A Case of Mistaken Identity

Oh, and some grebes

Four years ago I spent an odd few Wintry weeks by myself by the shores of Lake Como. In theory I was writing a book. In reality I wandered around the countryside disconsolately, or stared at the grey water, thinking about everything that had gone wrong with my life, the mistakes I’d made, the embarrassing things I done and said. At night I’d sometimes hear the howling of a wolf. Which was good, as the book I was writing had wolves in it, as every book should.

Anyway, if I didn’t write much of the book, I did fill my Moleskin with words. Here’re some of them.

One if the things that’s always annoyed me about abroad is that I’m never mistaken for a local. I’m fingered as English (or occasionally Irish, which is fine as I’m 15/19ths Irish) the second I walk into the mini-market or the bar. I suppose it’s my pasty, doughy complexion, and having a face like a tragically misconceived bum transplant, and looking so shabby and miserable all the time, etc etc.

But, anyway, I was trudging along a backstreet in the drizzle this morning when a car pulled up. The driver wound down the window, and started speaking to me in Italian, whilst patting the passenger seat next to him, in a flagrantly suggestive manner.

I realised straight away what had happened: he’d mistaken me for a high-class Milanese rent boy, enjoying a brief change of scenery and clientele, before going back to the city.

 I was delighted by this, obviously, and did consider getting in with him.

What was the going rate, I wondered? 10 Euros for a hand job. 40 Euros for the works. Didn’t want to push it. Price myself out of the market.

But, no. It was just a mad dream. Closer inspection would shatter his illusion. There’d be complaints. There’s probably a special battalion of the Carabinieri who deal with misrepresentations of this kind by sex workers. ‘Eez not hot boy, eez fat old man.’

So I said thanks, but, sadly, no, using the new fluency I’ve acquired in the local lingo, or linguini as they appear to call it here. “Non gracias, una paloma blanca, et tu Brute, doss cervezas prego.”

He gave me a sweet, sad smile, and the window began to wind up.

‘Bobby Charlton! he cried, as the car pulled away.

‘Umberto Eco,’ I replied.

But the point of all this is that, on this difficult day, it’s possible still to seize a little happiness, to draw consolation from the fact that at long last you’ve been mistaken for an Italian, albeit in a non-ideal situation. Or whatever your equivalent of this might be.

And then there's the grebes (reasons to be cheerful, part 2). I've always had a strong partiality for grebes. I don't mean to eat or anything, I mean for themselves. I'd never eat grebe, no matter how much it annoyed the hostess. Though I have, to my shame, eaten a guillemot...

The bigger grebes - great-crested and red-necked are extraordinarily elegant. But it's the smaller ones I'm especially fond of - the dabchick, and black-necked & co. Even when adults, they have the look of lost children, desperately trying to find their parents. That's why they keep diving. 'Mum? Dad? are you down there? I'm frightened...'

Anyway, if I had the money I'd set up a grebe refuge or, er, orphanage, even though I know that's weird, as they're not really children, except the actual grebe babies, who always seem quite well looked-after, actually. I suppose this is one of those ideas that gets worse the more you probe it.

But my point is, grebes, and how happy they can make you, or if not happy, how they can take your mind off things.