My first taste of Italy and its delightfully friendly inhabitants came when I accidentally clunked a nice gentleman square in the head with my backpack somewhere over Milan. Having lived in Germany for some time and thus grown accustomed to daily abuse from various members of the public for daring break some social taboo or other, I hastily made to profess my apologies but before my mouth could finish its dying fish routine, he was already on his feet crying ‘Mi scusi, mi scusi bella, mi scusi!’ and checking if I was okay. If I was okay: I, who had just belted him about the head. How delightful.

The second thing that amused me no end was undeniable proof of that famous quick Italian temper. I was flying with Alitalia to Rome via Milan on one of those teensy little taxi planes with only two seats on the left and just one on the right of the aisle, and I had the misfortune of being seated by the window (good) next to an elderly Italian man whom I shall henceforth refer to as Nose Hair (bad).

Anyway, Nose Hair had piled all his junk onto my seat rather than put it in the overhead locker, and steadfastly refused to kindly remove either it or himself so that I could get past. Soon enough, the flight attendant, a fiery Italian lass, scolded him heartily in rapid Italian and continued to do so as she shoved all his stuff into various lockers, slamming them loudly and wagging her finger at him furiously.

Still he wouldn’t budge, so the attendant turned and stormed off in a huff, yelling still more abuse at him as she went, and I was left to literally climb over him to reach my seat. (But don’t worry, I made certain to give him a deft kneecap in the chin as I passed.)

Once in air though (after Nose Hair had crossed himself a dozen times, tinkled his rosary beads, prayed audibly then wailed loudly) all was forgotten, because the view over the Alps was just spectacular.