Night-life in rural Italy

This evening we eat good pizza at Bella Napoli in Pavia. Afterwards, we head to a bar where most of the local young people seem to revert to in the evenings. It's a big place, with the look of a converted warehouse or hanger. The table football tables are lined up alongside the tiled dance floor, and from the high ceilings hang yellowing fans and strip lighting. It is the sort of place that can only be described as a discotheque.

But all the activity is outside on the forecourt. We gather around pub benches and throughout the evening, locals pull up in their cars, music blaring. It's dark and slightly seedy. The atmosphere is great. I'm offered a can of strong brew by a forty-something known as CJ. He speaks quickly and animatedly, with wide eyes, and few people can get a word in edgeways. He has a lot to say; rumour has it that he fled here from Sicily after a stint in the Mafia.

Conversation here, when I can understand it, it easy-going, and indeed what I will miss from small-town Italy is the pace of life. But tomorrow I'm heading on again, so eventually, late into the night, we wander home. Through bleary eyes I pack my things, including a Guinness inflatable bestowed on me by the barman, into my huge backpack. I look at the backpack's wonky, bulging shape. The more time I spend with it, the more it seems to take on the form of a human.