Heading home tomorrow. There will be summing-up. But first, some brief notes:
- In retrospect-- and, mind you, only in retrospect-- I should not have worn a beret & carried a giant baguette to the main square in Pisa, where I watched Italy win the World Cup. It was an error in judgment for which I paid dearly.
- The spectacle of the celebrations (about which more shortly) aside, it was actually pretty frustrating. I was right there with the mob, right there with their excitement and anticipation, up until the middle of the shootout. And then about half the crowd (normal-looking guys and girls, nary a black shirt or swastika tattoo in sight) starts making monkey noises when a French player of African descent lines up for his kick. Aaaand they lost me. Jesus fucking Christ. It was like making sweet love to a supermodel, nearing the Special Moment.... and then having Goebbels accidentally walk in on you. Ah, those liberal-minded Europeans. Fuck 'em.
- And then it felt as if the country had just had a revolution. Statue-climbin', beer-sprayin', flag-pokin', tractor-drivin', bomb-detonatin', mob huggin' celebration. What can be said? I have never seen anything like it.
- But here's the great mystery: how did the White Stripes' "Seven Nation Army" become the theme song for the Azzurri? All goddamned night, the crowd was singing the bassline, over and over and over and over. "Ohhh, oh-oh-oh-oh ohhh, whoa!" And to think I really liked that song once. "Eh, Fran-ce-si bas-tar-di!" Etcetera.
