For some reason, there was a Chinese TV crew there. They're based here, in Italy, but broadcast... Well, I'm not sure what language they broadcast in. In any case, I was volunteered to be interviewed by them on behalf of our group. Before I even got there and without consultation, which was nice.

I didn't mind though. I'm pretty good at off-the-cuff stuff, and I was wearing my red suit which exudes confidence. Theoretically, at least.

Very theoretical, because when they were ready to do the interview, I was downstairs imbibing some much needed coffee, and skipping the brioche like the good little girl who wants to be slightly smaller that I am. So they settled, apparently, for continuing to wander around, filming at random and making people slightly nervous. They filmed me too, just walking around and schmoozing. I have no doubt that I ended up on the cutting room floor, however, which is fine with me. I'll probably never know.

After the meeting, we went for lunch at the Italian equivalent of Bennigans. It was OK, although the service was hardly up to Bennigan standards. They did manage to put extra sauce on my pizza as requested, so bonus points there.

It was a beautiful day, so after lunch Angie, Belle and I took a nice stroll back to the center. I left them to go to Laura Ashley (which is way to flowery and frilly for my tastes anyway), and I came back home to make hotel reservations for this weekend.

Elvis and I are hitting the beach. Swimsuit season is now, my friends, and it's too late to try and get ready. Time for the tummy to see the sun, I'm afraid.

I'll probably follow my standard procedure: pack a one-piece to cover my burgeoning middle, fully intending to wear same, plus a bikini "just in case". I'll wear the one piece, then change into the bikini when I realize that if all those fat Italians and Germans who really, really shouldn't be exposing that much flesh can do it, so can I, expecially since one-pieces are hot and keep riding up because I can never find one to fit my long torso properly.

I call it Relative Weight Loss, and it's my very favorite diet.

So, I called the same hotel that I took Elvis to last year for his birthday. The beach looked nice, although we really have no idea if that's true because it rained the entire time we were there. The lady I talked to claimed to remember us, although I'm not sure I believe her. Elvis thinks it may have something to do with our somewhat... unconventional... balcony activities, although I'm pretty sure no one saw those. Although there was that one woman...

Best not to think too hard on that subject.

Anyway, they had a room, the reservation is made, I zipped across the street to purchase the train tickets: we're all set.

What I should have done after that was update here, catch up on my email and internet reading, and call Yvette and reserve a place in her yoga class last night since I couldn't make my usual morning class because of the BV meeting.

What I actually did was go meet Angie and Belle at Caffeé Guido, and drink ginormous glasses of unbelievably cheap prosecco. Prosecco in such quantities that my body could not possibly handle accompanied by a handful of pistachios and a couple pickled onions. Then Elvis showed up, then Bruce, and we all sat there drinking and watching the floor-show that is an Italian passegiata.

In short, I got Guido-ed.

Still, I didn't do anything too terribly embarassing, unless you count starting to fall asleep. Right at the table.

Oops.

The vomiting came later, in the privacy of our own home with Elvis to take care of me. I am so lucky to have him, you know.

I think I've sworn, more than once in the past, to keep away from Guido's gigantic glasses of cheap prosecco. And that was without the puking, too.

I really ought to listen to myself more often.

Today, against all expectations and notions of what is right and just, I feel fine.

Which is good, because tonight is the PWA's summer party. It's being held in a roof-top restaurant with a garden, so I hope it doesn't rain.

I plan to be more than frugal with my alcohol intake.

Let's see what actually happens.