Clarissa Tan’s Notebook: Why I stopped drinking petrol

Florence was in fog the day I arrived. Its buildings were bathed in white cloud, its people moved as though through steam. The Arno river was a dense strip of dew. At the Piazzale Michelangelo, the statue of David was etched by the surrounding murkiness to a stark silhouette, the renaissance defined by gothic cloud. I peered through a telescope that overlooked the city and saw nothing for miles. My friend Alessandro told me this was unusual for sunny Tuscany, which made me feel quite pleased. Perhaps with each day that passed I would see less of Florence — the ultimate tourist experience. At a nearby cemetery, the milky arms of stone angels reached out through the brume, while creaking old Fiats disappeared into the ether. ‘I know it looks like England,’ Alessandro said, apologetically.

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The Tuesday before I had spent in a car trundling across the Italian countryside with a healer. I had been ill the past year, and my friend Mae, an American working in Siena, had located an ‘energy healer’ called Raffaello who said he could rebalance the energy centres of my body, or something to that effect. Because we were also short of time and had to travel from one Tuscan destination to another, Raffaello was willing to treat me in the car. He clambered in carrying several kilos of wholegrain flour — a gift for me, so I could make wholegrain bread, as bread from refined flour was unhealthy. It turned out the journey was a long one, but when he finally got out of the car, Raffaello would accept no payment. ‘You are the one healing yourself,’ he said. I also met a man in Perugia who dealt in homeopathic-type treatments, and who prescribed me many remedies. I could make out some of them, even though I don’t speak Italian — melatonina, magnesio, lipoic acid.