#50: Frog … and Other Olympic Sports
Sorry for the late delivery this week!
Now that we are officially into August (aka the month where productivity is impossible in Italy) and even the summer camps are chiuso per ferie, my routines are all out the window. David and I are, for the next few weeks, entirely at the beck and call of the two princelings of Lucca.
I must come up with a new time to write my dispatch. Of course I will though, don't worry. I love sitting down each week to remember all the ridiculous and inane things that keep me endlessly entertained. I hope you enjoy reading these letters even half as much as I do writing them.
I spoke last week about the changing demographics of Lucca in summer. Throughout August there is a noticeable shift, where the proportion of Italians drops and is replaced by foreigners.
Apparently this week it is the turn of the French to invade. I have heard a lot of French. I understand about one in every 20 words I overhear, so only just enough to be sure of the language and nothing more. Three years of high school French really coming into its own...
The French are, of course, as stylish as tourists come. They are never sweaty, and they are impossibly aloof. They never, ever point. They do not show even the mildest enthusiasm or interest in anything to see in the town. They don't look like they're having a bad time necessarily, but they are certainly not about to betray anything as unseemly as excitement. How gauche.
David had to make an unavoidable trip into the centre late last week at around 3pm. Of course this is the absolute peak of the afternoon break time, when all restaurants have closed after lunch, and pretty much all shops have shut for their daily riposo. In August, siesta hours are extended by up to two hours, with some shops simply not reopening at all after the morning trade.
In any case, he returned home with tales of a town that resembled a kind of zombie apocalypse. The only people wandering the streets were confused tourists. All beetroot red and sweating, they staggered around, searching in vain for anywhere that might offer them a cold drink and a shady spot to sit and drink it. Of course there was not an Italian in sight.
The Olympics are on at the moment, and I have been enjoying watching both the Australians and Italians performing very well in many different sports. I am not sure which country has better or worse coverage, but for sure both nations are living up to all their respective stereotypes.
The Australian commentary of the swimming was absolutely full of terrible puns, and constant borderline sexism. Meanwhile, there is a now-famous clip online where an Italian commentator spent an entire swimming race complaining about the quality of the coffee provided in the tea room.
I have absolutely loved learning all of the names of the sports in Italian though. Doesn't lancio del disco (launch of the disc) sound so much more exciting than just plain old discus?
In swimming, freestyle is pretty much the same - stile libero. And butterfly is farfalla, of course. Backstroke, however? Dorso. Which just means 'back'.
And my absolute favourite. Breaststroke. Rana. Which literally just means 'frog'.
Although now that I think about it more, it definitely makes more sense to call it frog. Breastroke is a weird word.
As always, all my love and hugs. I hope you are well!
