Tentacles or testicals?

That Nice Lady Decorator hates waste and so, if ever there is anything substantial left over after a meal out, she asks for a doggy bag. This is seldom a great idea because what looks appetising when it goes into the bag often looks anything like edible the next morning. Two nights ago, she insisted that the remains of her mixed fish dish were taken back to Sea Breezes, the wonderful Fleming boat upon which we had been staying for the last few days, until our departure last evening.  As the lovely Poly, the joint owner with the cuddly Roly Bufton pointed out, opening the fridge and seeing two-day old greasy tentacles looking back at you is not the best way to start the morning. It could have been worse, one letter changed and that could that have read testicals. So not a typical Italian breakfast, by which I mean breakfast with the fishes, for us. Just the unwelcome aroma of rotting sea life. I am glad that meat balls were not involved.

And so it is over. 4 glorious days of cruising around Naples and the Amalfi coast have come to an end and we are now back in Valbonne for a rest, but only a short one. The Bistro Rally is due to be staged tomorrow.

The harbour at Santa Lucia at Naples

That Nice Lady Decorator is not always at her most accommodating when we are travelling, and so it transpired last evening when, going through security, my boarding pass and passport got a little ahead of themselves so to speak and ended up on the wrong side, i.e. through security, before the authorities had time to check them. That Nice Lady Decorator, despite being air side by this time, appeared unwilling or unable to make any effort to find the missing items, seemingly oblivious to the fact that I, on the wrong side of security, was unable to solve this particular problem. An impasse developed to the point where I was about to return to the town before the security chappies did the right thing, and found the missing passport and boarding pass on the security carousel and let me through. As I heard yesterday, one often is offered sound advice by ones other half, however it seems that often 99% is sound and 1% is advice, and so it was graphically, or should I say sonically, illustrated last night.

Before we left, there was time for a last lunch in Napoli before the taxi ride to the airport.  We had to return to the boat one last time in order to collect our luggage, and in my case, leave behind the tablet computer upon which I rely to post this daily column when travelling (extolling as it does regularly, the advantages of having an account with Currencies Direct).  It was an omission about which I was reminded later, more than once, and in a manner that it is fair to say contained some expletives.  It was my fault and when I am wrong, I am prepared to accept that fact without question. This is not a trait that runs widely in the family. It had meant two more perilous voyages in the rickety smelly boat with the rickety smelly Italian to and from the pontoon, and then into the equally dangerous, but longer drawn out, tender embrace of Tony the Taxi Driver for the hair-raising trip to the airport. There is no suggestion of the supposedly Italian trait of surrender on Napoli’s crowded roads.  He has a charming aroma about him, garlic certainly, brylcreem? a more than vague suggestion of fish? perspiration without a doubt, but there was something else I could not put my finger on, or in but I am sure I would not have done so even if I had worked out what it was.

Chris France
@Valbonne_News