If you were lucky enough to have an Italian upbringing, chances are you grew up with three traditions that would inevitably become part of your life.

On any given Sunday, you ate pasta. Unless Christmas Day landed on a Sunday, then you would have pasta al forno. Some form of a complex baked pasta dish to compliment the turkey, ham, roast and leftover seafood from the night before.

Yes, we all judge you when you say you’re having “a” turkey. True story.

For every weekend in December, you would assist with Christmas cookie production. When the Matriarch announced they were making cookies, it means you too would be baking them.

I mean making them.

You were too young to be near the stove, so your role was to roll little dough balls for hours on end, trading in third degree burns for early arthritis.

As if on command, a wave of pain just shot through my dainty texting hands.

I digress.

Last but not least, for one glorious week in February, you would be forced to watch San Remo.

Long before Woodstock, Coachella and Lilith Fair, San Remo was the marquee music fest that celebrates the best in Italian music.

It spans five days but feels like a century.

When the Patriarch of the family announces he will be watching San Remo, it means you too will be watching San Remo.

In some capacity.

Even if your house has triple the amount of televisions as people, you can hear it and the subsequent updates.

Because the volume is tripled.

Because he will provide updates.

Because you can hear him swearing.

Hey, I know in spite of my blog’s popularity, I don’t live in a mansion, it’s a bungalow.

This year, rather than calling the cable company to shut off our RAI Italia channel for the week as in years past (just kidding!) a combination of near hypothermia from the walk home, nostalgia and wine had me watching San Remo with my father.

Voluntarily.

In the same room.

Together.

So I decided to take some pics of this historical moment.

“MUSIC ISN’T WHAT IT USED TO BE!!”

I yell at the tv or my father.

I’m not quite sure.

The point was to get him started on a soliloquy and it worked.

What a year to watch! San Remo is in its 69th year! 69!

I chuckle at the screen. Is the logo pervy, or is it just me? Hmm.

Coulda been worse.

For the better part of my life, because I watched so much Italian television as a child; plus I was impressionable, this is exactly what I thought the entire country of Italy looked like:

Not so much a country per se, but more so one civilized audience, permanently wanting to be entertained.

Imagine my disgust when I visited Italy for the first time in 1999 and realized it was an actual country with government, transportation and infrastructure.

I was 19.

Moving along…

This is what I think I look like when I sing:

Pensive. Meaningful. Dreamy.

I contemplate wearing this to work:

Maybe people will take me seriously. Hmm.

The thought occurred to me this lady’s song was so good, the felt-like little white people from middle earth began the ascent to see where exactly the golden voice was coming from:

Or maybe she was so bad, her small intestine was fleeing from her body.

Seriously, what ARE those?!! Are they moving, or am I?!!

In case you’re like me and always fantasized about a duet between Ryan Gosling and Woody Allen, look no further:

I make a mental note to get myself an orange microphone.

A quick look at amazon makes me realize I can get one in 2 days. I don’t even have to put on pants for that!!

This year’s San Remo was cohosted by the real life Mr. Clean:

Once you’ve hit the big time; you get announced by your Nintendo Mii:

I think they did a really good job!

This is exactly how I think people react when they attend my workshops:

Educated. Amused. Entertained.

The Italians may not have invented the wasting of time, but I think they’ve perfected it. After 20+ hours of live music festival programming, and announcing the final 3 acts, it’s time for a shuffle:

Several minutes later, the 3 final acts on the right spend a couple of extra minutes watching the co-hosts trying to figure out how to announce the winner:

Yes, this conversation literally happened:

Cohost #1 “You announce third place, I will announce second and you will announce the winner”

Cohost #2 “Ok”

Cohost #3 “We don’t announce the runner up, only the winner!”

This squabble went on for a long time.

Second place always gets no love in these kinds of shows. Like the runner up to Miss America gets rushed off the stage and no glory.

Unless Steve Harvey is hosting.

And the winner is…

…..

…..

…..

RAI Italia production stole the show! Our feed did this seconds before the announcement.

Talk about suspense!

The real winner is…..

…..

…..

…..

This guy!!

Which one?!!

The guy on the left who looks thrilled, or the guy on the right who looks like he lost?!!

I’m left in a state of mystery. At least this explains the little white things that woman was previously sporting.

It’s actually this guy!!

I love the fluidity of Italian television. It’s so liberal. If you feel like slapping the winner of live TV, you can! If this happened in Canada it would come with a lawsuit, social media trolling outcry, plus years of mediation.

Perhaps my favourite part of this whole festival was the co-hosts rewarding themselves:

For days, this triumvirate amused by singing off-key, messing up announcements and then bitch slapping the winner.

Well played, San Remo.

Well played.

Until next year!

👏👏👏