The day after driving across Europe in 18 hours, I got on my bike for a ride in the woods. I kept glancing up to check the rear view mirror.
A few days later, I felt really pleased with myself when I managed to park my bike in a shady spot – that could be a make-or-break moment in the day when I lived in Rome.
Another Roman hangover came when I gave my mother-in-law a white knuckle moment as I executed a nifty left turn across oncoming traffic to nab a parking place.
“We don’t do that in the Netherlands!” she shrieked.
IÂ´m also a little tongue-tied, beginning sentences with allora, and concluding every exchange with, perfetto! err … perfekt … err … Prima!
Now after three weeks in the Netherlands, I’m so used to cycling that I always think about tucking my trouser in my sock before I get in the car.
This post’s listening pleasure is brought to you by the Jongo Trio and their 1972 version of Ãgua da MarÃ§o.
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Some might feel the cuica is overdone, but I don’t care. I want one for christmas.
Still, I’d settle for the cowbell, or even the triangle in Tito Puente’s band.
I once asked my mother why she hadn’t married a Brazilian percussionist. She said there weren’t many around in Glasgow in the 1950s.
Tech note: My first upload of this track failed because of the non-English characters (accent and cedilla). Can only use standard English characters.