Chapter 7- Mambo Italiano

Italians. These mouthy mediterranean mammas boys lead the world in good design. From Ferraris to fashion wear, the pear shaped, pasta gobbling gluttons ooze more exceptional taste than the whole of America combined. The racy colors, the sexual lines, the innovative shapes, the wash of old and new. Its as if God himself gifted these swarthy citizens, and them alone. The rest of us hope like hungry dogs around a Dionysian banquet waiting for something to fall. 

And who doesn’t like pizza? It comes in  tantalizing triangles that you fly around the dinner table like an Imperial Cruiser until you, the Rebel commander, take a bite off the bow.  And a late night spaghetti dinner? Its fun, fattening and frivolous like raucous romance in a cobblestone square. 

Who can refuse Italian wine?  Blood red like the dagger of Brutus, cool as stockings in sidewalk sophistication, and intoxicating like luscious  lips, wet with laughter and Lambrusco.

Still these people of the boot irritate me. They simply act differently than the rest of us. Why scold when you can scream? Why weep when you can wail? Why like when you can love? Why wimper when you can whine? Why linger when you can lounge? Italians simply over emotionalize everything that the rest of us feel, the rest of us,  who wish  we had their flair.

(The following are all photos of Venice)

Some dude,...did some big stuff apparently.

Sadly, the only breeze was my heavy breathing

The Italian navy. They have glass bottoms boats so they can see the old Italian navy.

No saturation added. These peppers really are this bright.

The crew, left to right. Mike, Barry and James.

Chinese fast food.

Couples link their love with locks on Venetian bridges.

I kept tripping over my toungue

Pretty much sumarizes my view of Japanese tourists