I’m great at Italian. Every morning I come down from my room and offer my best buongiorno to the old man who runs the hotel. Should his dog have returned from her mornings wanderings of the streets of Pisa I offer the same to her too. The hotelier’s face lights up and he strikes a dramatic pose, feet slightly apart, before returning a buongiorno which puts mine to shame both in terms of enthusiasm and hand gestures. I’m not quite sure if he’s being serious or mocking me.
Then I stroll towards the maths building and call in at my favourite baker, who now recognises me, buy a chocolate croissant and sit down in the piazza for my breakfast in the sunshine. Life is beautiful here.