A Sexy, Sexy Shop

After a slow start – an automatic handbrake? What fresh hell is THIS? – we take the slow road from Pisa to Modena, and it’s beautiful.

We stop for lunch in Lucca, a walled, medieval city so ludicrously pretty and so thoroughly Year In Provence-ified, that it feels, from the posh delis through to the antique stalls, more like Disney Goes to Tuscany than anywhere Italians actually live. (Speaking as someone who adores Venice, that’s, frankly, pretty Disneyfied.)

And on we trundle.

The SS12 winds past gorges, one crossed by a natural stone bridge, through pretty stone hamlets, and up, up into the Dolomites, cypresses giving way to the flowers of late summer, and flowers fading into dark pine trees, alpine chalets and chairlifts.

I’m wishing, now, that rather than book a night’s accommodation in Modena, I’d chosen to roadtrip this slowly, and stop at any one of a number of gorgeous little pensiones on the way.

But I didn’t. And so, by the time we wind into Modena, it’s 9pm, I’m frazzled and scratchy, and we’re both desperate to eat and get out of the car.

The only sign is a flashing light in a sex shop – or, rather, since we are in Italy, a “SEXY SEXY SHOP” – across the way.

It takes us a while to find our hotel, not least because our satnav keeps insisting we’re right in front of it, when we’re clearly not. We’re on a grim, busy road in the outskirts of Modena, with the only sign a flashing light in a sex shop – or, rather, since we are in Italy, a “SEXY SEXY SHOP” – across the way.

Round we go. And round we go again.

And round we go again, for our third pop at the same complex-when-you’re-tired-intersection, until I nearly jump a red, and figure it’s time to park or hit something.

We park up opposite the sexy sexy shop which is, mercifully, closed – from the billboards advertising said destinations, they appear to be places one stops in at en route from work, rather than late at night – and I ring the girl from the hotel back to double-check the address.

She speaks no English, so I pull my Italish out of the hat, and, after some confusion, not least because I begin my Italish by inadvertently speaking Chinglish, we establish that the number’s correct, and she’s on her way to let us in.

At least, I think that’s what she said.

“What does BDSM mean, exactly?” asks Zac meditatively, perusing the sign on the “sexy shop” door. “It stands for Bondage, Domination and Sado-Masochism, I think,” I say.

I stare, darkly, at the wrought-iron gate that guards a marble hallway full of potted palms, and the hooker patrolling across the road. She is blessed with the stellar, gazelle-like legs that seem to be god’s gift to women who were born as men.

“What does BDSM mean, exactly?” asks Zac meditatively, perusing the sign on the “sexy shop” door.

“It stands for Bondage, Domination and Sado-Masochism, I think,” I say, preparing an erudite disquisition on Venus in Furs and 120 Days of Sodom. Who said travel didn’t broaden the mind?

“Oh,” my Google-generation spawn says calmly. “I thought that’s what it meant.”

At least, I think hopefully, at least it’s shut, eh. And there’s a pizzeria across the way that doesn’t look too bad. And – well, at least we’re out of the sodding car.

And, well, you can’t really expect to roadtrip Italy in high season, alternating between the cheapest places to stay in Italy and whatever you can find with an ensuite for under 50 euros on Agoda or LateRooms and come up trumps every time, can you?

Italian-style Lambrusco is a sour, fizzy red wine that, while infinitely preferable to the sugary stuff sold under that name in the UK, is still, IMO, best reserved for balsamic vinegar.

A tired-looking brown estate car pulls up by the Sexy Shop, and our saviour emerges.

In we go, and up the stairs. And…. It’s lovely. Some genius has converted the apartment opposite his own into a little pensione for travellers and called it La Casa del Viandante.

There’s a kitchen, with washing machine; an espresso machine fully stocked with good coffee; and our room is enormous, with exposed brick peeking through artfully sanded plaster, timber beams, handpainted fleamarket knickknacks and a very slick en suite.

He’s even, god bless him, posted a list of recommended restaurants on the door.

And, no doubt because of the location, we have the place entirely to ourselves.

We pay up, dump our stuff, ignore his recommendations on the grounds that we can’t see them in the dark, and toddle across to the pizzeria for pizza Margherita and spaghetti vongole, washed down with Italian-style Lambrusco, a sour fizzy red wine that, while infinitely preferable to the sugary stuff sold under that name in the UK is, IMO, best reserved for balsamic vinegar.

As always in Italy, food makes everything better.

Lead image: Sicily 2008 148 Palermo Sex Shop by David Holt.