I have a distinct personal dislike for the #HouseofSaud. Some of its gaudy ornamental princes go around the world murdering (hunting) rare creatures because they write checks to govts. See photo below taken in #Pakistan.
I knew one House of Saud boy-man in my life – a tall ‘ish classy fellow student at UC Berkeley. His formalized gentleman manners were only out festooned by his 19th century chauvinism and adoration for Italian sports cars and one honey blonde beauty. I think he asked my Italian American roommate out more than I knew it was possible for a young man (let alone grad student) to stay interested.
Rose bouquets of rare colors would too regularly arrive at our front door befitting for a mafioso’s funeral or Sicilian national wedding. Yet, my favorite where baskets of desert dates and dried fruits so grand in size and volume we were forced to organize what we called – Fruity Tuttie Parties. At these events, we gave away judicious amounts of dates and dried apricots as party favors while raising money for our save a pet or political charity of the moment. Naturally, the unrequited prince would arrive with his bodyguard who on his own filled the foyer of our little rented cottage. For these festivities the Prince would have delivered platters from an Italian deli (San Francisco’s North Beach #Molinaridi’s) that we preferred along with kegs of imported beer and cases of decent Napa wine. His one-man crew brought bags of cash.
When I moved onto graduate school and my roomie took her first position as an industrial designer in San Francisco the prince went home. For awhile we feared he would kidnap her, yet as time marched into the future I suppose his Berkeley-based obsession was replaced by another. It was decades later when I was betting on horses did I discover who he was – #HRH Prince Fahd Salma. He died in 2001 from a heart attack and is best remembered for owning one of Brit’s greatest thoroughbreds named, #Generous. When one considers gifts the Prince bestowed on my roommate, the name of his racehorse is exceptionally appropriate.
What happened to my roommate? After designing hotsy Milano looking furniture she married a nice Italian American guy who we all thought was mobbed-up. But, Catholic Lou (my handle for him) turned out was a member of a heritage family – the bakers of famous San Francisco sourdough French bread. Then again, they could be cosa nostra, like the pizza store front operations of New York City, eh?