadic signs of cafe life as I neared the main piazza. I got straight to work on the quest for that heavenly locale. | The weather forecast was bang on, as I drifted on foot towards the centre of town in pelting rain. The streets were deserted at 9am but there were sporadic signs of cafe life as I neared the main piazza. I got straight to work on the quest for that heavenly locale. |
| After an hour I had reconnoitred about six locations and in all cases, the instant I put my foot inside the door, I was repelled by radio-sourced rock music blasted through a stereo system, and, as it would appear, through the customers as well. Sunday morning? Sounded more like Saturday night! | After an hour I had reconnoitred about six locations and in all cases, the instant I put my foot inside the door, I was repelled by radio-sourced rock music blasted through a stereo system, and, as it would appear, through the customers as well. Sunday morning? Sounded more like Saturday night! |
| This is fast becoming the norm in Italy: a wall of surround nonstop radio blasting. I recently asked a waiter in a pizzeria why all the din, and he explained that without background music diners won't speak to each other for fear of being eavesdropped on. The music acts as an acoustic buffer between tables; otherwise a paranoid silence prevails. Not good for digestion. Bad for business. | This is fast becoming the norm in Italy: a wall of surround nonstop radio blasting. I recently asked a waiter in a pizzeria why all the din, and he explained that without background music diners won't speak to each other for fear of being eavesdropped on. The music acts as an acoustic buffer between tables; otherwise a paranoid silence prevails. Not good for digestion. Bad for business. |
| In bars in Milan I've been reluctantly transfixed by giant plasma TVs screening manic DJs in action live from a radio station. Customers are pumped full of this high-octane nervous stimulation over their coffees every breakfast time. Perhaps it's something to do with the Latin temperament, or the youth of today, or maybe it's just me. | In bars in Milan I've been reluctantly transfixed by giant plasma TVs screening manic DJs in action live from a radio station. Customers are pumped full of this high-octane nervous stimulation over their coffees every breakfast time. Perhaps it's something to do with the Latin temperament, or the youth of today, or maybe it's just me. |
| But then I remember a bar in Mantova where sawdust is sprinkled on the floor fresh every morning, and Italian is spoken between locals and out-of-towners. The quiet, timeless strains of Mantuan dialect flow sweetly around the tables and soothe the nerves. My kind of music. | But then I remember a bar in Mantova where sawdust is sprinkled on the floor fresh every morning, and Italian is spoken between locals and out-of-towners. The quiet, timeless strains of Mantuan dialect flow sweetly around the tables and soothe the nerves. My kind of music. |
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