‘So how was the trip?’
‘Fine,’ the teenager replies. He’s hunting for chocolate in the kitchen drawers.
‘So what happened?’
‘Nothing much,’ the teenager answers. He’s found the gingerbread men and he’s decapitated one with the skill of an executioner.
There’s a silence.
‘We saw some paintings,’ he volunteers his voice muffled with gingerbread. ‘In Florence.’
‘Who by?’ I ask. ‘Dunno,’ says the teenager. ‘Leonardo, I think. Botticelli maybe, and Michael Angelo.’
‘Did you like them?
‘Er… yeah,’ he replies flatly. Then he becomes more animated. ‘There was so much graffiti,’ he says his eyes sparkling. ‘Everywhere. Even half way up the sides of buildings. I wondered how they did it all!’
I have dreamt of going to Florence. I’ve imagined it a city built with white clean marble with filigrees of carvings holding up the sky, and so many works of art to appreciate. I never imagined graffiti.
‘It was so dirty there. Italians don’t know what they have. They drop litter everywhere.’
‘Did you have enough money?’ I asked.
‘I ran out on Saturday.’ the teenager replies.
For a moment I am tranquil, relieved. Then I realise, ’But that was the first day!’
‘Yeah,’ the teenager answers.
‘But you had fifty pounds! Seventy Euros. How did you spend it all on one day? What did you spend it on?’
‘Dunno. I didn’t get you a present. I didn’t have any money.’ says the teenager with knife-sharp words.
‘Oh, that doesn’t matter,’ I lie, wounded. (Even a postcard would have given me much joy.)
‘Italy is just so expensive,’ the teenager explains.
So how did you manage for food?’ I ask horrified.
‘I just drank water,’ he answers. ‘When we went to Bologna, I walked around the city while the others went to MacDonalds. Three people had their mobile phones stolen in MacDonalds in Bologna. Someone had put their phone down and a tramp covered it with a newspaper. Then it was gone.’
‘Three phones were stolen?’ I asked shocked.
‘Then we went to Murphys the Irish pub.’
‘The teachers took you into an Irish pub?’ I am wide-eyed. It’s hardly the Italian experience I was hoping he’d get.
‘Yeah, and they drank from a huge boot filled with lager.’
‘What did you drink?’ I asked.
‘Just water. I hadn’t any money. Then I had to help John get back to the room without the teachers seeing him because he was drunk. And some of the group had to be taken to hospital because they’d passed out.’
‘Hospital?’ My voice is high and shocked.
‘Yeah. And someone was crying in Venice because her shoe fell into the Grand Canal and it floated away and a gondolier had to rescue it with a pole.’
‘What a shame. What was her name?’
‘Dunno.’
‘Did you eat pizzas?’
‘Oh, I got money from Neil after he threw my hair brush across the room at Ashley and it broke. They were having an argument.’ He pauses as I examine the ruined hair brush. ‘
The pizzas in Italy are terrible. Have you got a pizza?’
I put one into the oven for him, and wait for the rest of the story.
‘Padova’s a dump,’ the teenager says. ‘And we were stuck on the coach for hours so that by the time we reached Padua it was time to turn back. We didn’t see anything.’
‘What about Venice?’ I ask.
‘Oh, it rained in Venice and the streets don’t go anywhere and the pigeons pooed on my jumper.’
‘I’ve got pictures.’ He loads them onto the computer.
‘That’s a beautiful building did you go inside?’ I ask.
‘No.’ the teenager replies flatly.
‘Where’s that?’ I ask.
‘Dunno,’ says the teenager.
‘Didn’t the group have a guide?’ I ask.
‘No,’ replies the teenager.
‘Where were the teachers?’
‘We were told just to go around by ourselves,’ the teenager replies. ‘And I got my shoes wet when a wave caught me as I stood by the Adriatic Sea this morning. I had wet feet all the way back home.’ the teenager says mournfully. ‘And in the plane on the way back Neil fell asleep on my shoulder and was dribbling on my neck!’
‘So did you enjoy the trip to Italy,’ I ask.
‘It was great.’ the teenager replies tucking into his pizza.
‘Fine,’ the teenager replies. He’s hunting for chocolate in the kitchen drawers.
‘So what happened?’
‘Nothing much,’ the teenager answers. He’s found the gingerbread men and he’s decapitated one with the skill of an executioner.
There’s a silence.
‘We saw some paintings,’ he volunteers his voice muffled with gingerbread. ‘In Florence.’
‘Who by?’ I ask. ‘Dunno,’ says the teenager. ‘Leonardo, I think. Botticelli maybe, and Michael Angelo.’
‘Did you like them?
‘Er… yeah,’ he replies flatly. Then he becomes more animated. ‘There was so much graffiti,’ he says his eyes sparkling. ‘Everywhere. Even half way up the sides of buildings. I wondered how they did it all!’
I have dreamt of going to Florence. I’ve imagined it a city built with white clean marble with filigrees of carvings holding up the sky, and so many works of art to appreciate. I never imagined graffiti.
‘It was so dirty there. Italians don’t know what they have. They drop litter everywhere.’
‘Did you have enough money?’ I asked.
‘I ran out on Saturday.’ the teenager replies.
For a moment I am tranquil, relieved. Then I realise, ’But that was the first day!’
‘Yeah,’ the teenager answers.
‘But you had fifty pounds! Seventy Euros. How did you spend it all on one day? What did you spend it on?’
‘Dunno. I didn’t get you a present. I didn’t have any money.’ says the teenager with knife-sharp words.
‘Oh, that doesn’t matter,’ I lie, wounded. (Even a postcard would have given me much joy.)
‘Italy is just so expensive,’ the teenager explains.
So how did you manage for food?’ I ask horrified.
‘I just drank water,’ he answers. ‘When we went to Bologna, I walked around the city while the others went to MacDonalds. Three people had their mobile phones stolen in MacDonalds in Bologna. Someone had put their phone down and a tramp covered it with a newspaper. Then it was gone.’
‘Three phones were stolen?’ I asked shocked.
‘Then we went to Murphys the Irish pub.’
‘The teachers took you into an Irish pub?’ I am wide-eyed. It’s hardly the Italian experience I was hoping he’d get.
‘Yeah, and they drank from a huge boot filled with lager.’
‘What did you drink?’ I asked.
‘Just water. I hadn’t any money. Then I had to help John get back to the room without the teachers seeing him because he was drunk. And some of the group had to be taken to hospital because they’d passed out.’
‘Hospital?’ My voice is high and shocked.
‘Yeah. And someone was crying in Venice because her shoe fell into the Grand Canal and it floated away and a gondolier had to rescue it with a pole.’
‘What a shame. What was her name?’
‘Dunno.’
‘Did you eat pizzas?’
‘Oh, I got money from Neil after he threw my hair brush across the room at Ashley and it broke. They were having an argument.’ He pauses as I examine the ruined hair brush. ‘
The pizzas in Italy are terrible. Have you got a pizza?’
I put one into the oven for him, and wait for the rest of the story.
‘Padova’s a dump,’ the teenager says. ‘And we were stuck on the coach for hours so that by the time we reached Padua it was time to turn back. We didn’t see anything.’
‘What about Venice?’ I ask.
‘Oh, it rained in Venice and the streets don’t go anywhere and the pigeons pooed on my jumper.’
‘I’ve got pictures.’ He loads them onto the computer.
‘That’s a beautiful building did you go inside?’ I ask.
‘No.’ the teenager replies flatly.
‘Where’s that?’ I ask.
‘Dunno,’ says the teenager.
‘Didn’t the group have a guide?’ I ask.
‘No,’ replies the teenager.
‘Where were the teachers?’
‘We were told just to go around by ourselves,’ the teenager replies. ‘And I got my shoes wet when a wave caught me as I stood by the Adriatic Sea this morning. I had wet feet all the way back home.’ the teenager says mournfully. ‘And in the plane on the way back Neil fell asleep on my shoulder and was dribbling on my neck!’
‘So did you enjoy the trip to Italy,’ I ask.
‘It was great.’ the teenager replies tucking into his pizza.
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