Italy. An interesting, infuriating place to live as a gin-raddled expat. Some notes and observations.
Monday, 12 September 2011
All Bunched Up
As I may have posted before (and can't be bothered to check), grape picking is not some bucolic, idyllic pastime. It is backbreaking, hot, uncomfortable and seemingly without end. There are wasps and mosquitoes, the constant threat of the picker on the other side of the row of vines clipping off one of your pinkies with his/her secateurs as you both go for the same stem, bunches of grapes that don't hang down temptingly but have grown around one of the many training wires. And the heat, oh the bloody heat and the sweat.
Anyhoo, we stopped for a a couple of rolls at lunchtime, our motley crew, Albanians, Italians and one extremely red-faced Brit. I ate one roll with salami and another with Parma ham and drank about a litre of sparkling water.
Bruna had the right idea 'though, perched in the shade of the tractor cab.
As you might imagine your correspondent will be paid in kind, not in cash.