AlBarclay

That was a longer day than I anticipated… Big old race day. All the teams going it at hard. Fun and games in harsh conditions. The dust on the track has been treated with a by-product of the Australian paper industry – some kind of thing that binds evergreens together. Resin? I think it’s probably closer to the sticky stuff that sweats through the thick bark of redwood trees. It sticks together molecules of dust and makes them heavier so there’s less crap flying in the face of the drivers. There’s always gonna be plenty in this tank range, but it’s not much of a viewing experience if all the camera can take in is a cloud.

All the teams were on point this morning, raring to go. Everything to race for today, then a day off, then again.

These incredible machines are a thing to behold. One driver in the cockpit and those vast tires and then the suspension! All of the drivers will be exhausted now. Taking those bumps and corners at that speed… They are titans. And they have to do it all again, from scratch, the day after tomorrow. Anybody who has ever been go-karting knows how fit racing drivers must be just with sheer gravity and these tracks? They are unkind. They’re extreme.

Conditions were not friendly today. For the semis it was reasonably calm but incredibly hot. I had forgotten my flask and was trying to make do with cups of water but failing. At half ten, after 4 hours of heat, I started to headrush when I stood up, so I immediately went to Doctor John and got a sachet of electrolytes, drove back to the hotel and drank them in a cold shower. Then I put new clothes on, got my flask and picked up Jess. “It’s hot. It’s really hot,” I told her. Jess is a redhead. She too ended up in medical with an asthma attack from the heat and the dust.

I stayed on site from then, pouring water into my face and out of my skin. I tidied areas and filled sandbags and moved water and refilled things and attempted to help with or learn all the odd jobs needed on site. The day passed in a blur of racing and thinking and waiting and stinking. I can’t stream the final race as it goes out on terrestrial, but while the track is hot I’m positioned next to my car for emergency driving. Inevitably the call came. “Al Barclay to the back of medical.” One of the drivers had a wee bang. Likely nothing serious but you can’t just shrug it off and see like you and I do with injuries. Not when you’re competing at this level with another race coming up. He was airlifted, and two of us were sent to be Extreme-E representatives at the hospital far too far away. Just as well I had plotted my emergency route. I’m told a Fiat people carrier with large boot capacity and worn out tyres can happily sustain 160kph but much faster and it’s too much for the wind resistance so you start to feel lifty. I would never behave so rashly of course. But if I did I would have made remarkable time.

We got there in time to see the copter landing from the road. Unexpected hitch: while we’ve all been making a race in a tank range, Italy has gone into some sort of COVID related meltdown. Loads of people were standing outside the hospital looking worried. They all had people in there and not even partners and parents were allowed through the door. Just patients. We had to wait for nurses to come give info about the driver and all we wanted was info. This, oh constant reader, is a long way from The Crown Prince’s Personal Suite in Tabuk…

Eventually we got the info we wanted (everything totally fine), and we swept back through the hills with the last of the light – a journey that might have been a touch more pleasant if I hadn’t realised that the diesel light was on and the range was showing “—” with over 30km to travel through reception free hills in the gloaming. With a combination of good luck, coasting, racing lines, high gears and the fact these instruments lie in order to make sure you refill in time, we made it over the hills to the station. I got my passenger back in time for his tender. We weren’t forced to camp in the mountains. Then I went for that decompression meeting down at Aldo’s beach bar with the rest of the team. Good mens and good womens. I’m happy to be here with them. I’m happy to be here full stop, even if it’s harsh in the heat.

The vehicle is called an Odyssey 21. It’s an electric SUV and at capacity the battery can put out 470kw. That’s at least 630 horses all replaced by one battery. You’d struggle to yoke all those geegees to an Odyssey so it’s just as well they sorted that out really. If it was a chariot race, the poo would be a big obstacle… They’ve made these incredible batteries instead.

They are universal across all teams. Developed and designed by Williams Advanced Engineering. The parts are standardised by Spark Racing Technology. The tyres are hard to ignore. Huge incredible rolling wonders and my goodness they take a pounding. Continental have performance-optimised these tyres so one tyre can carry these remarkable machines through all terrains – from freezing tundra to soft red desert sand to our current conditions right here in the south of this hard island: compacted dust and scrub. The course even has a water feature. In keeping with the ethos here, these tyres are made with thought for their impact. Recycled materials. Natural materials. Care.

If you’re going to add a new fixture to the racing calendar, do it for a reason. Much as I love that these little wonders can shoot from 0 to 62mph in 4.5 seconds, I love more that the whole ethos behind this event is care for the world we are racing through. And gender equality in racing. One woman and one man race on each team. They swap halfway through. The changeover is part of the skill of it. And these thoughtfully made and environmentally balanced cars are trying to drive a change in how we even think about racing and events in general. I’ve never been a big one for Formula 1 – it always smells brashly of oil and money – but this race interests me. With this team we hear phrases like “race for the planet” all the time and it reminds us that we are under time pressure to make change. All of us here on site are actively encouraged to consider our actions and our impact on the world. Even small everyday things. We all bring our own bowls and cutlery and cups and flasks to site. If we don’t have them we can’t get food or drink. No paper, no plastic. We wash them up, and we are all careful about water usage doing so. It’s a little thing, but change has to start with little things. Maybe we will all go home and carry that habit back with us. Change… And all these workshops I’ve been running when I’m not acting or doing this – they all align. The universe is speaking to me in my life and the opportunities that come. Getting young adults to think actually how much power they consume when they leave the telly on overnight, or stand in the shower for an hour – it makes me think about it too. And then these wonderful races – it’s all the same world really. We are driving change through changing ourselves and changing each other.

Yes I’m having to use my car a great deal, but even so I’m aware of every mile, as how could I not be with so many income streams revolving around sustainability? Hell, I’m even selecting gears with fuel usage in mind, and it’s rare that I go in any direction empty of either passengers or items or both. Trips are multi-purpose as often as they can be. It would be so awesome to be able to do my role in a dedicated electric vehicle, and perhaps in years to come that will be possible – I could carry my own hydrogen battery for recharge in remote areas. There aren’t any roadside charging points in Sardinia.

So many thoughts and behaviours shifting through my odd alignment of lovely jobs. These are just my changes in thought from this connection I have forged somewhere at the bottom of the pecking order for a very special and right-headed event.

It streams on the internet live, tomorrow and then again on Saturday and Sunday. The bigger an audience it reaches the bigger a change it can make. All these incredible humans, sharpened to a point, making something they care about for others to watch, with an eye on the bigger picture. The legacy. They want to leave every place they visit in a better way than when they arrived.

Dad raced many things in his day, and this work connects me to his speedfreak memory, just as it connects me to many lovely international people, all working hard in stifling heat. This work makes me more thoughtful about my impact on everything. This work makes me adjust my behaviours. And it’s nothing if not varied.

I feel terrific pride to have been asked to be part of this passionate team. Somewhere the ghost of my father is simultaneously baffled and supportive, I hope. And maybe proud…

I woke up at 7.30. A late start after a late finish, and knowing what was to come.

I left my room at 8.10, with my last pair of socks on and yesterday’s pants inside out. 8.15 key into ignition, banana in hand. 8.30 I was at accreditation having squeezed a yogurt into my mouth. 8.35 on site and parked. I Found Todd’s pick-up truck. “Mate, the diesel light has been flashing for ages.”

I found George. 8.45 and somehow I was back at the accreditation aircraft hangar. I had the truck and George but not enough fuel to get to fuel station. Into the hangar and out with a canister of diesel. “Hold the funnel.” “Oh I didn’t know it was blue!” *grunt*

Glug glug glug. “That’ll do.” “How much did you put in?” “Enough.” George is like 22? He’s about six foot three and could throw me over a house.

Lorenza comes and hands over a Coutts business card. I already know the password.

Into the truck and out onto familiar roads to Tamoil. Filling the diesel properly and I’ve got George with me. “Can you go in and order me an espresso?” Fuel cap back on. Down the espresso. Nice to have a van mate. “That stuff will kill you.” Or is it? Pay. Off to Tecnomat. An hour passes. Arrival. Rushing in. Photographs.

None of them will do. Off across town. Another shop. Photographs of different air con units. A WhatsApp ping: “That one.” My phone rings. Can I pick up a broadcaster? Not really. I explain my timings. They agree.

I load up four units and negotiate a discount. They are bigger units than the ones we’ve been using. I take them to the counter and I’m about to pay. Ping. “3 of these will do plz” I haven’t paid so I take one off. Better for the environment and the power situation, I think. Must be cos they’re bigger units. The rest get paid for. George earns his crust hoiking them into the van. Back to site. George falls asleep. I put on the cricket. England win again while I’m listening. Ping. “Can you get some hand sanitiser and baby wipes for command centre?” I stop at the Chinese place. They have it all.

Unload. Another hour and a half. Lunch while finding out what I’m doing tomorrow. Move some fans around. Grab the diesel cans, chuck them in the car, spin up to Tamoil, refill, go to hotel, get laundry, go to launderette, start cycle, back to site. Unload cans. Go down, get 5 ped and two stands, bring them up to the hangar in a pick-up. Swap to the fiat and back to Cagliari post haste. Before I’m there the phone rings. Marek landed early and cleared security immediately. Fuck. I spin into the short stay and find him by tooting my horn. We go back carefully over the hills. I’d normally take him the smoother slower way but fuck it, the hills are pretty at this time of the evening. I just drive him slowly. I drop him off. *Ping* 16mm hole washers. 150 of them. Straight out to Carbonia. None of the hardware stores have them. Tecnomat closes in an hour and it’s 46 minutes away. I floor it, flying down the straight roads from Carbonia. Definitely the emergency route, this one, if needed.

Tecnomat have 17mm hole washers. They’ll have to do. The same person who confirmed the air con confirms this. Box of 300. I rush to the airport to find the flight I’m meeting is delayed. I stop for a moment. I shake out rocks that have been in my boots for hours without me having had time to shake them out. I breathe out. Vodafone guy clears security.

He and I go through the southern hills as I’m told I have to drop him off in Teulada. Then when I’m halfway there I’m told to take him to the hotel instead so drive straight through Teulada and another twenty minutes just so somebody else can take him back twenty minutes. I go to the launderette. Thankfully my wet clothes are still there. I go and hang them up ignoring the lads drinking. By now it’s about eleven at night.

I sit with some of the lads to end the day. “I think we might have accidentally bought some Italians at auction,” says one of them, about some sort of incomprehensible Italian bingo game that’s going on next to us. “What are you gonna do with them?” I say, offering to join the banter “I dunno, maybe get them to buy the right number of air con units,” says Joe. This sounds pointed.

Nice little Joe who I said I was surprised got punched the other night. I don’t really know what to do with this so I say nothing. Joe repeats it, literally soliciting for laughs from those around him. I didn’t socially integrate well in Saudi. He wants it to stay that way it seems. I’m too tired to play. Todd takes any sting out. “Yeah, apparently you were supposed to buy four and you bought three?” I literally can’t be bothered with his shit. I show Todd the WhatsApp telling me to get 3 of the more powerful units. I don’t even bother showing it to Joe. “This is just one hand not talking to the other,” I say to Todd. He’s a good heart. Kindness is important.

I didn’t take any photos, so here’s the text I can’t be bothered to show Joe.

We were all young once.

It’s just lads lads lads being lads lads lads. This is the first time I’ve felt squeezed out on this job, frankly. And I’m probably just tired.

Today was all about my passengers. I was a yo-yo. First up I had a scientist. I fished for my brother’s name but she didn’t bite. She’s a marine biologist. “Most of my body is seawater,” she tells me. I tell her of my amateur discoveries in the lagoon, and she reminds me hard of Max by responding familiarly to my description of the odd creature I describe with the Latin name, as if she was saying “uncle Charlie”.

I am utterly familiar with the taxonomy of the creatures we knew as children. I learnt the Latin through Max. It was inevitable. It was part of how the world worked. I understood very early how Linnaeus had given us such a clear way of delineating the differences between all the many many types of life. I thought everyone had such a grounding.

I remember being angry and outnumbered at school: “Everybody, quick! Come see! It’s a Tatagonia Viridissima! Look!” Everybody including teacher insisted I was talking nonsense and it was a Great Green Grasshopper and I was wrong. I remember thinking I could have just not let them see the wonder. It’s funny how indignant rage is one of the memories that carries throughthe years.

Lucy talks to me about evolution in seahorses. There’s a living salt lagoon where some Bahamian seahorses have been cut off from the flow. Their life cycle is long – maybe 7 years – so it’s going to be generational to see the evolutionary changes. But they’ll become apparent – just not at the speed that your average university lab technician weirdo breeds their fruit flies with big heads.

We talk about plastic in the sea. We all have understood that plastic in sea is bad. I ask her about it, as she’s evidently a marine biologist. I’m an amateur scientist so I ask a deliberately hard question: “Surely there must be large amounts of sunken stable plastic that has provided a habitat? How can marine plastic be removed with an eye to only taking out the ones that are shedding microplastics? She is, of course, brilliant and well versed and passionate. She agrees that the situation is misrepresented, and that the bulk of the work has to be before point of entry. She’s been changing the law at the UN. She’s been part of a team making a treaty.

It’s always about usage. Care. We have to take care.

Then I had Lorenza, who lives near here. “Mussolini made my town – Carbonia. It is named for the coal mines he made.” This low down utilitarian town used to be a mining town. The skeletons of his derricks still frame the sky. His mine is a museum.

Finally, Craig. We are talking about islands. Sardinia. Jersey. The Isle of Man. I bring up São Miguel. “There’s a rally over there, as well as the Isle of Man,” I inform my passenger. “Yes, I know. It’s a good rally. In fact I’ve won it. … … twice.”

Dad would be glad I’ve ended up with a touch in his happy world. I’m not racing, but I’m plugged in. I tried to get him to plug me in to his world when I was a teenager, but he couldn’t see past my perceived academic failings. I’ve found my own way to reconcile that shit. And I’m having a lovely time while I’m at it…

Hello darlings.

I’m on a boat.

Lots of us are on a boat.

I didn’t want to write about it because not everybody is on this boat, by any means. But fuck it. I’m on it. We’re on it. This is fun.

When I was in Saudi, I ended up getting very involved with the situation around a young racing driver who had been injured. I got on very well with his mother/manager. We shuttled back and forth past the guards in the military city in Tabuk until I was a known quantity by the fresh and suspicious young boys with machine guns. Eventually the opportunity came to come to this boat. “There’s a spot in the helicopter!!” My car was parked in the military hospital car park. The boat was moored in the red sea close to Egypt. I could have helicoptered to the boat. My instinct is usually to say a hard YES and then sort out the details later. But I had an early morning pick-up or what have you. And I knew that I would wake up fuzzy and on the wrong side of the desert from my car, and a helicopter back was not guaranteed. “Where are you?” “Um…”

Had I got in the helicopter it would have been a slice of life. But I wouldn’t be here now. And this is a slice of life too. I’m glad I waited. And I’m glad I’m here now.

The boat is essentially a floating party. “They’ve been going from Monaco to Nice and back for the last month,” said one of the guys who think that maybe the crew aren’t aware that it can be tracked on GPS. The boat is also a huge reason why we can do this race. All the dolavs and loads of the vehicles have to go all around the world with minimal air miles and so forth. At one point the idea was to run the race from the boat. Not possible though as you just need too many people to make this work.

But they can run the party from the boat.

This is great. This is dangerous in terms of booze. Every time I finish my beer, Olga shows up with a tray and replaces it. Apparently there’ll be a 4th July barbeque soon. That’s good. It’ll be a long day tomorrow, and I’ll need to eat soon as I missed lunch and that is likely to be my fourth beer…

The sun is setting. I’m gonna plug in to the party. This sort of opportunity is rare.

Wahoo

Sometimes I forget to make sense. It’s easy in this work. I am writing these blogs at the end of days that I’ve been working hard through in heat. Often by the time I get into bed, most basic functions have already gone into shutdown.

The dust is not so red here. Yellow Mediterranean sand, and we have flattened and built a tent city in the scrubland. Tomorrow the teams will mostly arrive and it will all start to buzz. Already today the military range where we are working is starting to fill up with people. The mornings are getting earlier and the evenings finish later.

I just got in after my last drop-off. I’m lying in the air conditioning in my little white room. I tried to join a conversation circle clutching a beer but was so tired that it seemed too much. I sat in silence and consumed my single non-filtrata before making my excuses. The beer was to help me sleep. Having just driven through the darkening hills, I was tired.

I’m looking forward to plugging in now and watching as the event we have all been building to begins to start in earnest. Sea grass and wildfires are the two local environmental issues that we are trying to highlight. We are calling attention to the loss of the poseidona habitat through warming seas – and much as it is a delight, the water really is warm to swim in. And wildfires have been a problem round here for a long time. We haven’t much grass or foliage near the site, but I’ve seen trucks by the side of the roads a few times attending to something that’s just starting. They are quick to respond here it seems, and prepared, but it is very dry so they need to be.

My eyes are tired from the sun and my right wrist is inexplicably hurting – I reckon I might have pulled something while carrying a heavy item. I’m hoping a sleep will put me back together. A reasonably early one, with just one beer and plenty of water. Not really a crazy Saturday night in Sardinia… But we’ve all got shit to do…

A hot long day and then this:

I’m sure that Todd had no intention of double parking his 4×4. But that’s what it looked like by the time I got home. I could go nowhere but directly in front of the entrance to the hotel. So I parked egregiously, and went to find him. It was the perfect storm for him. I had been using the vehicle all morning, driving to Carbonia to load it up with just enough air conditioning units. I recognised it, having sat in it for ages. I knew it was him. He probably didn’t park like a tit. People around him moved.

Regarding buying air con units, having run races in remote and hot places for quite some time without them the company had to be very careful about the kind of unit purchased when they finally made that call. There’s no point pioneering a new form of racing without taking some personal sacrifices in terms of comfort. But… one thing at a time. There are some tents that would literally become ovens. Others less so. It’ll all have to be offset, and it will, so it’s worth being strict and careful. Nobody is working this event on core team because they want an easy life. The whole thrust is to make the world a better place and have fun at the same time, and that’s why I’m in in in.

Everybody is boiling. But the boat is not huge. We have to remember that all the assets need to fit on the boat…

The St. Helena. It will be crossing the Atlantic and then going through the Panama Canal, heading north to South America. I saw it for the first time this evening, in the bay, beautifully branded.

I’m off to bed. Gonna sleep with the air con on and a blanket. Despite my love of heat, after shoveling all those sandbags, I’m pretty much through.

I got to move my car. This might not be very coherent. Basically I spent the morning driving and the afternoon shoveling and I’m tired. Night night.

Practically speaking, there is only one beer brand available in Sardinia. Ichnusa. Right now the four lads sitting opposite me have just received four huge long glasses of the stuff. They ordered the non-filtrata. It’s more expensive.

“Whats the difference between filtered and non-filtered beer,” I asked The Wizard this morning. He had opted to go the mountain route and was calmly rolling himself a cigarette as we flew round the corners. The Wizard knows things.

“Well first of all, technically, it’s vegan because they haven’t put all those fish scales or whatever into it to settle the sediment,” The Wizard informed me. “Then there’s the alcohol content. They haven’t killed it. It’s alive. So it won’t be what it says on the bottle. Sometimes it’ll blow your head off.”

This non-filtered ichnusa is the most popular thing on this island. I’m told they drink twice as much beer here as they do on the mainland. I can believe it. I come home from site and there are the old guys, sitting outside, imbibing. I get up and go back to work and surely that’s one of the same old guys, still drinking with the dawn, still in the same chair. There was a cyclist this morning, down by the lagoon. He had full lycra gear on and if that wasn’t a bottle of beer in his hand it was an ichnusa branded water bottle. It was a bottle of beer. Hot day. Lycra. Mountain biking. Morning beer. How?

Ichnusa has been bought by Heineken sadly. They haven’t invaded the branding yet though. This beer is a big part of the Sardinian economy, even of the Sardinian identity. But these big companies will own everything in the fullness of time. Identity will be just an illusion. The natural long term unanticipated result of market capitalism will be that one human being will eventually own everything.

The label on the Sardinian beer is a George’s Cross, with the heads of four bandaged men in the white squares. Even though I first discovered this image on the label of a beer, I started to see it on the roadsides everywhere. Turns out it’s the unofficial national flag of Sardinia – it’s the one that people put out in the garden because they kinda don’t like the way things are arranged right now. Funny how St George is tangled up again in the nationalism.

Nobody on the internet knows the origin of the flag. They have headscarves, the four heads. Are they bandages? Were they blindfolds? The easiest theory to find is that they represent four great victories by the Kingdom of Aragon. And they are the heads of “defeated moors”. St George showed up on a magical horse and decapitated some evemies. It’s all too long ago to have any handle on it. But there it is.

A footprint shaped island, hoping for independence, still remembering when they were part of Spain, resenting Italy, drinking their way through the alcohol lottery all night every night and most of the day in the hot South of the Mediterranean. There are four distinct dialects of Sardinian language across this island. They’ve been pollinated by Italy and Spain and all sorts of other places. They fly their independence flag and they write their graffiti. It’s too hot and they are too drunk for revolution. Perhaps they talk of such things as the hot evenings pass and they clutch the image of their independence. “Sardinia is not Italy.” It’s on the walls in the hills. It isn’t Italy here. It really isn’t. But it’s definitely Italian.

Time is long, and we are influenced by the things we are exposed to. Who knows what it’ll be in 100 years here. The Aragonian victories remembered in the flag were around the time of the Norman conquest. How many English people wrote “This is not Normandy” on walls where “This is not Rome” was long faded? We get very exercised about who administrates us, but we rarely do anything about it but complain.

Behind me now some English lads are speaking Italian and ordering beers again. This sleepy town won’t know what’s hit it the coming week, as people start to pour in for the races. The price of coffee in the petrol station has already doubled.

It’s not yet 7pm and I’m sitting in a grove of trees on a hillside overlooking the sea. Below me on the beach I can hear the excited voices of people enjoying an evening splash. Everywhere around me is the evening shout of hundreds of horny cicadas.

The catering tent is open, although it serves food pretty early – until half six for dinner. Will lent me his sealable tupperware, so I loaded it up with fregola and took it hot in a random direction, seawards. Hunger, the waning light and blisters from my new sandals led me to stopping where I am. I’ve wolfed down the fregola. They are Sardinian roasted pasta nibs. They work out like a risotto. They are all safely in my belly so I’m sitting awhile, listening to the sunset cicadas and writing this.

Extreme-E have come to this particular venue before, last year, their first year in existence. “It’s weird isn’t it, rocking up somewhere and knowing where everything is. I’m not sure I like it,” says one of the lads I picked up this morning. I can see that. I love the newness that this recurring job has brought into my life. Going to strange places and saying yes. It’s easier the second time. I’ve had two good venues. By all accounts Chili will be harder, up in the barren north. If I go. And then Uruguay will be perhaps easier again… For now though I’m just thinking about this one as it’s what is in front of us all.

All the inflatable tents are up. Catering is up. The structure of the main site is mostly done. They’re flagging the race track. I’ve been helping put up signs, but then I had to jump into a pick-up and drive an hour to this guy called Aldo’s house in order to get a huge rented air conditioning unit and bring it into the medical tent. The inflatable tents look like they’ve come out of Dune, but they get very very hot. If somebody gets heatstroke, they need to be cool in the medical centre. Most other tents will be without such luxury, because the whole operation exists in order to pioneer offroad electric car racing with a focus on gender equality and sustainability. I think it’s the coolest thing I’ve got tangled up in this year. I love this work. The hours can be weird, but the community is great.

It’s getting dark and I need to do some clambering in bare feet to get back to the car. A few days ago I lost my bearings at about this time and walked through thick scrub in circles for about an hour before I oriented myself. I completely failed to panic as I was listening to the cricket on BBC Sports Extra. There’s no cricket to keep me company tonight, so I’m gonna head back up the cliff before it gets dark. Bye bye lovely grove.

And hello car.

I’m back at the hotel. Shower and early bed. No big old beachy gathering tonight for me. I just fancy an early night.

Plugging into cultures quickly is not easy, but its part of what I have to do in this job. In Saudi I made friends with the Saudis, but Arabic was out of my reach and I knew it. I had to understand and respect the devotional codes – the importance of prayer at various times, the habitual gestures, the basics of shared space. I made sense of the behaviours and timings and integrated them. But the language barrier… outside of parroting phonetic phrases it was way too big to cross. Arabic is HARD.

Here in Italy it is simpler for me. Back at university, Tim studied Italian. We were best friends at the time. He went out to Venice for an Erasmus year. He lived with Lucio. I visited a few times.

My special skill from Lucio is swearing. I can’t really use that on this job. But he did teach me functional Italian use. Then I fell for Marzia and promised her I would learn Italian properly and come find her in Rome. I didn’t. She called me on it about three years ago. “When you come learn Italian like you say?” “Doppo.”

Problem is, all of that with Tim and Marzia… That was decades ago. More recently my brain has been in Spanish, in French and in Portuguese. Italian is frying my cortex. Every day a little better. By the time I leave I’ll be able to have a conversation. Right now I’m all over the place. “Per me, il mismo … Lo stenzo … Discupla … lo stesso?” Usually people assume I’m Spanish, so then because I’m hoovering up their words and inflections when they don’t speak English, I get even more confused because I’m not sure if I’m hoovering up half remembered Spanish phrases helpfully spoken to me by an Italian who knows from the fact I speak in bullets that I’m not an Italian speaker.

“Hi. Fire blanket. Long drive. Bathroom? Pay after. Thank you. Bye bye bye see you soon goodbye thank you.” That’s pretty much what somebody got today. They directed me to their floor level loo in an outhouse and then took almost £200 for five fire blankets. I don’t think I’d have been directed to the distant run down loo if I hadn’t been able to ask in Italian. But at least we got the blankets… This is a colonised place, with many almost lost non-Italian languages, but the thrust of a swell of anger against outsiders is coming from Italian speakers unable to appreciate the irony of their position. “Tourism = destruction,” says the graffiti, in Italian. Italian tourists are fine to the writer. It’s just people who don’t speak Italian. Foreigners. Like us.

One of us got punched by a bouncer the other day. His face was upsettingly badly hurt. He was trying to say “I’m sorry,” after something escalated, but he didn’t know how in Italian. Things clearly got out of hand quickly, and knowing the lad in question he’s got the best intentions. He’s not picking fights. I reckon he fell foul of the wrong kind of nationalist. I let the same lad fuck up in the pizza restaurant the other night. “I don’t need to look at the menu,” he told us all in the Italian pizza restaurant in Italy, with absolute confidence. “I just want pepperoni on my pizza.” I watched the exchange with the waiter. “Pepperoni.” “Peperoncino? Yes. Pepperoni. PEPPERONI.” Of course he got a pizza covered with red peppers and he probably learnt something and to his credit he ate it, didn’t complain, and wryly told the rest of us. We only really learn by our mistakes. I could’ve intervened but nothing would have been gained. But this good solid young man – you need to be really angry to hurt someone like that.

So… There’s anger here. This is much closer to civilisation than we often go with this event and we are bundled up with a rage about tourism the has some basis – this place is lovely but the rash of McDonald’s has started to establish in the conurbations from whence it will spread and bring secondary infections like Starbucks and Burger King. I’m not sure if the American market could ever possibly make everybody in Italy want to eat food that tastes like cardboard and drink coffee that tastes like feet. But Joe wanted pepperoni pizza in the land that invented pizza. I’m not pleased he got punched. I am pleased he got the wrong pizza and ate it anyway. This place is tame. Super-tame. Saudi was tame too really – it’s a vassal nation. They really follow hierarchy even if that involves some extremely sketchy human rights stuff. Some of the other race venues in consideration are much more hostile than this hippy dippy place.

We don’t need an armed escort here. But… the better I can speak the language the easier it’ll be for me to get things. Duolingo is not a practical workbook. It really isn’t. It tries too hard to ground you into apples and boys and bread and girls. How do you teach a language without the person? It’s why some people can do mass and more people can tell you that Caecilius est in Horto, but time travel them to ancient Rome and they wouldn’t have a clue. “Um … Vo est Matella?”

Bloody classical education. Useless. Unless someone needs to know the location of Caecilius. He’s always in the garden. Bloody hippy.