
26/08/2025
... can I have some please ...
Ah, the curious tourist—permit me this ode to that rarest of creatures. To visit such a beautiful country, such a region of colours and flavours, and to miss the possibility—would it not be like refusing to see the sun rise, merely because one prefers the glow of a streetlamp? Others travel merely to escape their wallpaper; the curious tourist travels to conquer eternity with a suitcase. They meander not simply along the streets, but along the secret corridors of Beauty itself.
For them, cobblestones are not a nuisance but a conspiracy of charm, guiding the step into rhythm, transforming walking into the art of the actor. Sunlight upon ancient walls is not illumination, but applause. Wine at noon is not indulgence, but wisdom. A café hums not with chatter, but with destiny. Only the curious tourist understands this—indeed, they are the elect to whom beautiful things mean only Beauty.
What if, in my wandering, I came so perilously near to the application of genius, to the savoir-faire of that singular artisan of texture and flavour, and nearly missed the opportunity to say, with trembling sincerity, “…can I have some, please…”? To overlook such a moment would be worse than Caliban gazing into a glass and finding there his own face.
For here the artist conceals himself within the confection, yet reveals all art through taste; and to refuse ... to ask ... would be to deny not only the surface but the symbol of the pizza itself.