An Englishman ...

... or simply Marco Criscuolo? We went back to Amalfi this year. Flew out from Liverpool on Friday the 25th of September and back on Monday the 5th of October. Too short? Yes and no. Yes too short by a lifetime. No because I felt more like a foreigner in some ways than ever before.

Whenever we go over, I go out there putting myself under tremendous pressure. I have to stop by and see everyone that I know there - friends, relatives, acquaintances ... each and every one of them. I have to eat in every restaurant whose owner is my friend and that's becoming expensive. Believe me. Especially with the Euro and Sterling practically at one-to-one.

I love the place. I could happily spend the rest of my life wandering through the Lattari Mountains with my camera trying to capture moments of exquisite and immortal beauty with my digital machine.

I could happily spend the rest of my life sat in the square in Pontone with a bottle of Peroni (not Nastro Azzuro) in the blissful peace that envelopes that square.

I could quite happily spend the rest of my life sat at a table in Piazza del Duomo in Amalfi with a glass of wine watching the constant stream of humanity pass me by ... every now and again a person stops, throws his or her arms around me and chats for a few minutes about everything and nothing.

I love it. Love it.

Notwithstanding all of that, until I can master the language I can never truly be a part of it. I wasn't brought up bilingual. I taught myself Italian when I was 13. I bought an internet radio for the kitchen so that I can have Italian radio going constantly in the hope that it would deepen my immersion in the language and, consequently, my fluency. It didn't work. I made stupid mistakes and I hate making stupid mistakes. It's only me that cares about the mistakes of course but that's not the point.

Has the promise possessed me? Have I taken it too much to heart? Don't know the answer to those questions. Who am I? Where am I? I don't know the answer to those questions either. I was chatting to a friend when we were there and I did or said something and he asked me what I was doing. I told him not to worry about it. I'm an Englishman was my excuse. No you're not, he said. You are Marco Criscuolo. You are Italian. The name is enough?

I did learn a few things from this holiday and a few useful things too. The pressure thing is pointless and counterproductive. It's a holiday. It's time to chill. I should behave there just as I would at home. Shall we go out tonight? No, we'll stay at home and watch 'Verso il Millione' (Who wants to be a millionaire) and eat fried pepperoncini in front of the telly. Let's go out for a stroll along the seafront and have a coffee or an ice cream or a beer ... or even a glass of wine. Let's do nothing. Let's not have a holiday there. Let's live there for two weeks.