The Ambassador’s Reception….
I’d been looking forward to it all week. My nicest shirt was clean (if a bit crumpled) and ready to go. A tie which was given to me as a gift on “teacher’s day” a few weeks ago sat aside it in its unopened box. It was time for the Ambassador’s Reception…
My housemate Federica works as an intern at the Italian Embassy. And last night was the annual Christmas Party at the Ambassadors house. Free food, free drink, Karaoke in Italian, & Santa Claus. Even two elves. The stuff parties are made of…
I had no idea just how many Italian people live in Hanoi. There were loads of them there. Northern Italian, Southern Italian, Sicilian. It was like gatecrashing a wedding of the Corleone family. One guy, Claudio, an Accordionist from the bit of Italy in between the toe and the heel, had an accent that really sounded the business. I almost asked him to say: I’m gonna make him an offer he can’t refuse , but was distracted by the arrival of Santa, wearing shades and a hat with flashing lights. Oh Nicky, how far you have come.
Being an ambassador seems to have plenty of perks. Like an absolutely enormous house with two staircases. I’ve always wondered about houses with 2 staircases. Do you arrive by 1 staircase and leave by t’other. Is one reserved for the servants? I remember some building work being done at my school a few years ago, and 1 staircase was designated “up” and the other “down”. Amazingly, people actually stuck to that rule.
The food was laid out on a huge table inside. Italians dont do things by halves: There was pizza, bread, salami, little tomatoes stuffed with some unidentifiable yet delicious cream, cakes, shortbreads, veggies and quiche. And a whole pig – head & all, being slowly carved by a bald dude in a cardigan. I wondered how they cooked our swiney pal. You’d need an absolutely enormous oven.
We chomped merrily on our food, and sipped the imported Vino. I have a fairly dark complexion, so people would just start talking to me in Italian. On these occasions, I would simply repeat the last word they said, and chuckle heartily. Works a treat. Another option when faced by (3) questions in a language you dont understand, is to answer: Yes, Yes & No. Guaranteed success.
The Karaoke began. A projector had been unfurled in the conservatory, and various rousing Italian ditty’s were shone upon it. We sang heartily, if completely uncomprehendingly.(for me at any rate). Hours of fun. Finally, someone requested that ‘Ol Blue Eyes be brought forth. Confusion always reigns with Frank. If I sing “My Way” his way, then am I really singing it my way? And if he did it his way, and you did it your way, but my way was more like their way, then am I singing “My Way” her way, or Richard Clayderman’s way? And if Richard Clayderman sang “My Way” his way, then would life really be worth living any more anyway? Something to ponder.
I left the party drunk, contented & full of song. But without any Ferrero Roche. You cant have it all I suppose..
Tags: Italy, Karaoke, Vietnam
The Dude
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