One of the finest things about foreign travel is the kind of magical encounters with strangers that you remember for years, even decades. Meet Gillie and John.

Typically, one does not really expect to find a dashing, movie star like person flitting about an antique road car (of such arcane origins it utterly defies identification) when one alights from one’s merely four star hotel. (I had never seen ANYTHING LIKE IT, nor indeed ever even heard its name, which I have already forgotten.) Nevertheless, that is precisely what I encountered two days ago in Bologna, Italy. I believe my mouth gaped open unattractively. (At the car.)

Now, I am wholly willing to stipulate here: I don’t know a carburetor from a cannoli, but, I do know a hot car when I see one. This car reeked of history, luxury and grandeur. An automotive legend, even to a dolt like me. I started to circle this glorious vehicle, thinking I would ask if I could take a photo for my son-in-law, (a real car guy) and I stumbled over the movie star’s lady friend, nearly supine over her opened luggage on the cobblestones. (Think a combination of Petula Clarke and Emma Thompson with just touch of one of the Redgrave girls thrown in; a vision in white and orange sherbet, frantically and energetically stuffing salamis into her bag.)

Cumulatively, they were not a sight you are likely to see often.

John’s “machine” was one of a 6 car rally that drove down the entire continent all the way to Sicily from Great Britain. The other five autos, (every one as dazzling as John’s, we were assured), had motored on ahead, but, man! That would have been something to see. All six! Gilly seemed genuinely dismayed that we had missed the conclave. Such is the unparalleled grace and charm of the British…Gilly and John proceeded to enthusiastically entertain us (to our great delight) with recommendations to world-wide destos EVERYWHERE and tales of exotic past road rallies in their magic car, for almost an hour. Meanwhile, they packed up their car to it’s roof with gallons of olive oil, cases of wine and (possibly prohibited) salamis, (but we won’t tell).

Inquiring minds will want to know, how does one manage the lifestyle? Since nobody expects Americans to be anything but abrupt and boorish, I inquired.

Gillie claimed that she and John are London-based antiques dealers specializing in paintings of dogs, cats and horses. “You can make a living doing that?” I think I may have exceeded the quota for American rudeness when I exhibited some incredulity. Gillie said frankly that some of these objects d’ arte fetch upwards of $US60K. That’s sixty THOUSAND dollars for an old, (very old) painting of a pug. “Who buys that shit?” I think I may have said. (Cringe.) To her credit, Gillie blanched only slightly at my horrible faux pas and then patiently, without a smidgeon of condescension, explained that some people REALLY really love dogs. She addressed me like a developmentally delayed person. “People who love dogs might want a print of a fine specimen, and so some people will buy one of those for ten dollars. Others, with more resources, will pay a few hundred dollars. And, then there are those for whom sixty thousand is practically the same thing.” I wish I had a video of that convo. It would go viral in an hour.

We waited until John fired up the engine, and just as I suspected, it sounded like no car engine you’ve, (certainly I’ve), never heard.

I suspect the two of them are really agents in the British Secret Service, but we will never know. And, if not, I hope Gillie’s impressive sausage smuggling subterfuge worked when they hit the border.

The Serene Republic of San Marino is the independent country you’ve never heard of. And nobody you know ever went there. Until now.

Home to 35,000 people, who, for all intents and purposes, are Italians, each one of them will correct you if they must. They are “Marinese”, NOT Italian. The good citizens of San Marino, it seems, have been nobly suffering their only neighbors, the Italians, since the Republic was established in 301 AD, but any one of them will eagerly tell you, if the opportunity arises, that they don’t like it when Italians drive up from beyond Rimini (about an hour down the mountainside) to take jobs in San Marino that rightfully belong to Marinese locals. Nobody actually said the word “wetback” but apparently there’s a drop or two of bad blood that goes back to roughly the 13th century. (Fearing that Guido might spit in our pasta, we kept our silly, over-rated, liberal California opinions about immigration reform wisely to ourselves.)

It took them just over 700 years to do it, but eventually the World Heritage Committee got around to designating San Marino as worthy of addition to its list as “an exceptional testimony of the establishment of a representative democracy …blah, blah, blah…”. Followers of our site will appreciate already that the Desto3 team members are for the most part cultural and historical philistines. We therefore perhaps lacked the committee’s requisite appreciation for all the usual claptrap that typically draws their attention.

Suffice to say, the confines of the tiny town of San Marino contain sufficient well preserved structural testament to European history. To mention but a few: a museum dedicated exclusively to torture, AND a Museum of Ancient Weapons. (Unbelievably these are exclusive attractions.) More than enough sacred sites, (including no fewer than 6 consecrated churches and 2 additional Basilicas, each one honoring a different celebrity-saint). The minimum quota of grand towers (3), which for a fee you can climb, but, watch your head. An actual changing of the guard replete with garishly uniformed pompous young men undoubtedly born to the job. In short, enough of each category to excite even the most devoted Roman Catholic, or the most dedicated pasty historian, or, the biggest admirer of shrines to man’s inhumanity to man, or any combination of the three.

Perhaps, (to make up for the tardy honors?) the WHC perseverates: “San Marino is an exceptional testimony to a living cultural tradition that has persisted over the last seven hundred years.”

All this to say that for seven centuries the world’s oldest Republic, surrounded on all sides, has nevertheless managed to maintain, not only sovereignty, but also a palpable superiority (and the attendant airs) over their only border neighbors, the lowly Italians. Impressive as it might seem that these, (by regional reputation), “hearty” folk managed to avoid assimilation for over seven centuries, I, for one, am not that quick to credit the Marinese with extraordinary resolve. One needs only to take the one hour bus ride (UP, way up), from the coastal resort town of Rimini, (notably fancied greatly by none other than Signor Frederico Fellini), to understand how this fete of independence may have had more to do with a simple accident of geography, (and no doubt also the somewhat somnolent nature of the Italians, who everybody knows would rather eat and make love than make war – the paid foreign mercenaries of the Roman Empire notwithstanding).

Simply put, the location of San Marino, high atop Mt. Titano’s forbidding, rocky and steeply rising 2,425 ft. elevation made it perfect for what it is…an ideal locale for a prison, a sanctuary for smugglers, (even in modern times), and a place the Italians could give a pass to, seemingly into eternity. (Who gives as a gift two canons to a country that could only fire canon balls to the gift giver? One surmises that when the Italian government dragged these nasty armaments up the mountain and presented them as presents they assumed that the Marinese weren’t going to shoot canon balls down the mountain onto the benevolent.)

In addition to this arguably lurid and bloody history, currently San Marino remains a haven for gun-runners and purveyors of fine Italian leather-ware or what I like to call, Death-and-Handbags-R-Us. For every cute little shop in town packed floor to ceiling with the latest in Gucci and Luis Vuitton, (and there are about a hundred of them in just two square miles), there’s a partner store selling every kind of firepower an NRA member could covet. It’s Wayne La Pierre’s wet dream up there, but the shop-keeps claim that they do not sell ammunition and the automatic rifles and Glocks are “just for war simulation games”. Sure, dude. And I still weigh what it says on my California drivers license, too. But, whatever. Pablo inquired within but he wouldn’t let me go inside, fearing that where I can occasionally exercise a modicum of restraint when it comes to immigration reform, on the gun nut issue, I’m likely to lose my shit and tear somebody a new one. No international incidents for P.

It made me super sad though to think of where all those guns are going to wind up and who they’re likely to kill, and who doesn’t care one whit about that mayhem as long as they can pocket their dirty blood money. For that reason alone, you can say I’m not a fan of San Marino. It would seem as though the place is nothing more than a gross shrine to crass commercial consumerism and gun nuttery.

I guess there are worse “Republics” on #3, but I can’t name one. Oh, wait, never mind…

Greetings from Bologna, Italy.

We will have to research the connections between the name of this town and a certain luncheon meat notably sold in the states by a guy who sings and drives a weiner-mobile. Someone with time on their hands, please get on that right away won’t you? We are doing our own research by stuffing our faces with other delicious local deli meats (and cheeses).

Our hotel, the Art Hotel Commercianti, (one of four Bologna Art Hotels) is quite charming. It’s tucked down a small street just off the main square and our balcony looks out onto the Cathedral. (So…pigeons, but you take the bad with the good, no?)

The desk clerk recommended the Trattoria da Gianni (Via Clavature 18, Bologna) – a five minute walk from the hotel and Holy Mary, Mother of God, now I remember why Italy is the food capital of the world. (Not France, imho. I’ve eaten some pretty tasteless merde in France whereas in Italy even the ubiquitous ham and cheese sammies taste like something made in heaven. (Must be the bread. And the cheese. And the ham. Which they don’t allow you to take into the states so I’m pretty seriously considering a short risky career in meat smuggling some time very soon.)

In keeping with today’s theme, (which somehow seems to be all things meat)…last night I ate a tagliatelle with Bolognese sauce that made me swoon. How can such simple fare be so delicious? This is what Bolognese sauce is supposed to taste like! Of course they make the pasta fresh, too. That certainly doesn’t hurt a meal. And, then there was that fabuloso Riserva that came recommended by Michele, the owner. You do have to hand it to the Italians, they are so understated. The man pours a glass of liquid red perfection and then he just steps back, smiles a sweet, suave smile as if to say, “Yes, I know, our little local vino just knocked your freaking American sox off, didn’t it?” And, it truly did. We kept it healthy towards the end with a bowl of fresh cut fruit (the word “salad” is inadequate here) and a small unexpected little cheat, a complimentary shot of Limoncello (Gracie, Diego!).

So if you ever get to Bologna, and surprisingly I kind of recommend that you make that happen -who knew? – we were just considering it a necessary stop to get to San Marino. I DO NOT CARE what the Lonely Planet says, go to Trattoria da Gianni for dinner. You will thank me. Service=spectacular, and you know how sometimes in Italy that just isn’t so. Food=wonderful local traditional meals (see above). And, a great ambience and good value mean you won’t be hearing any English at the next table over and you won’t need to negotiate the sale of your first born child to pay the mortgage when you get home.

Next desto, San Marino, an entirely independent nation state that NEVER WAS PART OF ITALY, DAMN IT! As always, we wish you were here.