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I have always been amused at the Brits’ superior attitude towards Italy, and Derb has brightened up the last few weeks by conforming to the stereotype. I particularly enjoyed his glee at finding Keats’ house by the Spanish steps. I suppose Nero’s Golden House left him sneering. It’s a mutual disdain, by the way; the Italians still believe that the Brits put marmalade on spaghetti.

Yet Italy is forever overrun with tourists, many with odd British accents, and for the most part they seem to enjoy it. Dare I suggest that it’s because Italy is a much more enjoyable place to be than, uh, the Isles?

Obviously Derb doesn’t think so, but I daresay most travelers–especially those who actually speak the language–would consider that grounds for therapy.

Loosen up, Derb, you might actually have some fun.


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