4th: Of power naps and pizza slices

Today was a glorious Friday of non-exmaining. When overseas, what should one do with a day without work in the delightful south of Italy? Perhaps a day trip to Naples or further south to the beautiful coastal town of Sarlerno. Maybe even a trip up to Rome on the fast train. Or perhaps, just a day relaxing in the gardens of the Palace in Caserta (where I am - see the lovely picture) after a hearty four-course lunch. Scintillating stuff, I know, but read on to see what I got up to!

First thing on the agenda was a leisurely breakfast – nothing quite like spending half-an-hour over a pot of tea while doing absolutely nothing, just noticing the paint on the walls and other minutiae that really don’t matter. Having breakfasted, it was time to see what was happening with the UK election courtesy of the hotel internet service and the live feed from the BBC with a tired-looking Dimbleby and others going over the ground they’d gone over the night before after the exit polls. This was obviously quite exhausting, so by 10:30am it was obviously time for a nap. I’d get to the cultural highlights of Caserta, or maybe even Rome, after lunch.

Waking up a little before one, I decided that a trip to Rome was a little arduous, so I opted for an afternoon of gentle strolling and reading in the Palace gardens – very beautiful. But first, a healthy lunch. There are no end of pizza-slice outlets around (good for a snack but not for much more), but I was after a proper restaurant and so set off in search of one, not bothering to eat at cafes with sandwiches or the like. Nothing but a large meal of starters, pasta plate, main course and desert would do me, oh yes. At a little after one, an undeniably respectable hour to eat, the first restaurant I found that was open, for many only open in the evening, was behind a police barrier and situated under large flags, set in a courtyard immediately adjoining the region's finance ministry. Not thinking I’d make it past the sentries in trainers and jeans, I moved on to the second restaurant - one that I’d been to two years ago when here, and three years ago when visiting on a day trip with a certain Mr Sweeney.

Getting near restaurant number two, I noticed something amiss; there was a large group of lively school children gathered at the front, seemingly having strayed from the expansive grounds of the palace. Wary of small children at the best of times, I approached with caution. The buoyant mass was crowded round a couple of lucky (?) street vendors, selling carved elephants, mobile phone covers and other pieces of object d’art that pocket money is meant to be spent on when ten years of age. While it seemed that they were just hovering outside, closer inspection revealed a plague of children inside the restaurant as well, clattering their plates and making the kind of noise you associate with a school canteen. Whatever happened to packed lunches of limp peanut butter and jam sandwiches, an overly bruised apple and a carton of ‘fruit’ juice’? I blamed the likes of Jamie Oliver and decided to move on.

Countless cafes and pizza-slice outlets later, I come across another restaurant. Same school children conundrum there, so on I went. It was getting close to two now and I was becoming concerned I’d miss the lunch window and be stuck with nothing but a pizza slice until the restaurants opened again at eight o’clock. More cafes and then, a restaurant. It seemed quiet outside. No school children. A full menu. Perfect - perseverance paying off, I told myself. In I strolled, with the purpose of a man about to eat and drink well, wondering as I did so whether or not to go for a half bottle of red or a full one. Entering, I see that it’s actually quite busy (everyone avoiding the school kids, probably), but the first waiter doesn’t think it’ll a be a problem getting a seat and shouts through to the main man. He’s harassed and looks unhappy. I begin to feel doubt. The main man waves his hands in the air, looks around and mutters something in Italian before racing off to deal with a larger man gulping down wine and signalling something about his pasta. I'm glancing enviously at the fat man's repast when the waiter breaks into my thoughts and apologises. I get the drift. No need to offer explanations. I shuffle out, hopes of gastronomic discovery and wine dashed on the rocky shores of hunger.

A set back, but not fatal. I decide that I should pass the nearby supermarket, pick up a half bottle of red and some provisions and make a picnic of it in the Palace gardens. Yes, I persuade myself, this was actually what I wanted all along (see the picture of my doing this two years ago). In the shop I go, buy the items with ease, but I just have to pick up a knife and bottle opener from the hotel en route... No problem. As it’s a picnic, though, I think a quick hot ‘something’ would be nice. So, as I’m going to be eating more later anyway, I think that a quick slice of Margareta from the outlet over the road from the hotel would be a good idea after all. Buy that and gobble it down. Fine. Made a mess of ordering it in Italian (pointing and saying ‘one’ is all good and well, but when they start throwing questions about drinks at you, it becomes another matter all together) and leave with an embarrassed grin on the chops, but happy with the idea of my picnic. Back in the hotel, I make my gorgonzola and prosciutto sandwiches (better to do it where there’s a sink than out on the grass). But they look very tasty. Why take them out when I can eat them in the hotel now? Why indeed. OK, change of plan, I’ll eat them in the hotel and take the wine and a book to the Palace gardens. But then it's probably good to have the wine with the luxury sandwiches together. OK, do that. Feeling rosy after the wine and looking out the window, I see it’s a bit overcast (hard to see the clouds in the picture, but believe me, they're there), and suddenly, a wave of tiredness overcomes me and the thought of a post-prandial stroll seems a bit too much of an effort. OK, time for a quick power nap and then to the gardens. It’s half two. I can be out in an hour, I agree with myself

Or maybe not. Waking up at half six in the evening, it’s almost dinner time and the day is but over, except for an episode of Battlestar Galactica and an update on the election. Some might call this a complete failure to reach all of my original objectives. I, however, ... well, I'm still wondering what spin to put on it. At least decisions were just as successful in the general election. Perhaps it's the current phase of the moon or maybe some other celestial event guiding our actions in a way only people with crystals can tell us about.

Indeed, while speeches were being made, party alliances being formed and a minority Tory government gathered momentum in the offing, I napped. And while it wasn’t Rome, Naples or even the coastal town of Salerno, it was still particularly good. Anyway, not that the tourist thing isn’t being done as there’s a castle and a monastery on the agenda for tomorrow, all things going according to plan, of course...