My life like Monty Python's

 When we moved into our apartment over six months ago, I had visions of grilling out back in our own little garden. We decided a few weeks ago to host a barbeque with a whole slew of Italians and show them what an American BBQ looked (and smelled) like.

We went to the macelleria on Saturday and bought over 2 kilos of ground beef and over a dozen hot dogs. That was the easy part. The hard part was finding charcoal for the grill.

Months ago my Italian teacher told me that Italians don't like to barbeque because it take too much work. This struck me as so odd: How much easier can it get than hamburgers and hotdogs? but after the rigamarole of trying to find charcoal, I began to understand where she was coming from.

We checked a few places nearby before asking around and making a trek (on bike) out to a supermercato in Zone Lame. We asked two store attendants if they had carbone, one said no, the other said yes, in the back. Not finding it "in the back," we decided to try the next supermercato that our neighbor's nephew told us about.

We pedaled and pedaled, not really knowing how to get there, but remembering a few street names. After we went under the freeway overpass, it felt much too much like the IKEA experience we had right after arriving in Bologna (I just searched my archives, have I really not blogged about this? Story to come. . .) where we rode over 10km, got lost, nearly got our bikes impounded, and nearly all of us ended up in tears . . .

We decided to turn back, charcoal-less, but determined to check a few more places in centro. After getting home, we spent some time cleaning the grill and readying the yard. We talked about other places we might find charcoal, a ferramenta, perhaps? when Mike spotted a big bag of charcoal in our neighbor's garden.

It was one of those moments where our life were a TV show like Monty Python and the Holy Grail, the bag would have started glowing and heavenly voices would have started "Ahh-ing."

After buzzing next door, Mike returned with a very full (and very neglected, cob-webby) bag of charcoal.

Funny how so many wild goose hunts seem to end in your own back yard (or your neighbor's).

That giraffe was supposed to be for Easter. I should never buy gifts early.  I'm too weak.