A train to Tuscany, Neapolitan mermaid donuts, some mild self reflection.
In which I crush on rainy Italy.
I panic. We panic. I swear a lot. It’s basically what you’d expect a scene with two Aussie girls in a little Italian town to look like. There are impatient Italian drivers yelling and gesturing furiously, an old man watching as he smokes from his balcony, horns bleating, lots of nervous sweat, a dog.
Day 1 of my incarceration…
What would you do upon arrival in Dublin, seven hours ahead of your friends? You’d charmingly chat to your elderly AirBnB hostess about the myriad literary delights Dublin is uniquely positioned to offer — Joyce, Stoker — and then you’d go to the Guiness factory, wouldn’t you? Yeah you would.
I’ll give you a clue. In grade one, she taught me how to make really good, firm, round mudballs. Another? In grade 5, she and I surreptitiously looked up the mysterious F-word we’d heard on the playground in my children’s dictionary (no joy). We’ve unwittingly matched our outfits many times in the 28 years we’ve been friends — we shared a love for denim overalls. We’ve been netball team co-founders, pen-pals, joint amateur theatre producers at the tender age of 10. Still no?