Dateline Naples, Italy.

I don’t know when Pablo discovered Anthony Bourdain or when exactly they became BFFs, but I do know that when Anthony suggested to Pablo that the best, the most delicious, the most “authentic” pizza was made ONLY in Naples, Italy, we would be making a little detour to check it out sooner rather than later.

To be fair, poor Pablo, (a native New Yorker), has been living, deprived of New York pizza (the only “really good pizza”) for many long decades. (His Mama, may she rest in peace, used to bring him a slice or two when she flew out to visit, but we can all agree that pizza 6 hours cold ain’t no pizza worth eating, really.)

So, a while back Anthony B. went to Naples on his cable show and swooned (literally swooned) over the pies made there. Ever the pessimist, I had doubts. (Just as the buxom naked beauties of the Yesterhavkamp sauna were not in place as advertised in that glossy brochure in our hotel in Denmark a few years ago – note: not only no naked blonde beauties, but NO DAMN SAUNA – I was pretty sure that the glorious pizzas out of the famed wood fire ovens in Naples were sure to be of some disappointment.)

I’m willing to admit when I am wrong.

The pizza in Naples is the best pizza in the world. And, in my book, Naples, Italy is well worth visiting. The locals are delightful. They are loyal and fiercely proud of their city. Oh, they are well aware of the world-wide reputation they have for dubious garbage collection practices, but just you try to take a photo of an overflowing garbage can on any street and see what happens. (Pablo had his American ass handed to him a couple of times.)

They also know that everybody in the world believes their cab drivers are shady. (Maybe for good reason, though.) We had just enough time in Naples for two pizzas and three taxi rides. We probably got ripped off once. (The cab ride from the airport to the hotel cost more than twice what the same ride cost a day later. BFD. So, Guido saw us coming. “Let it goooooo, let it gooooo…”

Pizza #1: We took the long walk from our hotel down the beach front strand amid the Sunday afternoon parade that IS Naples. This is the meaning of the word, “promenade”. Our desto was Lievito Madre al Mare, a new-ish pizza place right on the beach front opened by popular demand by Gino Sorbillo, one of Naples’ most famous pizza makers. Gino’s original pie shop in Naples was on top of the list of the “10 best pizzas in Naples” so that was definitely going to be one of our pizzas.

We arrived about two hours before the dinner pizzas were rolled out so we took a little walk and then sat and enjoyed the view over some Pelligrino. The staff are super nice, and when they found out that we were in Naples JUST for the day to eat one of THEIR pizzas…they ran in the back to get the RED CARPET. (Metaphorically speaking.) The boss came out and introduced us to his whole family. Before too long the place was completely filled up and our fondest pizza fantasies were realized.

It started to rain on us and our nearest neighbors literally pulled our table under their umbrella and invited us to join them. We chit chatted about Naples, pizza, boats, (they have one) and flying to get places you want to go. (Thea yes, Elio no.) Thea is a great example of the typical Neapolitan; she LOVES her city, has lived there her entire life and wouldn’t dream of living anywhere else, but she is exceedingly well traveled. (Kind of unusual for most Italians.) I was so glad it started to rain.

The next morning we struck out to visit the “old city” briefly before heading to the airport. Half way there we were drawn to an “event” setting up on the main street. By a strange and magical co-incidence, Desto3 had managed to arrive in Naples on the very same day that the “pizza festival” was taking place! Forty two restaurants from all over Naples were represented at the four day event and the principle organizer was LA’s very own ambassador of pizza who came out to shake our hands and welcome us to Naples on behalf of the Associazone Verace Pizza Naploetana. You wouldn’t think that pizza needs promotion, but, hey, if it’s going to be done, where better than the home of the greatest pizza in the world? (Check out the website www.pizzanapoletana.org for info about pizza worldwide.)

In conclusion, is Naples a safe city? Some say no. Others say that Naples is no more dangerous than any other large metropolitan area in any other country in the world. (Consulting WHO statistics, you’re more likely to get victimized as a tourist in my home town, LA.) I say, keep your wits about you. Don’t stray into areas that seem sketchy. Don’t flash wads of cash on the street. And leave your passport and important papers in the safe in your room. Just like you would do in any other big city in the world.

Ciao!

Somebody you know had to do it. Go to Malta. Not a hardship, really. (You’re welcome.)

I don’t know exactly what I expected, but whatever it was, I was so, so, so very wrong. Somebody says, “Malta” and what do YOU think? I thought about Humphrey Bogart. Turns out, this is not as loose an association as you might imagine. The Maltese Falcon was a real thing. And, a real bird too. (The bird since the 16th century. And movie making is huge, huge right now on tiny little Malta. More than 100 feature films have used Malta’s spectacular scenery for location shoots. They are courting film makers like crazy and quite elaborately. Who knew?)

Speaking of films, when in Valletta, Malta’s capital city, you must attend the “Malta Experience” (like we did). Five thousand years of Maltese history distilled into 45 minutes of celluloid factoids. Here’s the short version: Archeological remains indicate that Malta’s earliest cave dwellers apparently worshipped a female deity. (A portly little waif whose plaster likenesses can be purchased reasonably today in almost every souvenir shop on the Rue du Crapola in town.) Peace and harmony, if not technological advances, reigned while The Chubby One was in charge. Of course, men took over almost immediately and what followed was approximately 4,900 years of war and mayhem featuring all the usual players. Boys will be boys.

The 16th century A.D. figures prominently in the history of Malta because of the “Knights Hospitaller” and you can take a tour of the actual hospital after the movie for no extra charge. The knights were good guys initially, men of medicine and science, and they were given as a swell gift the entire archipelago by Emperor Charles V in a perpetual lease. The annual rent was the small token price of “one Maltese Falcon” which seems more than fair. Hence the origin of the “Maltese Falcon”. Ultimately, there was…corruption, moral turpitude, chaos, pestilence and debauchery. The “boys will be boys” scenario writ very large. Ownership of the islands changed hands many, many times with the Catholics winning out in the end. Today 98% of the population of Malta is still RC with a small un-assimilated East Indian minority quite visible in the shops and restaurants.

Currently Malta boasts the best average weather of any country in the world. Just one reason why they are fast becoming a favored film location.

It’s located a mere 80km south of Italy (Sicily), 284km east of Tunisia and a mere 333 clicks north of Libya. We flew over from Sicily and then departed to Serbia with a short plane change in Munich. Malta is part of the EU and so their currency is the Euro. You will need a few of them for your trip, but it isn’t horrible like Iceland, where we will tell you, you might want to consider taking out a second mortgage on your home before booking your flight to Reykjavik.

The people of Malta are SUPER nice. Everybody. Even the average tourists seemed a cut above, (although it was early in the season before the hordes arrive). The general populace (in Valletta) has a cultured European sensibility; I was feeling a little Italy, (Tuscany maybe), a whiff of Greece, (a bit more sophisticated and educated), just a dollop of France, (especially in the food and architecture) and a real bouquet of England, (language, of course and a genuine love of all that is pompous).

It is rumored that it gets pretty hot there, temperature wise, and by the time the summer season is winding down, like in any tourist desto, (we have noticed that) sometimes the hospitality starts to wane a tiny bit. For that reason, if you can, hit Malta up on the shoulder season. In fact, if you can, go everywhere on the shoulder…just my preference because tourists are still delightful to the locals. (After a few months of the haggling and the whining and the demanding of free wee fee, let’s face it, it must wear them down and get just a little old. Europe seems weary in the late summer.)

In addition to “Experience Malta”, an additional attraction of note would be the very lovely Casa Rocca Piccola, a 16th century palace of a noble Maltese family that dates back to that famed golden century as a private palace and is still occupied as a private residence to this day. See how the “other half” have lived in Malta and then stop into the Casa Rocca Shop for a little chat and some advice about all things Malta. Anna and Antoinette were kind enough to sample some cds for us and instruct us about the unique folk music form called, Ghana, (pronounced Ahh-Na, the gh is silent), in which two singers “battle” back and forth in a total improvisation. It is best described as a kind of Maltese rap duet.

Buy a tie with the famed Maltese cross for any of your tie-wearing friends, and peruse the vast selection of books about Malta. This shop is a big step up from the RdC and the usual souvenir shop. Plus Anna and Antoinette are charming beyond words and generous with advice and consultation. The restaurant attached to and owned by the Casa looked great. (The time wasn’t right or we would have definitely eaten there.)

You can take a guided tour of the city in a horse drawn carriage. And while you do so, you might speculate on why it is that there are 3, count ‘em 3 automobiles on the island for every citizen of Malta. Car nutters flock there it would seem. We didn’t drive, so I can’t report on the traffic, but how can it be good? On the plus side, you can walk the entire city of Valletta twice in a single day.

If you’re into that sort of thing, the garrisons of olden times are well preserved and for the cannon fetishists, you won’t be disappointed. For myself, every gun is a bad gun and the biggest ones are just big bad things. But, if it’s a turn on for you, every day at 4:00 p.m. a uniformed guard re-enacts the daily cannon fire across the sound into Gozo. I find those re-enactments kind of sad and a bit boring, but I know, judging from the turn-out, I am in the vast minority on that one.

Don’t forget to visit the trip notes for a short review of our hotel (marvelous!) and a couple restaurants we loved.

That sums up Malta. As always, we wish you were here.

An Aussie family with two early teen boys was eating lunch out of Tupperware half way up to the fortress on the hill overlooking Kotor in Montenegro the other day. I’ll admit it. I had some judgment for that mom. Who brings Tupperware half way around the world? And, to Montenegro of all places, which happens to have cheap and wonderful food (heavily influenced by the Italian neighbors). Needless to say, the amusing little family tableau was riveting to all who paused.

The drama featured the youngest son who agreed with me. (Why is it always so funny when SOMEBODY ELSE’S twelve year old kid is whining about their lunch choices?) It seems that Skippy wasn’t overly fond of the packed lunch, sammies with a thin dark substance smeared onto pasty looking white bread. Who can blame him? The older boy, (goodie-goodie, certainly mom’s “favorite”) was dutifully chomping away while his black-sheep brother, (probably the genetic recipient of all that convict DNA) gave both parents a real hard time about something called “Marmite”. (Never heard of it, but it didn’t sound good.)

Fast forward. (The Aussie kid is probably in protective custody by now) – right through the Balkans and London and find me in a city “apartment” in Edinburgh where, as part of the continental breakfast, there appears a jar of, yep…Marmite. Well, my friends, intrepid world traveller that I am, in possession of an abiding curiosity of foreign cultures, (okay, truthfully foreign FOOD), I quickly unscrewed the cap and took a big whiff. Now, if you have experience yourself with this “food” product, you will understand why I came perilously close to tossing my cookies right the fuck into the morning bread basket. The only thing I’ve ever smelled that comes close to describing the aroma of Marmite is a product involving fish emulsion that I used to dilute and apply to house plants. WTF? People in Australia willingly feed this to their children???

From the Marmite label: Marmite Yeast Extract is rich in B vitamins and 100% vegetarian. (It has that going for it.) Furthermore it is manufactured by Unilever in London. I know I’ll piss off a few Brits, but, what the hell…any food made by the British is going to be somewhat suspect to start with, but isn’t Unilever a corporate entity known primarily for making and selling cleaning products? (I could be wrong and I know the citizens of England will inform.) The label proudly boasts that Marmite is primarily composed of “yeast Extract, vegetable extract, spice extract”.

I really hadn’t considered this topic worthy of a Desto3 postcard, then, yesterday, driving from Edinburgh to Inverness, (Scotland) we stopped for a short tour in Stirling and wandered into a little café. (Check trip notes.) While I waited for my Panini I picked up the newspaper. There was an article on page 5 about the hubbub surrounding the release of “Marmite cupcakes”. Apparently, following the craze (and by that, in my opinion, I mean cra-zee) that has folks putting bacon into all manner of sweets, (chocolate chip cookies and the like), some culinary genius in Britain (ha!) has decided that chocolate cupcakes have been just begging for an injection to their center of Marmite. Kind of like the venerable Hostess cupcakes only, NOT.

The article says that the release of these goodies will be short term, only available for two months in limited quantity, and they fully expect that folks will either “love them or hate them”. (I vote hate.) Reactions will be likely based on your “baseline Marmite sensibilities”. I kid not.

It’s my job to travel and taste so you don’t have to. But, don’t thank me. Exhortations to contact the makers at Unilever with your questions is right there on the label: “the Marmite loveline” (toll free at least) 0800 0323656.

Sorry to say, we were IN Sicily but I didn’t see all that much because the truth is, Sicily, (okay, maybe not ALL of Sicily, but Catania for sure), is the dog shit capital of the world. Literally. Look up from the sidewalk, only at your peril. And, do NOT wear flip flops. There is so much dog crap on the sidewalks of Catania, if you look up for one eensy step, I’ll put it this way, (in case you are eating breakfast in another time zone)…this is a mistake that you will make only ONCE.

Other than that small criticism, Sicily was great. Not, “wish you were here” great, but…super food, nice people, Roman ruins and cathedrals aplenty, and of course, the Italian table wines are great and cheap. But, yes, there’s a good reason why everybody you know has been to Florence, Rome, Venice and Tuscany and you can’t produce knowledge of a single soul who has visited Sicily. (I could be wrong. Or, perhaps they are all still cleaning their shoes. You just haven’t heard their report yet.)

So, why (you have a right to know) were WE there? This is a story that has to do with bicycles and red sauce and Pablo’s romantic, ancient memories from a previous trip some forty years ago with an Italian beauty during his mis-spent youth. It also loosely involves the search for the best pizza in the world and that bastard, Anthony Bourdain (which is really a story about Naples). (Naples gets its own postcard. Next up.)

Regarding the bicycle portion of the story, sometimes P decides that he wants to do something, (however ill-advised), and God Damn It, we are going to do it! Bicycling in Sicily was one of those things. It was a significant learning experience. What I learned from riding a bike in Catania, Italy: l) Round-a-bouts are made for cars, not bicycles. 2) “Fuck you, asshole!” means the same thing in every country in the world. A universal parcel of language. It needs no translation. 3) American women (of a certain age) should not ride bicycles in foreign countries. It makes the locals very nervous to see granny wearing black spandex and a helmet pedaling like crazy down the main avenue of town. I have learned these lessons and I shall apply them in all future travel. (Unless P decides we have to do it in Edinburgh, coming up in a week or so. Wish me luck.)

The story about the girl and the red sauce is like every story you’ve ever heard about a boy in love with a beautiful girl who had long black hair and Italian roots and relatives who made “the best, the heartiest, the most delicioso red sauce in the entire universe”. The truth is, the girl is now a gray haired AARP recipient in Garden Grove, California, the relatives, long dead, are remembered with a fondness and an accuracy that only mythological relatives are offered, and the legendary red sauce, when ordered in a Sicilian trattoria, is a disappointing “light red”, heavy on the olive oil and garlic and light on the tomatoes. But, whatever. In the case of memories involving old lovers and previous dinner fare both, perhaps one should pay heed to old Thomas Wolfe. (You really can’t EVER go “home” again. Or, in this case, back to Sicily.)

I think Tom also advised to mind your step (at least in Catania)

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.