2002-09-16 - 12:34 p.m.

Tuscany. Dragged from the beach every day to take yet another trip to some panoramic locale, only to return to be faced with yet another culinary spectacular featuring criminally good food and fine wines. Damn this job. And I managed it all on three words of Italian (Grazie! Prego! Ciao!) which can�t be bad. One of the other hacks in the party turned out to be an ex-neighbour who, I recall, made me snort vodka within several minutes of making her acquaintance, so it was always going to be interesting.

Our driver, Alexander, was 35 and had a PhD in International History, which obviously made him the kind of maverick porter that you alternately have laughter-strewn dreams and sweat-drenched nightmares about. The first day we were courted by the management, though, and he was not allowed to join us at table, instead being left to practice his loitering as we stuffed ourselves. The manager was perfectly pleasant, but had that European look � obscurely-shaded suits, tassled loafers � down a treat. His manner resembled a certain UK comedy character, and you half expected him to take you aside and say things like, �You know, Pablo, running a hotel is very much like making love to a beautiful woman; you�ve got to fill the vacancies and make sure she�s at full capacity, and direct your staff with a firm hand.� The owner joined us briefly too, an old boy who knew that one of the privileges of being super rich is that you can afford to look like shit and not care.

The next night, however, we were driven out to one of those medieval villages that Europe does so well, and which would be heartbreakingly picturesque if it weren�t populated by people in awful suits and tassled loafers. Alexander and Monica, one of the minor hotel management droogs, hosted us at a local taverna, both of them hitting the Chianti pretty hard for people who were being entrusted with driving the press group back later that night. Everyone else in the group was coupled up, and Alexander (who for some unknown reason wanted me to call him �Sasha�) was quick to ascertain this (he was especially keen on quickly establishing the marital status of the girls) and took me aside. �You want to go disco? We meet the nice Italian girls. My girlfriend, she live in other village,� he stated with a conspiratorial grin. I didn�t really know what to say but he carried on his plans for the night unhindered. �Then I take you. Another place. Very close. Very cheap, because here in this part we are socialist. You pay ten Euros for entrance, wait maybe one or two hour and make the talk with the other men, then choose the girl, you make fuck with her, and then leave.� I explained that going to a brothel, regardless of its politically sensitive pricing policies, wasn�t really on � we had to get back for drinks with the owner and besides, I couldn�t really claim it as expenses. He nodded, and turned his attention back to the Chianti.

Several carrion-heavy courses later, it was just past midnight, something that seemed to please Sasha very much as we boarded the minibus. I got the short straw of sitting up front, the others obviously wanting to stay in denial about how bad his driving was going to be. As we cruised the country lanes, he leaned over. �I very glad it after midnight. Yesterday, nine years anniversary of my big crash.� I tried not to show any outward signs of extreme fear as he went into flashback mode. �My two friends, they die when we hit tree on this exact street. Very slowly. They do little breathing for a few minutes. I am in back, and front of car is suddenly very close to me.� He laughed, then reconstructed in miniature the swerving motion of the car in those final seconds as, gripping for dear life now, my hands virtually punctured the fabric of my seat. �I have sense knocked out of me. THIS IS THE TREE!!� he shouted, pointing to a huge trunk that bark missing in a car shape.

Driving past it without us turning into a fireball of twisted metal seemed to calm him, though it did prompt tales of other things he had hit whilst in control of a speeding vehicle. The weirdest, as far as I could make out, was flattening a wild boar, though he didn�t know the English for it. �One night�I drive in country�I hit�the�the pork. Very hard. He die, the pork.�

Laughing at foreigners and their English is very childish, of course, but it did keep us entertained, especially the guide showing us round an ancient Iron Ore mine and commenting on its raw materials (�Can you imagine such a heavy slag?�) and Sasha�s great clothing / profession mix up when ha complained about it being hot. We said, �But you�re wearing a shirt and a t-shirt�. �Yes, I could have been teacher,� he mused. There were many such confused conversations, and we can only imagine what weird questions he thought we were asking.

The rest is a blur of glorious beaches, floating in the sea and enduring a steady supply of award-winning cocktails from the award-winning barman. Sasha took us to Pisa on the way back, where you can watch, awe-struck at the ancient, mythical sight of every single foreigner lining up to take the �comedy� photograph where they look as if they�re holding the tower up, as if they�re the first people to think of it. I just remember overhearing Sasha begin telling some Americans that �We need some of your New York planes to come and hit the tower, no?�

I think it was good that we left when we did.