Drying Out

I was thrown a lifeline last night. E's friend was celebrating his birthday in Rome and I had already resigned myself to the fact that I wouldn't be able to go and had sat E down and in a very mature and non-martyrish fashion told him he should go without me as Giorgio is a close friend. (But only on the condition that he spared a thought for me every now and then, spending the night sitting in on another couples' relationship breakdown).

Luckily for me Giorgio and his girlfriend offered to pick me up from my village outpost and escort me to the bar in Rome. I got so excited I was ready and waiting an hour before they were due to arrive. And they, following Italian time-keeping rules turned up an hour late, so I watched a bit of 'Tempesta D'Amore' (dubbed German soap of choice in this house) and tried to ignore Sonia's occasional death stares.

It was my first 'Italian' birthday, and very civilised it was too. We passed a relaxed few hours chatting, eating and drinking. No-one ordered more than two drinks the entire night, and many weren't even drinking alcohol. Having purposely avoided the painkillers in order to enjoy a few drinks I felt a bit put out, but I really should have known. I've been to a pub with a bunch of Italians on another occasion and it was exactly the same- on the table I spotted two lonely glasses of wine, a dozen cokes, and two pots of tea (TEA? In the pub on a saturday night?). Here, in the gaps where perhaps in England we'd refresh our pint glasses, they summoned the waitress to give a detailed descrition of the different antipasti on offer, or went on a mass exodus outside to smoke. Having had in my hand the same glass of warm, half-flat coke for half an hour (I started wobbling on my crutches after the first drink) I got a bit hopeful when, after the cake, the waitress brought out 12 glasses. 'Oh goody' I thought, 'here comes the prosecco'. But no, it turns out the birthday boy had asked her to bring us a big bottle of mineral water, which was eagerly poured and passed around. I can only assume this is some absurd part of the digestion maintenance routine which seems to be an obsession here.

A bit later we all left together, lingering outside to chat a bit more, and finally going through the double kiss on cheeks rigmarole with every other person present. The birthday boy, who'd hit nothing harder than a coke all night, drove us home.