My first summer in West Berlin - 1983 - wasn't actually spent in West Berlin. That is to say, I spent a few weeks of it in Italy. In Piovene Rocchette again to be precise. In the province of Vicenza - as I think I've already said. By this time Paola had acquired a boyfriend. Fulvio was his name and he was a gentleman. I was delighted for her. They looked good together.
Anyway, enough of the mush. This time I was really shown around. If I ate well last time, I ate twice as well this time. Fulvio took me all over the place - up into the Dolomites, up into the Alps and up into what use to be Austria. He took me to the village where Erwin Rommel was born ... which is now in Italy.
I was taken to a castle outside Verona where one of the families of dignity had resided and from which they dominated the surrounding countryside.
He took me to the top of a mountain where the Italian army had faced the Austrian army during WWI. Both sides had mined the top of the mountain in order to destroy the soldiers on the other side. The result was that entire peak of the mountain was blown off.
He took me to a tiny Romanesque chapel that dated back to the middle-ages. It was small. Seated maybe a dozen people. It was falling apart but the ceiling was exquisite.
They took me eating out. They took me to the local night spots. I spent the whole time eating, drinking and chattering with them or their friends of both.
One of the highlights for me was when Paola took me out shopping (with my own money of course) and picked out a couple of Italian outfits for me. Now I looked the part too. This was living and I felt closer than I had ever felt to the fulfilment of the promise.
Of course, the promise really lay in Campania. In Scala. But this was all part of the journey; all part of the preparation. Even at the tender age of 23 (and I promise you I was very tender) I understood that the journey was more important than the arrival.
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