The Independent.
Rebecca Front
Wednesday, 27 August 2008
I have just
returned from a couple of weeks in the blazing south of
But it seems I'm
not alone. In between bouts of worrying, I spent a lot of time watching
other people, and it struck me that you can spot the British on the beach
instantly, no matter how tanned they are, by the fact that they all look as if
they are about to be felled by some crushing blow. Italians on a beach look
self-confident, relaxed, carefree. They wear the
briefest of swimwear without caring whether it suits them, and they wear it
with such swagger that somehow it does. They smoke endlessly, eat copious
amounts of food, swig beer and caress each other publicly, guiltlessly, joyfully. It's rather wonderful to behold.
And then, into
your field of vision lopes a hunched, haunted figure in either copious,
down-to-the-knee surf shorts or a Boden tankini with a tummy-disguising floral pattern, and you
know, just KNOW that they're British. In case you needed further evidence, there
are... the hats. The Brits are the only people, apart from the Japanese, who
wear hats in
After a week of
observing this, I came to
the conclusion that I wanted to be Italian. Is that so
unreasonable? I may not have a drop of Adriatic blood in my veins, but I am
dark-haired and had, by this time, acquired a tan in spite of the factor 80,
the huge hat, and the fact that my face had been permanently shielded by half a
ton of John Grisham.
So, one night,
I decided
that the early- evening stroll to the bar was going to be my passeggiata. I put on a slightly racy, strappy dress, a
great deal of slap and some high heels, sprayed myself with scent with a wanton
disregard for insect bites, and walked not with my customary
"watch-out-for-the-traffic" look of fear, but with a shoulders-back,
hip-rolling, bella figura sway.
The first thing
that happened was my kids asking why I was walking that way. When I explained
that I wanted to make the best of myself like the locals did, they decided
to join in. So now there were three of us: me, my nine-year-old son and
seven-year-old daughter swaggering through a medieval Italian town pretending
we belonged. We must have looked pretty convincing because, almost at once,
an Italian woman stopped us and asked us the way. I couldn't tell her, of
course, because the only Italian question I can answer is, "Would you like
a salad with that?", and, come to think of it, she may have been asking us
the way to the straw-hat emporium in Barnes. But no, I believe we were passing
muster as fully fledged Italians, albeit with a very limited vocabulary.
Now, apart from
the language, just one thing stood between me and my new identity: my
husband. Even though he's the only member of the family who has lived in
He never drinks
brandy with his breakfast; refuses to have public rows with me; and doesn't
kiss his male friends on the cheek. And then there's his driving. He will insist
on checking his mirrors, maintaining a steady speed rather than veering
erratically around blind bends and then braking sharply for no reason. And
worst of all, I'm ashamed to admit, unlike every genuine Southern Italian male,
he never smokes while filling the car with petrol.
Then I had a
brainwave. If anybody asked, I'd learn how to say, in perfect Italian, that my
husband's from