The Italian Job...

There aren't too many countries in the world where you can be ferried away to eat raviolli with a quartet of men named Rolando, Sergio, Fabio, and Flavio. You'd be forgiven for thinking we were dining with the front four for Inter Milan; but these men were in fact head honchos in Switzerland's Tourism and Hotel Industry. Once again the complexities of Switzerland were at work... here we were inside Swiss borders but you couldn't get more quintessentially Italian: Mini Coopers zipping past vegetable stalls, olive -skinned men throwing buckets of waste on cobbled roads, 600-year-old architecture, Hitler even surrendered a million Italian troops in Ascona.

But to get to the Swiss-Italian border Phil, Mal and I had to make the journey over the famed Nufenen Pass. It's Switzerland's highest pass open to motor vehicles and I was promised snow. Instead it was a nauseating crawl up the mountain in the slowest Voyager to come off Ford's production line. At one stage I spotted Lance Armstrong overtake us on his victory lap. I may not have got summer snow but I did get a rather snazzy photo of which I'm quite proud.

Ascona wasn't all about being wined and dined in a haunted hotel on a botanical island... we also got to eat Italian pizza with equally stunning scenery. No Cheesey Stuffed Crust Hawaiian on the menu here so I went with the Quatro Stagioni. Set along Lake Maggiore, Ascona is a popular summer tourist town; there are countless restaurants, bars, and cafes along the lake front (think Auckland's Viaduct but five times bigger and without the Epsom-girls-who-should-know-better). Each night eating becomes a spectator sport as everyone turns their chairs around to face the Lake for an instesive session of people-watching. Bettering the voyeriusm is the half dozen street performers who entertain you while you pick the olives off your pizza. From mimics to a family of circus acrobats, this was quality busking. Proving a good case for irony was a slightly retarded man who juggled a beach ball from side to side with his crutches. Kinda cruel, I know, but set against this back-drop of world class street performers and wealthy Italians it was like a scene out of There's Something About Mary.

Despite befriending the Sopranos of the hotel world our accommodation was a little out of Ascona which wasn't too bad as our hotel was set in the shadows of a bombed bridge with an amazing river that run underneath it. This wasn't you typical hotel swimming pool (especially considering it was a nudist bathing area) but seeing as this was the hottest day of the year I certainly wasn't going to resist a refreshing dip in this readymade watering hole. But if there's one thing I learnt from my trip to Switzerland is that no matter how hot the day if you're gonna chuck yourself head-first into a Swiss river remember that the water has run straight off the Alps and is essentially melted snow. One head-freeze later and I had sufficiently cooled off.

Now, throughout my journey I become more conscious that people were looking at me funny... this isn't all that uncommon for me but these looks lingered slightly longer than I've become accustomed to. It was then brought to my attention that I had a strong resmemblance to Switzerland's most famous musician. This thrilled me no end and I just couldn't wait to check out his website and marvel in the similarity. The superstar in question calls himself DJ Bobo which didn't fill me with confidence and if you'd kindly head to www.djbobo.ch you'll realise my shock (click here for an instant photo). With an act called "Pirates Of The Dance" he's not so much a rock star but more of a cross between Meatloaf and Ireland's toe-tapper Michael Flately. No wonder people were looking at me funny... I'm surprised I got past customs at Geneva Airport.

Anyway, cast your votes on if you think I look remotely like DJ Bobo and log on next time to find out if I could fool the people of Zurich with my pirate dance.