Italian Stew


Our small hotel was a charming stone structure, nestled in the luscious countryside of Umbria, my friends and I were taking a well deserved break from our respective realities to eat, rest and be merry.
Having over consumed on the first night I then overslept, and on waking, rushed to the spa, which was pleasantly concealed among the lemon groves. There, I slipped into a fluffy robe that felt like a hug from an angel and put on the strange paper panties provided, that were mandatory attire despite their flimbsy and unaccommodating fit.
My girlfriends were dozing in white lounge chairs, having already indulged in full body massages, their speech slurred with relaxation. I arranged to meet them for later, And slinked off to the Jacuzzi to have a quick dip. On seeing there was no-one around I threw off my robe and submerged myself.
My body felt like spaghetti gradually softening with the gentle kneading of the bubbles. I could feel my stresses evaporate. Then, suddenly a door opened and out of it spilled several generously proportioned, Italian men. I scanned the area for my robe, nowhere to be seen. I was mortified. Not only was I practically naked, but these salad dodgers were headed my way. I ducked down further into the pool, temporarily concealing my modestly. They greeted me in Italian. I sat now, al dente, immersed to the nostrils like a hippo in a swamp.
They disrobed revealing speedo’s that looked as though they would have to be removed by a surgeon, and began piling in, like giant hairy chunks of stewing steak. I stared straight down. There we were, hairy-old-Italian-man and naked-girl soup, bubbling away. I swore to the creator, that I would give all my worldly possessions to charity if these half boiled Italians would depart. But clearly my offerings displeased the big guy, because, just as I thought things couldn’t get any worse; the paper panties finally resigned, and broke away from my person, floating to the surface like a dead goldfish.
The Italians looked at me, then at one another. Their brows furrowed in confusion. My complexion turned from scarlet to purple. The wise guy of the pack got it, and cried out in astonishment, as though he had just realized he was taking a bath with the pope. He informed the others in loud, fast Italian, and they began scrambling, bouncing off of each other in a soggy panic, disappearing back from where they had emerged; the last of them tossed me my illusive robe. I extracted myself hastily and I ran to my room, where I remained until dinner. I quietly relayed my horror story, to the girls until the waiter interrupted
“For the house special we have Brasato al Barolo”
“What’s that” I asked
“Local Italian meat stew” he replied, which was met with a howl of laughter.
“Sorry” managed my friend “But she already had that for lunch”

C Long

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