She loves him all right but just isn ta racing
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Join him.
That's how I came to take my ultimate spousal endurance test: a three-day weekend at the Italian Grand Prix in Monza, otherwise known as the temple of speed. In a tent.
Donato has a passion for Formula 1, or more particularly Ferrari. In the last 25 years, he claims to have missed only a handful of Grand Prix races.
During race season, which seems to last most of the year, a small portable television is a regular companion, joining us at the table in restaurants, and even once at a wedding.
I inquire naively.
As I quickly discovered, the campsite was full of F1 nuts who take camping very seriously.
Many had arrived several days before the race, planting a flag to mark their territory before competing over who could build the biggest, most elaborate pleasure dome.
The field butts right onto the race track, and the earliest arrivals had constructed multi-tiered viewing platforms, complete with deck chairs, sun parasols and televisions. Downstairs, professional music systems and in at least two cases home cinemas provided evening entertainment. Cold beer was on tap 24/7.
I wasn't prepared for the testosterone-fuelled antics that overtook our camp once the cars became silent.
On our first night, we were woken by some Swiss lads setting off smoke flares and fire crackers to show who was King of the Campsite. Then we were roused by a drunk English man trying to get into our tent after getting lost on his way back from the toilet.
I'd gotten used to the noise and the oddly sweet smell of the expensive fuel. Camping within meters of the track, the roar was inescapable, but that didn't deter me catching up on some beauty sleep after being kept up all night by the F1 revelers.
For the qualifying race on Day Two, I tried harder to get into the mood. My good will evaporated when a territorial beer-swilling, big-bellied German shooed us off his viewing platform.
We watched the rest of the race squeezed between two camper vans.
Afterwards, we fled the campsite for respite and a slap-up dinner.
The atmosphere was charged at the track with cheers for Ferrari star drivers Kimi Raikkonen and Felipe Massa, and boos and Italian profanities for the silver of rival team McLaren.
Finally, I began to feel the excitement. By the time the red flag came down, my adrenalin was pumping. I felt a shiver of pleasure when I saw the red of Ferrari streak past. And as indignant as those around me when the silver car driven by McLaren driver Lewis Hamilton took the lead.
Then Scottish driver David Coulthard of the Red Bull team smashed up his car and there followed several boring laps when everyone was forced to drive slowly behind the safety car as the track was cleared.
Donato admits. So he spent much of the match on his cell phone asking friends who were watching at home what was happening.
Eventually the noise and the heat and the confusion took over, and I began dreaming of the Italian ice cream I hoped to enjoy after the race. I felt nothing by the time Fernando Alonso was pronounced the winner for McLaren, except a slight concern that our last night on the campsite might not be so much fun.
Realizing my passion had failed to ignite, I sought advice from Alice Villa, 66, who has been running the Monza campsite for almost 50 years. The avid Formula 1 fan looks at me quizzically.
Related: She loves him all right but just isn ta racing
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