Back in Italy, once more. To brag and check out people who like me. Not many, actually.

The Bragger

I enjoyed Friday and Saturday meeting with my friends in the evening, and ending the nights every time at the same bar. Why change, if I know that there I'd get special prices, good cocktails, good food and the attention of the waitress asking me about my sister?

If the last night my dad joined us for some drinks, on Friday, after meeting my mum in the pizzeria, I convinced her to stop by and have some drinks talking about old good times.

Later, I was invited to see a weird post rock something pop gig in some damn expensive location. I couldn't get a free ticket because of my crutch ("yeah, right, I've driven miles to get here and you won't let me in? I'm an invalid, damn you!") and the price of the drinks was astonishing. The band started to play 2 hours later and at the end of the gig and I was so tired that I almost felt asleep while chatting with Beppe.

Let's talk about my relationship with my friends. In my great imagination, I'm the guy who's coming back from a far far away place full of great stories and with the fantastic charm that makes all the girls in a radius of 1 mile falling on their knees just to meet me. Then I meet Beppe, Max and Mera and they manage to remind me my roots and how my ego is so big then I needed the biggest city in Europe just to feed it. And then I'm back to reality: I am the great guy coming from the great city full of great stories and the great personality.

I can brag about everything. Or nothing. I'm a professional bragger. I'm walking like a cripple because of my football injury but I manage to turn around the story to let people know which kind of hero I was there on the pitch, fighting till my ankle broke, not screaming, waiting for the match to end before asking the ambulance to take me to the hospital. And girls love this stories, probably in the same way the nurses in the first world war fell in love with the soldiers in the hospital. I'm rude, and gross and my humor is high-school penis/lesbians jokes and I'm happy with it because at least I make people laugh and they all love me and now thinking about it I feel me ego growing even more.

I'm usually the guy with the surprises. This time I was surprised to discover, for the first time in 28 long years, that every one had a girlfriend or somewhere almost like that. Even Beppe, who started dating Claudia after meeting her a the local swimming pool. It should say thank to me. 10 years ago, while playing our last football match together, in the same time, I passed him the ball too early, so he tried to sprint to get it and avoid the contact with the opposite player, and in the contrast he broke his ligament. Without that injury, without my bad pass, he would have never joined the pool and met his current girlfriend. Do never underestimate the butterfly's effect, especially if it comes in the form of a bad bad pass. At least my cousin is still single, looking out there for a lady to share his passions: family values, beers and the army.

The next day I met Paolo with his new son, Olaf. He's already quite big and he cries all the time. But that's good, cause all the Olaf in this world cried a lot when they're still babies, and then they behave like real men and they don't cry for the rest of their life. Great name by the way.
Saturday night was time for a trip in the remote countryside of east Milan: some place called Mezzago, for the annual Sagra dell'Asparago, or the "Asparagus Festival". We're talking about  a small city devoted to the cult of the pink asparagus. Nothing wrong with it, but the price of an asparagus-based meal was close to extortion. I ate fried frogs. It was a nice trip though, and my usual crowd of 5-6 people was increased to the unusual amount of 15. More chance to do my poor English sexy lesbians jokes on new boys and girls. After two bottles of wine I wasn't sure what I said, but what the hell.

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