Fruit Bats European Tour Diary Pt.3 Padova
By: Eric D. Johnson
Padova (Padua)
Northern Italy sits inside an absolutely oppressive bowl of fog around this time of year, it seems. I live in the American Northwest (which, for you folks from the UK and Ireland, has a gloomy gray climate very similar to your own). Nonetheless, I was starting to feel that low pressure system giving roundhouse kicks to my soul as we rolled out of Bologna. One thing kept the doldrums at bay though - the food at Italian gas stations. Unbelievable. This is the type of simplified observation that annoying American college kids bray on about upon their return from their drunken summers abroad, right before they go to business school to become insipid businessmen. Or something. Nonetheless, they’re TOTALLY RIGHT on this one. The food at Italian gas stations utterly rules. Artisinal meats and cheeses on homemade bread is my uber-meal. Then backstage at the club - fresh raw milk mozzarella and ricotta and crusty rolls, local wine. Blowing my mind. Then they took us out to dinner and the bottom fell out of food heaven. A bunch of people ordered the fish and were given the saddest little head-with eyeballs-and-tail-on fish corpses staring back up from their plates with little dead looks of horror. I fully admit that I’m a hypocritical carnivore when I say I never want to look my prey in the eye before devouring it. I usually like eating weird stuff from the sea - I’ve been to Japan, y’know - but I’m pretty sure this was from a koi pond. Gnarly. Notes on the gig: Vetiver’s been killing it every night. Had to get out and dance on some numbers on this one. We did all right. Still no sleep yet. I’m tacking on an hour or so a night. Bummer. Tired as all hell. But well fed.
Artists in this article: Fruit Bats