Hash seems to be a far bigger thing in
Italy than in Britain, and in these villages it's smoked almost as
often and just as publicly as cigarettes. The smell hangs in the hot air like the
haze of insects on the water.
I try to follow the Italian conversation but Michele's brother and his friends speak with strong accents. They are of course northerners, sometimes known as polentoni (polenta eaters), although I discover after a few tense silences that this is a fairly strong term, and not for casual use.
After some time, I climb back onto the vespa, less nervous than I felt before what I admit was my first ever vespa ride this morning. I release my arms from around Michele's waist who, relaxed from our afternoon on the bank, also drives more confidently. We spot a pheasant and chase it along the dirt track leading back to the main road, and as we bump over a small bridge, it takes off with colourful elegance.
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