Snow was pummelling the Northeast as Jack and I drove back from NYC. What were we doing out in a blizzard – fools that we were. My husband – the driver – was making sure that I saw the play I was reviewing for the LA based blog – Gia on the Move. This is my fist reviewing gig and the nice man I married knew it was important to me. Here it is – (http://giaonthemove.com/2015/02/26/the-church-of-why-not-at-the-west-end-theatre-nyc/)
OK, what does this have to do with her blog about Italy – or is Midge doing a smarmy blog on snow to get us to read her review???? Hmmmm.
Well the drive back in the blizzard scared the pegeeeezuuuuss out of me and reminded me why I hate people who have to drive pazillion pound cars. Jack told me to stop screaming at the SUV’s and think of something nice – like Italy. What did I think of – freakin’ SUV’s in Italy –
Suddenly, rich younguns are driving more and more GIANT cars in Italy. Where do they get the money for the gasoline? How do they manage not to get stuck on narrow streets? Why does anyone need a small tank in Italy? Grrrrrrrrr
I remembered one particular grrr moment. It is Sunday and I am doing what I do most mornings, sitting at Bar Elimar and having a cappuccino and a coronetto. This monster black jeep pulls up – I am talking so big I don’t know how the hell it gets through ancient Italian village streets. Two obviously American women in shorts, sneakers, golf shirts and attitude get out. The car is so bloody big, I’m thinking they must be CIA looking for spies. No, just two tourists looking for cappucino, a cute place to sit and a table upon which to OPEN the food they brought with them. What! Get back in your car bitches. Would you do that in America? Do you go to McDonalds and open a Burger King Bag?
When Jack and I owed the bistro from hell in Asbury Park, I would gently dissuade folks from using my tables on the boardwalk — that I paid the city a fee to be able to have — as their own picnic spots. Now, I know that the bar owners here also pay the city for use of the exterior walks for summer tables. But the bar owers are a lot nicer than I am and don’t sneer, leer and scream at people who un-pack their bags at a table. But I am not so nice. I can sneer and I can speak English and say quasi rude things. I remembered the not so quasi rude things I said to the two uber-tourists.
Then I continued to aggravate my husband by bellowing at the giant SUV’s pushing past everyone on snow packed Route 78. Ahhh, I feel better already.
Thanks for enduring the rant – and my blatant pitch for GIA on the Move!