Back in Italy, once more. To brag and check out people who like me. Not many, actually.
Sunday was meant to be the big family day. Lunch in the old restaurant and then to the church to see the baptism of Luca, son of my older cousin, Mariangela.
My family isn't very big at all. Basically, our old granddad, who died 26 years ago, and who was a natural born hero thanks to the medals he won during the first world war, serving in the special corps of the Bersaglieri, had three sons, all male, and each of them made two children: one guy and one girl. It would've been proud. My old uncle, another man who served for the same special corps, died 13 years ago, and now the man in charge of my family's honor is my uncle Ernesto, father of Davide, my beer and military loving cousin. We love the army in my family. I served during the Kosovo War in the same special corps as my great ancestors, and I'm very proud of it. My cousin served in the special alpine corps, and he's very proud. Pride is regarded highly in the Olgiati's family. You see, the girls in our family all finished university and they're all leading great lives, but there is a limit of what they can achieve to make our dads proud. After all, they are or they will be one day part of another family, once they get married. I quitted university and I went straight to the army. And that's enough to make everyone's happy.
Anyway, in the last years our family has been dismantled. I moved to London, my youngest cousin married and moved 200km away, Davide served in the army, family problems, my cat died and now my sister is in South America. So having a nice lunch with Ernesto's family and me and my dad was a good idea, just to remember how good is to be surrounded by people who know you from the start of your big adventure on this world. We used to spend Christmas together for many years, all 20 something of us, but time killed people and traditions.
The foot was great and the company, after wine and traditional grappa, even better. Then, we moved to the church nearby to see this baptism. Nothing really exciting, but nothing in the church is.
Together, after all the Christianity celebration was over, we moved to the Texas, to have even more drinks and talk about the good old times.
It seems to me that this times aren't too good, cause every time I meet someone, I always talk about those great good old times. Damn.
Last days of my trip nothing really happened, but that's the some every time. If I stop and start thinking about all the times I go back to North Italy, I recall long discussion about the old days, drinks, talking about how good we all were when we played football together, food, sleep, and counting all the great sexual experiences we had when we were 13. The numbers vary between 10 and 10.000. Being the modest man I'm, I usually stop at 400 girls I've slept with between 13 and 16 on my summer vacation when I was away from my friends and no, I couldn't prove it but if you give me a girl right now I'll show you all the techniques I learnt from those ladies.
Yes, great times. We were really good footballers, and they all stopped because of life: work, girls and injury. I didn't, at least not yet, even if now I walk like a badly injured cripple. Guys, I'll keep chasing all your dreams just for you. Even the ones including 10 lesbians bisexuals.
Good times. Great times.
Back to London, back to the hospital for another check. Here a nice view of my xrays: