Letter from Rome Paddy AgnewThe other morning, after a splendid downhill descent à la Lance Armstrong and a bout of Ian Thorpe-style aquatics, I arrived in La Vela bar shortly after nine for the holy hour of the cappuccino and cornetto, combined with newspaper perusal. Proprietor Jolo greeted me with amusement: "Up early, this morning, Paddy".
Indignantly, I pointed out that not only was I up and cycling but that I had also already taken a morning dip in the lake.
"A swim? This early in the day? Only a foreigner would do a thing like that," replied a much amused Jolo.
His reply reminded me, not for the first time, of the unwritten Conformist Code of Summertime Behaviour that the vast majority of Italians follow with religious veneration. For a start, one does not go swimming early in the morning for the good reason that the water might be too cold and that the dip might come too soon after your breakfast.
Little matter that the temperature was over 30 Celsius by nine o'clock and that I still had not had my breakfast. The point is that you do not go swimming early in the morning. Little good does it do you to plead that, having been raised on the Arctic chill of the North Sea at White Park Bay on the Antrim coastline, the 8.00 a.m. Trevignano lake seems like a warm bath by comparison.
Every summer, just in case we might forget, magazines, newspapers and lifestyle programmes issue their "Consigli per l'estate" (Advice for the summer). Even the Ministry of Health publishes basic advice, including the following commandments this year - "drink a lot" (I usually do, but white wine and in the evening); "eat light meals" (no fear there, I am catering for myself at the moment); "stay indoors during the hottest hours" (well, of course, I'm indoors just now, otherwise I wouldn't be writing this); "wear light clothes" (nothing doing, I am in Irish Times regulation For. Corr. dinner jacket).
Mind you, that is just the general advice. We now move on to specifics. For example, the magazine Donna Moderna draws up a nightmare scenario for the intrepid Italian holidaymaker: "You are stuck in the queue at the check-in desk and you are going to miss the correct time to take your pills? You have decided to give up on a fortnight's holiday on your favourite little island because there is no hospital where you can get your weekly injection?".
Fear not, do not abandon your hols, oh intrepid, latter-day Cristoforo Colombo. At least, that is what Dr Ovidio Brignoli, deputy president of the Italian Society for General Medicine, says: "Nowadays, lots of pharmaceutical companies produce much more practical versions of many of their medicinal products".
It is pathetic really. Just to think that this lot once ruled the world. Imagine if Julius Caesar came back to the house one morning and announced to Mrs Caesar: "Ah no, love, I'm not going to the Gallic Wars, I haven't got my aspirin, have I?" Another aspect of the summertime Code of Behaviour that has always intrigued me concerns swimming itself. Even though you find millions of Italians at the beach, an Italian busily engaged in a serious, half-hour swim in the water itself is about as regular an occurrence as sightings of a golden eagle in Grafton Street.
There is a reason, of course. The beach is primarily about getting a darker than darkest ebony tan. Silly you, you thought it was about having a swim.
Which all explains, of course, why Brighton Drill is not wildly popular on Italian beaches. Brighton Drill, for the uninitiated, is that tricky changing of the wet togs below a wrap-around towel business. No self-respecting Italian indulges in any such ghastly practice, primarily because their togs are not wet in the first place. Even if the costume is wet, then the Code decrees that one sit or lie languidly until such time as you are perfectly dry.
The busy For. Corr., however, has no time for such frippery. Despite the Code and the protestations of the baroness, he continues to make a quick change and an even quicker getaway on the bike. (According to the Code, the latter is highly dangerous, of course, because you might break sweat, get hot, then cool and end up with yellow fever.)
By the way, one thing that the Code does not allow for is the sight of 67-year-old men jigging about during their summer hols, complete with a bandana headband. Oops, sorry, the man is question is the Prime Minister, Mr Silvio Berlusconi, a man after my own heart and who, like myself, refuses to bend the knee to the Summer Code. At least we can agree on that, Silvio.