Now It Looks Like

 Yesterday, an interesting piece arrived in my inbox, incorporated into a daily drop called "Nice News".  The email author cited an essay written by author Amy Wheatherly that has now, via Facebook, gone viral.  In it, the mom-blogger humorously speaks to the thirty and forty-somethings about friendships and how they "change"over the years. For those of us who have been lucky enough, we certainly can relate. 

My immediate response was to forward a copy of the email to my friend Janet. She and I have shared a close friendship that has spanned almost seventy years. Along with Kel and Lori, we have been through every phase of our lives together, starting from grammar school in a New York suburb. So, of course, I had to run this by Janet and of course, I got a response that was priceless. We agreed that the dialogue has changed, that we have our own version of what we say to each other "nowadays" versus what we exchanged "then".  And, our communication system, maybe thanks in part to the wisdom of our children and grandchildren, has evolved into text messaging, replacing the old Princess phone on the Formica kitchen counter. I laugh when I think of how we whiled away the hours, and yet, we still managed to get a lot done as teenagers and then, as busy mothers. So much of our chit chat revolved around the need for more sleep, more money, more free time and more hours in the day. 

In the Amy Wheatherby essay, she features bytes of young women in exchanges that now typify their lives and how they differ from the chats of women a decade younger. How we navigate through friendships, changing over time. It's a fun little read but it does stop at age forty......Fortunately, friendships, at least some of mine, have not stopped at age forty. Nor, fifty. Nor sixty. Not even seventy. So, there's a whole new list of what we can and do say to each other, of words that have replaced those of young, energetic and yet-to-be real life- challenged women. Borrowing Amy Wheatherly's style if I may, here's what our friendships look more like now..........

Now it looks like waiting for messages letting us know that the tests are done and all is well for another year

Now it looks like "what do you do for the sore, creaky hands you wake up with?"

Now it looks like "is anyone still eating peppers?"

Now it looks like making plans to meet and plans ending like this: "I may have to cancel because I have a stomach bug" met with "I was going to call you and cancel because I have a tooth infection" coupled with "And Kel can't make it because she's exhausted from coughing"

Now it looks like "Was that really fifty years ago?"

Now it looks like "oh boy, if I day drink, I'll be out for hours"

Now it looks like "that waiter is very nice looking for a man of his age."

Now it looks like the day out being half a day

Now it looks like "I never hear from my children, forget about the grandchildren"

Now it looks like "days go by without......"

Now it looks like Words With Friends, Wordle and the Obits 

Now it looks like "could-nots and should-nots and will-nots"

Now it looks like "see-you-next-time...God-willing" 

Now it looks like "only if you have decaf "

Now it looks like "I don't drive at night"

Now it looks like "I've been taking it for twenty years and it hasn't caused dementia...yet"

Now it looks like "this may be the last time"

Now it looks like lipstick has been replaced by chapstick and concealer has become an out-of-pocket-expense

Now it looks like "did you ask for the Senior Discount"

Now it looks like travel insurance and aisle seats close to bathrooms just in case

Now it looks like "I had you on my mind all day today and forgot to text you"

Now it looks like "Seventy five? Noooooooooooo!!! It can't be"

Now it looks like "If not now, then when?"

In the Library

Last Thursday night, during my volunteer duty at the Dennis Memorial Library,  the very heart of the village in which I live, something extraordinary happened. Well, something memorable on one level or another happens there regularly, but this, to me, was extraordinary and an event that I shall never forget. 

A set of young women have been showing up on a regular basis each Thursday evening. They pass by our front desk, smile and exchange pleasantries with us before retreating to a quiet room where they sit together at a table. At first, it was assumed that they were studying together, perhaps working on a mutual assignment or maybe one was tutoring the other. The possibilities also included an English as a Second Language meetup.  But, as the weeks progressed, my library duties allowed me to pass by that room and observe the two women who clearly were just having a good time, enjoying each others company, softly chatting and laughing. A tea party, minus the tea. I never asked, nor did my fellow volunteers. Our library welcomes such meetings. It's not always about the books. DML is so much more in our community.

So, on Thursday, one of the  two women came in alone. She stopped briefly at the desk on her way back to the quiet room, and said that her friend could not make it this evening. She remained until about twenty minutes before closing time when she emerged and came up to our desk with a question. "Is it possible to become a member?" A huge smile crossed her face and her big brown eyes lit up when I told her that yes, she certainly could join our library. I  nearly burst from joy as I invited her with, "Would you like a card right now? Fill out this form and you will have your own in a few minutes" Her questions, to those of us who were born clutching our own library cards as we emerged from the womb,  might have seemed  naive. But to her, each answer brought remarkable pleasure as her eyes grew brighter and brighter. While preparing her spanking new library card, she asked if this would allow her to take any book home, And then, she selected a book and used her own card for the very first time. Out came the little slip of paper which tells patrons when their book is due back and again, a moment of joy. "I can really keep it for a MONTH????" 

I'm not sure why these women meet at the library. There are a host of possibilities. Maybe they live in homes where the noise levels are bothersome. Maybe they are escaping a reality and finding comfort and safety from being surrounded by books and people who share their love of the written word. Libraries have become so much more than they were during my childhood when the expectation was the keeping of a silence from entrance to exit, the presentation of a card and the promise to return the borrowed book within the two week allowed time. Infractions were not tolerated and "overdue" books were met with fines upon return. Failure to pay the fine resulted in the loss of future dealings until paid in full. If nothing else, the system taught us respect for books and  a good dose of responsibility, nevermind respect for those who were using the library for research. With the advent of the internet, fewer and fewer people are willing to give up an evening of mindless network t.v. for an evening at their local. Need information, you get instant information. So, the modern library is so much more than a hushed environment that caters to the serious, the quiet, the introvert. As in the case of the two friends who visit on Thursday nights, the library is also the place of social discourse, a safe haven, a book-lined hangout. 

I probably will take some time this week, if we are again visited on Thursday evening, to get more acquainted with the new card holder. My curiosity is raised. It's my turn to get some information. It's also an opportunity for me to gloat, to be proud and happy for having been the one who started what I hope will be a lifelong love story. You see, I totally get it. I'm still in awe, and have been since my childhood, of the very fact that such places exist, that throughout time, they have endured and remained on the scene in thousands of communities. I still get a thrill each time I cross a library threshold and I am still in love with the idea that yes, I can take a book, or maybe an armful at a time of books, home. And, yes, I can keep them for a month, or maybe more if I need to. Any yes, all of this is free, available and open to me and to you and to every and any one who wants to read, learn, watch. listen or just hang out.  

Scrapbook

 I unearthed what might be the most significant piece of what will one day be my "history", my childhood scrapbooks. We are finishing up a project at home, making what was once a standard basement, into what is now our "first floor". In the rear, we have carved out a storage area and I personally have been ruthless in clearing it out and saving only those things that absolutely must be.  I think I have finally finished gathering and stacking piles of useless items for dump runs and can remove the number of the lovely women who have done them for us off of my speed dial list. 

Remember that line in the movie "The Graduate" when William Daniels advises newly graduated Dustin Hoffman to remember the word "Plastics"?  I think of that just about every day and now, more than ever.  Plastic boxes with tight-fitting lids became the survival route for those things which, over my adult life, I had deemed worthy of at least attempting to preserve. So, wrapped in a large plastic sleeve, I found my two scrapbooks and carefully I turned ancient pages for a trip down the proverbial Memory Lane. 

Fear not, boring details will not follow.  In fact, I bored myself with some of them. I had a few silent laughs at my adolescent need to save straw wrappers and things I had most likely found on a random street and wondered what I had forgotten, what had been so meaningful to me at the time. By gluing it down, I had committed such items to a lifetime of meaning, relegated them a hierarchy, a place in history. But, for most of those pieces of ephemera, the meaning had been short lived. Why that straw wrapper, that little cocktail napkin, that toothpick or that unidentified half of a movie ticket made it into my book, I know not. I have to trust my self-of-long-ago and attach  some value to these little pieces of what was and is, my story. 

By the time one reaches the teenage years, it can be assumed that the formative years have completed, with the result being that at age thirteen, the sandwich years have stared and the bridge between childhood and adulthood is in the works. My book seems to have captured a big piece of that action. From what I can tell, it started in the hands of a starry-eyed romantic of a newly-chiseled teenage girl who thought life was going to be an adventure. It follows me as I weave through high school, attend concerts, take vacations, fall in love, feel the warmth of my young friends and my family. I also find so many "certificates", achievement awards from standardized testing. Those became my nemeses. Always the source of angst between myself, my parents, and the nuns who demanded more and more of me than I was willing to put across. After all, the tests revealed a high intellect but, my report cards (also glued down on these pages), told a different story. My story.

 Had I been born years later, perhaps my achievements would have been far more reaching. High school curriculums are enriched now, allowing room for creativity and choices.  Do they still have "Standardized Achievement Tests"? I wonder. I do know that the term "Attention Deficit" was unheard of back in the scrapbook days and I wonder about that too.  I really was born too early.  Instead of the tug between those things that I could have done better, my school reports might have revealed a me that was doing the best I possibly could, that I was achieving exactly what I had set out to and that the adventure that I had imagined was only beginning and would never end. I would have been allowed to travel down the path of creativity that I so clearly sought, with guidance and support along the way. 

So, I tucked my books back into their sleeves. I returned them to their place in the big plastic box on a shelf, back in the storage area, where they will reside for the rest of my life and where one day, perhaps my children and their families will find them and maybe even take a few moments to turn the old pages before dumping them into a dumpster. My life will go to a landfill, my story finding its way to incineration and sadly, the straw wrappers, the theater tickets, the silly notes and the vintage birthday cards will vanish from the earth as if they never even existed. 

Where Have All the Workers Gone?

 A few weeks ago, I had the idea that I might like to find a little part-time job. After all, there are maybe a million signs within a one mile radius, inches from my home, that clearly state that the owners need help. Most of the signs have been displayed for a very long time and, in fact, have become memos that remind locals to stay away unless one is willing to wait for service or receive less than expected. The lack of help being an indication that things are not going well in any given place of business. We get it.

I left my name at a coffee shop. One that has a name I would have changed or would never have used in the first place but that's not relevant to my story. It's a beautifully appointed shop, interior straight out of Pinterest. The owner is youthful, her eye is good and she produces not only a great cup of coffee but other yummy things to eat. Cupcakes and pastries nestle in amongst take away entrees, surrounded by a case of gelato. All the makings for a highly successful venture right here in the middle of our town. 

So, I got a phone call from the owner. Come on in at 7:30 on Monday and meet the manager. No discussion. Not a word about my qualifications or integrity or even a question or two that might vet me. Maybe that would come later? Surely there would be an interview, some way to authenticate my potential as an honest and hard working new employee? 

Monday came and I showed up at 7:30 and yes, the manager was there, smiles and cordiality, she was expecting me. Maybe she was going to do the anticipated interview? Sadly, this was not going to be the case. She got right down to the nitty-gritty as I observed her going through the steps necessary to open the shop for the day, almost single-handedly. She introduced me to her delightful daughter and told me that she was tasked with making the gelato and soon, she would be hanging up her apron and returning to college, leaving her mom to be butcher, baker and gelato maker as it were. Wow. These people really need help.

I chatted,observed, wrote notes in my head and asked my one very, very important question. "Where's the air conditioner?"

Well, suffice it to say that the shop owner would have been wiser to have met me onsite, rather than to have farmed the courting of a potential new employee to someone who actually works in the shop. Rather hard. Loyally. Honestly. Open and sincere. I hope the owner knows of these virtues and appreciates them. I hope she pays her one and only employee very, very well. She's not going to be easily replaced. And, she's not going to be assisted any time soon. 

My question, the only one between me and that little job, was answered. "There is none" and a lengthy verbal picture of a local "sweat shop" was drawn. She was honest and forthcoming, rare qualities, especially during this crisis in the world of employment. And I, well, I was equally honest when I told her that I would not be working at her side, that I simply could not work there or anywhere in which my health or happiness were not uppermost. 

I'm blessed, I don't require outside employment. I just thought that a few hours a week might be filled with something fun, the end result being some "fun money" that I probably would spend foolishly. But, the sad reality is that there are people, lots of them, who are less fortunate, who really need jobs. And, there are employers who have to meet expenses and feed families. I don't know where all of the workers have gone, but I will venture a guess. 

A paycheck is not the only thing people require. They also require safety, honesty, and general kindness as part of their employment package.  They need to know that their employer is aware of the work environment and that the environment is one in which they can spend the requisite hours each day, and that they will be valued, cared for and trusted. The days of the "Sweat Shop" disappeared by the time most of them were born. The expectations have been raised. It's okay to say that a place is "the best place to work" or an employer is "fair" or "outstanding". It's not hard to grasp this stuff. 

So, maybe the answer to where-have-all-the-workers gone rests in something very simple.The Pandemic woke them up. In the vast pools of lay-offs, something unique happened. Instead of rushing back to work places that were doing them a "favor", they sacrificed a bit longer with the hope of a better work place in which to return. Maybe, just maybe, there's a bar that will be raised, the result of government and employment meshing together for the good of all of us. Who knows, perhaps workplace health and safety will be raised to the level it always should have been, in the new Post-Pandemic era. 

If the installation of an air conditioner would mean improved working conditions and, I might add, improved customer traffic, (ladies who do coffee in the morning are a huge asset to coffee shops!), why doesn't that business owner take a step back and realize the loss and then step forward and make an investment rather than risk having her business fail? Could it be that this small local business represents what is wrong with the employee-job availability gap? 

Were I a business owner..........

Me, Myself and the Rest of Them

 

It is said that if you want to know more about yourself, write. Yes, it is true, writing allows for a lot of self-exploration and is a totally great exercise.  Over the years, I have learned so much about myself, about my reactions to situations, my place in society and my place on the Earth in general, simply by writing it all down, as it were. I have volumes tucked into desks and bookshelves in my home. It excites me to think that one day, after I have exited, my kids will find these and they will learn about all those things that they never took time to ask. Oh, how I wish my mother had done this.

 My learning pursuits don't take me to museums or historical sites (at least not in this country). I don't like to "stroll" through anything or any place and those marble floors are a killer to the back when walking on them at two miles per century. I mean, really, would a few yards of padded carpeting be too unreasonable a request?

I, instead,  like to learn through observation. I watch people. I savor places and look for the nooks, the tiny spaces in the big old walls that have plant growth in places where it should not be.  When I travel, in lieu of joining lines of deer-in-headlights tourists, I veer off and take a tour of the local cemetery, sit at the rickety bus-stop, drop in at thrift shops and local Uno Euro Stores and always, always, frequent the supermarkets. Of course, I've seen "David"... myself and just a hand-full of other tourists that day. Yes, I've spent time in the Sistine Chapel....along with my husband and about ten other people. I haven't missed much as I veered off. But I have danced on Dagliev's grave in a lonely cemetery in Venice and I've spent lots of time alone with Saints Francis and Clare at San Damiano and done solo hikes up to the Ermitage, high up Mount Subasio. I haven't exactly missed out in my learning experiences.

So, what's going to be my point? I'm still in the process of digesting one of the most spectacular visits to my "Motherland" ever. Ever. Fourteen trips to Italy and I can safely say, this was primo.  In too many ways to list. I have to add another highlight. I mean, Calendimaggio in Assisi was hard to beat.....but our two week stay in Puglia blew the roof off of my life. Yes, Puglia is drop-dead gorgeous. And, we made some absolutely wonderful new friends there but oh, there was so much more for me personally. In Puglia, I learned who I truly am. 

This was the second of our Southern Italian adventures. A few years ago, we did the Amalfi Coast and included a trip to Capri and the amazing Blue Grotto, on our itinerary. Our daughter had spent lots of time in the area during high school and had felt so at home in her tiny town of Cava, just south of Amalfi. We lived vicariously at the time, our kids travel experiences came first while we patiently awaited our turn. Being off-season travelers, we were able to actually drive up and down the coast without a problem (don't try it past April!). We loved every minute. smelled every lemon and orange on the trees that lined sidewalks. 

Puglia is on the opposite side of the country, nestled underneath the region of Abruzzo (my grandmother's birthplace), with its majestic mountains, and above Calabria (my grandfather's birthplace) with its rough mountains, gorgeous seashore and mysterious residents. Anyone can tell you that the regions of Italy differ from one another in various ways. Not only are the pastas and other foods different, the geography and the agriculture from one region to the next are oftentimes idiomatic. The language even differs, with accents giving away the secrets of where one was born, raised, now lives. We experience that here, don't we?  And, all too often, it is just that which gives rise to our prejudices. People are people, the world-over. 

So, every day, while at Casa tra i Trulli in Martina Franca, we had the great privilege of observing the daily lives of the residents, the families Fanelli and Parmisano, two generations combined.  We watched Theresa and Pietro from as early as six in the morning, until the sunset each evening, never stopping. Constant motion. Working in the garden, doing laundry, harvesting vegetables, setting up irrigation systems, birthing horses, tending dogs and cats, spending time with friends, and generally keeping busy, busy, busy every single moment of the day.....smiling.... happy.

Suddenly, I realized..... here, in between the birthplaces of my two grandparents, that I am a true Southerner. That I have traits that are so similar to the very people, strangers at first but not for long, who I studied. No, I am not crazy or "hyperactive".  Yes, I prefer to air-dry my laundry, to use the sun instead of a dryer. I'm not cheap. I know it takes a few extra steps. Yes, I like to cook with fresh ingredients. Sure, frozen vegetables are easier. And, had I a bit more patience and a lot more dirt to work with, I would have dirty fingernails most of the time. And gee, why ask for help lifting and toting when I can do it myself? And fashion, who really cares about it? I like black and wear it often. And, I love early morning and sunsets from my kitchen window send me to the moon. And when I finally do sit down, I love nothing better than a good cup of coffee with a good friend. 

I discovered that I am wired in much the same way as every other Southern Italian. That's who I am. I came to Puglia and found the Owner's Manual. It's all very easy to understand now.

 Basta cosi!

Return Thoughts

As I sit here this morning, wondering what to write and knowing that I have to write because it ultimately gives me such great pleasure, I sift through an assortment of recent memories and allow my thoughts to wander. I try to express my feelings about how, for three very recent weeks, I was in a different world and not one so defined due to geography. 

It's hard returning. Always has been. Especially difficult this time. It's literally as if I have been on another planet or two and have been dropped off on this one with a thud. As I emerge from my cocoon, my cozy condo, and have conversations with friends and neighbors, I answer the common query....."was it sad leaving Italy?".  My answer so far, has been "well, yes, it always is but it was nice knowing that we would be returning to friends and to familiarity". Having left at the very tip of Spring, we were literally jet-propelled into full engagement with Spring on steroids. Actually, we were met by the tip of Summer as we settled into Umbria and then, with more intensity, as we lived our Italian days in Puglia. And then, our return to our home and the advancement of Spring here, flowers and plants bursting from their former dormancy just at our doorstep. How did that happen? 

I honestly thought that the familiar would have a ring to it. But it did not. Everything, but everything, is changing, rapidly, everywhere in the world. The notion of familiarity and comfort from it, is gone, replaced by the sense of having to catch up, re-invent and reset moment by moment. Acute culture shock in one's own culture. Know what I mean? You do if you have been alive for the past almost-three years.

But, my thoughts do take me back a few weeks and the recollection of those days is still bright. I try to understand the difference. Why was every day there, in a "foreign" county, so much more "familiar" to me than here? What was the key ingredient to the sweetness and the feeling of harmony with the world? 

I think I know. The Italians have once again, as they have for centuries, moved on. They are wise, brave, and respectful of their surroundings. Every season brings a sense of order and purpose. Every day, a pattern of participation and engagement in life. Rural Italians don't have to do internet searches on what to do with what and when. They just do it. The cycles, they repeat over and over. They don't dwell on anything and they trust that if they just keep on living, all will eventually be well. Rarely does fear dominate. Joy comes easily, from the smallest of things. Nature figures prominently into their lives and they grow up understanding this. Love is big. Family is everything. 

So, for the past weeks, we zoned into a world that was free of the angst that we returned to. While the threat of testing Positive to Covid before flying back to the U.S. is huge, it only is because it is government imposed. The people have a respect for what has happened due to Covid, after all, they lost thousands of lives before we ever even donned a face mask here. But they don't let this, or any other outside factor, dominate their lives. And that, makes all the difference. 

It's sad to come to the conclusion that a war on our own soil would have made us a better country and I'm certain that the Italian lifestyle, the one of facing each day and really living it. is based upon their memory and that of their ancestors, of days when they were barely able to face five minutes once upon a time.

Farewell Party

Transition Thursday

We made the decision earlier in the week, to remain here in Martina Franca for just one more day and will make our way to the airport Hilton in Rome tomorrow instead. It's a long drive but for the most part, it will be Autostrada and we can take our time, let every would-be Mario Andretti zoom past us and we can once again, visit each and every auto stop along the way. Chocolate warning!!!!

When we asked if another night was possible at our fantastic Airbnb, our hostess Mimma told us with regret, that there was another set of guests arriving this evening and so it would not be a possibility. But.......she quickly offered, the "rumpus room" of their large and beautiful home as an alternative. She told us that this is not something that she would ordinarily do, that we are considered to be "special guests" and therefore, their home would become our home and that was all there was to it. So, we are now ensconced in the World's largest "rumpus room", complete with a kitchen and a fireplace that could house a circus-load of clowns.  We were told to take full advantage of everything, including the espresso machine and to spend as much time lounging around the property as we care to. And we are. And, it's wonderful. Ahhhhh.

Yesterday, we gave ourselves one, huge treat. Instead of driving and making ourselves pazzo, we  actually hired a car from a tour company. Extravagant as it sounds, it was worth every Euro. Our driver extraordinaire, Flavio arrived in a Mercedes minivan after he got lost (phew, we aren't the only ones) and away we went, off to Ostuni. We sat back and relaxed, not a care in the world as this highly skilled and very nice young man drove us through narrow streets and on highways, to our destination. Ostuni. The "White City". Aptly named. Every building is pure white and against a true blue sky, punctuated by absolutely perfect weather, they are breathtaking. Had we not had a driver, we would have been nervous and confused and might have missed out on the lovely opportunity. 

Flavio brought us directly to Step Two of this perfect day, our reserved appointment with one of the town's "Tuk Tuk" tour operators.  We paid our fee and waited just a few minutes for the arrival of Pietro, our own bold, skilled, fun driver.  A Tuk Tuk is a three-wheeled open topped vehicle, probably around 6 feet in length. It's steered with two handle bars, kind of like a bike. And, it's noisy. Almost like riding in a lawn mower. One that goes really fast at times. Up hills, down hills, through very, very narrow streets, around bends and.....well, basically, it's a roller coaster. Not much more. No seat belts, no helmets, just pure trust. Trust, because this guy is really good at driving this strange, tiny truck. It was thrilling, to say the least. Our tour lasted close to an hour. We laughed like children as the tiny engine chugged underneath us and we held on for dear life most of the time.  As we drove by Pietro's Nonno's house, we made a stop and got out to meet this charming man. With pride, Pietro explained that Nonno is an artist and that all of the intricately carved wooden objects in his tiny garage were done by his hands. Fatto a mano. Holy cannoli!  Never have we ever seen such an incredible display of artistry. His collection includes scaled models of famous places, not the least, the Basilica of St Peter.  Pietro, who is 31, thinks Nonno is an old man. He's probably our age!  Maybe slightly older. We amused him with our phones. Antique Iphones by his standards.  

Following our fun tour, we arrived back at our starting point and bingo....there was our new bff, Flavio!  Our minivan awaited us. And, off we went to Step Three.......a nice smooth ride this time (gazillion times faster than we would have done), along a shore route. Not just any shore. We were hugging the Adriatic Sea on a fairly windy day. White caps, two-toned water. White rocks. Who knew this much beauty even existed?  First,  a stop at the memorial to Polignaro a Mare's, ( a small, beautiful seacoast town near Bari), most famous resident's memorial. Dominco Modungo. You might recall a song called "Volare"? Well, that's what we grew up thinking its name was. It actually was Nel Blu di Pinto de Blu. There's a beautiful statue of him, arms widespread, overlooking the sea in the town's center. 

 From there, we were whisked away to pranzo (lunch) at a sophisticated seaside spot for a lunch of all things wonderful from the ocean right next door. A bottle of local Savignon Blanc and two very satisfied, happy passengers we again became. 

It's really hard to say what has been the best of our times here but when we reminisce one day in the future, surely we will have to say that yesterday, well it probably holds a record.

So, tonight, it's dinner out with the lovely family who have given us the gift of an incredible visit to Martina Franca, to the Casa tra il Trulli clan. Tomorrow, it's white knuckle morning. A trip to the local farmacia for our Covid tests, the green light for our flight home on Saturday. 

Let's hope our good fortune continues. We really miss our home and our good friends there! 

Live, From Martina Franca....It's Wednesday Morning!

Okay. Hands-down. Without a doubt. Really and truly. It just does not get any better. Punta. Basta!

That is, it can't get much better here, on Earth. I'm sure that God has reserved the Best Place on Earth award for Heaven. But, until I get there, I will take this and the past almost three weeks as an example of how very, very nice the world can be.

Up early here, just as I am at home, I can hardly resist the first passegatta of the day. Strada Chiafele is a country road, lined with ancient stone walls, just high enough to border expanses of properties that showcase the bounty of each owner and just high enough to support wild flower clumps, hedges of jasmine and wild bunches of rosemary, lavender and other earthly delights. It's quiet (as it usually is), with evidence here and there that a work day has begun. As I stroll along, I make way for small vehicles driven by people who must leave the area for their day, and tiny work trucks. Dogs bark, roosters crow, all blending into what I can safely say is a perfect morning. Fresh air. Sun. Soft breeze. Just me and my thoughts

Halfway down the road, I encountered a lovely couple who were chatting with a man in one of those little trucks. Ciao, ciao, they sent him back on his route and greeted me with huge golden smiles. "Buongiorno", my first of the day. Suddenly, my words came back to me and together, without the stress that has stopped me, I joined in a simple conversation in Italian about the beauty of Puglia and the special time of day. They knew that I was staying here with Mimma and her family and did a sign-language tribute when I told them that I was Americana. That always makes me feel extra great. My new besties. 

Yesterday. well, it's hard to describe. Mimma put us in touch with an English speaking resident last week, one who volunteers her time in her retirement from her career as a high school English teacher, as a local resource person.  We spoke with the lovely Anna and had a few questions answered and were told to call anytime we needed assistance. She also mentioned that she teaches cooking classes and would we be interested in taking one, complete with a full meal and hospitality, on Tuesday of the following week. Who could resist such an offer!!!

So, yesterday morning we set out for the country home of Anna and Paulo - which is five minutes away from their city home. Needless to say, our GPS sent us up narrow (but lovely) roads, through miles of countryside until we had to admit that we were hopelessly lost (again). We were told to just stay put, help was on the way and within minutes, Anna and her daughter, Lori, rescued us and brought us to their home which we would never, ever have found on our own. Paulo was there to greet us, warm smile, looking very much like my beloved Uncle Peter, my grandfather's elder brother. A vision from the past.

We were escorted into the home, and told that for the day, it would be "our" home, and immediately we became part of the family. Theirs is a house made up of a series of trulli, with walls several yards thick. Small rooms, arches, stone floors, authentic in every way. This part of the house dates back to Paulo's grandparents who built it. Twenty five years ago, Anna and Paula added on a "lamia" section, open and spacious, filled with love and the reminder that here, connecting nature and humanity is the most important part of life. In the U.S. this is now called "open concept" and it's a trend. Here, it's a way of living. Room for family, for cooking and for enjoying. So, together, we got right to it in the kitchen.

Anna and Paulo are people with whom we have much in common. Similar ages. Married within a year and a day of each other. They have two daughters and a son, four handsome grandsons. We bonded quickly.

Anna, is Lidia Bastianich personified. Personality and enthusiasm are what one sees at first meeting and it only grows better as we prepare our big meal. Lori becomes our sous chef and makes a batch of orecchiette pasta as we struggle through our own attempts at cavatelli and orecchiette under the tutelage of Anna and the pontification of Paulo. Watching Lori, I am reminded of a violinist, plucking strings during a symphony. This is not her first symphony! With practice, perhaps we can make some music but for now, piano, piano (slowly, slowly). 

Our menu consisted of toasted peppers, cavatelli with broccoli rape, braciole in a pomodoro ragu, topping our just-born orecchiette. We're told that part of the goodness comes from the simplicity and the use of only the most local and fresh of products. Eggs, huge and golden-yolked, make very good pasta. Herbs are from the orto just outside the door. Sage, wilted in olive oil and set aside while cooking the cavatelli, then joined with that pasta. Sage, we're told, prevents dementia. Basil, cooked, is poison. It must be green, and used last minute.

Our pastas made, sauces completed, typical Puglian cakes, one filled with a pastry cream made first thing, the other with a quince preserve that Anna made months ago and jarred, snack done, we were ready to sit down as a family to one gorgeous Puglian lunch outside the kitchen, next to the heavenly pots of flowers and herbs, adjacent to Paulo's "Pizza Hut".  Local wines, fabulous conversation, the best home-made cordials (walnut is beautiful), and what Joe describes as the best espresso he's ever had, and we were in Paradise. 

Anna and Paulo filled us in on so much of the local culture about which we had been curious. They are skilled and sainted teachers, preservationists of their heritage, authors of their own sweet lives in the land of their ancestors. 

A gorgeous, unforgettable day with memories that surely will last a lifetime and the best part.....well not the "best" maybe, but extraordinary.......we arrived back at Strada Chiafele without getting lost!

Thank you Anna, Paulo and Lori,  

Saturday, All Day

Yesterday afternoon found us in one of the prettiest places we have ever been to in this country, a small town nearby called Locorotondo.  We needed a cash machine, and easily found a convenient one. After our transaction, we spun around the periphery and found a nice parking space. We hesitated, it was getting late in the afternoon, but then, I said to Joe...."let's park, grab a Spritz, and enjoy the magnificent view of the valley because, you know what? Life is too short!"

We had just about sat down at an outdoor table with a breathtaking view when I received an email from one of our dearest friends back at home.  Beth wrote to tell us, knowing that we would want to know immediately, no matter where we were, that her husband, our dear friend of almost fifty years, Peter, had passed away only hours earlier. His health had been declining. Lung cancer and COPD won the battle after a long and valiant try at remaining alive. We were truly saddened to hear the news. I was especially sad, knowing that were I at home, I would have been in close proximity, ready to comfort and help Beth in any way possible. What an amazing wife she was. Together, with her children, she protected Peter, in his immunocompromised state,  from Covid. Because of his fragility, she went nowhere, did very little outside of their home. For two years, her daughter did all of their grocery shopping. Peter never got to enjoy life post-Pandemic and that, for a man who really did, once upon a time, enjoy the best of life, is tragic. So, rest in peace, friend. And, yes, life is too short. Indeed.

This morning started with joy.  Another beautiful day dawned and I greeted this one with an early walk through the narrow roads surrounding our lovely vacation home. Clean air, wild flowers everywhere, the sounds of nature. This is so special a place and mornings are incredibly beautiful. In the serenity, there is time for prayer and contemplation. Prayers for friends who are in need, and for their care providers. Prayers for dearly-departed and those who are left to mourn their loss.

When I arrived back at the Casa il Tra Trulli, Theresa and Pietro, the senior generation, were already hard at work. It seems that they never stop working. Their understanding of the ways in which they must cooperate with the land upon which they live, is palpable. They go about their chores in a cadence. She, to her beautiful and already bountiful garden, and he to his agricultural pursuits. We're told, by their lovely daughter, our hostess, Mimma, that Pietro grew up on this very land. His parents lived in the tiny trullo on the property, and in it they raised their children and remained until 1950. Mimma, her brother, and her children, all have lived here for their entire lives. 

Shortly after my return, as I sipped my coffee, Mimma sent me a message. Would we like to see the "baby horse" that was born last night? So, later this morning, accompanied by Mimma, we visited the equestrian family and welcomed the newest boy in town. The colt is gorgeous, already following his mother around and nursing. She looks wonderful! Imagine giving birth to a horse and going about your business hours later? Our hostess gave us a lesson in horse-husbandry, explaining that there is one father, and two mothers.  The other mother gave birth to their baby horse-daughter just over two weeks ago. So, it's one, big happy horse family back there, complete with last Spring's addition. We learned that the mothers will become pregnant again shortly and that they, after a thirteen month pregnancy, will give birth again next Spring! Fortunately, these horses are for their owner's pleasure, not to become a meal (horse meat is on the menu in many an Italian restaurant), and one day, the new baby will go on to another family.

Early afternoon found us on the road. A nice drive to Massafra, another small city, near the very active coast (lots of shipping happens from these shores to other parts of the world), and lunch at a small trattoria that was also a fish market. Sorry, Cape Cod, but your fish isn't as fresh as this fish!  Mine was a cavatelli with small chunks of swordfish and eggplant. I could tell that the fish and veg had been first sauteed in olive oil, combined with tomatoes, and then joined with tiny cavatelli pasta. Joe's was a cavatelli with shrimp. Our antipasti consisted of small portions of everything wonderful from the sea, including stuffed mussels, white anchovies, shrimp and an assortment of other lovely items that only seafood lovers as are we, could fully appreciated. The costs associated with food here have risen, just as they have at home but, this meal was slightly more than the price of a small pizza and beverages for two. Here, lunch is dinner so dinner is relatively inexpensive given the quality, size and atmosphere. 

We're back at our joy-filled casa, enjoying the shade and breeze. There hasn't been any rain for a very long time, at least not in these surrounds. The fear is that vegetation will soon die if this continues. While we're hoping that nature will accomodate the needs of those who live here, we'd just as soon have that happen after we depart. We've seen many an Italian rain storm and know that the dry ground does not do well with torrential downpours so please, sometime in the future would be just fine with us.

The day is winding down. We've learned a lot today. Mimma is a wonderful guide to the Puglian lifestyle and together, with our Google Translate apps, we shared life stories and had a few girlie laughs. She's extremely sweet as is the entire family and we have been made to feel very welcomed. She just popped around with a bouquet of lavender, fresh from her garden and some bread crumbs that I will use in prepping dinner much later. 

I may even ask her if they might consider naming the new colt Peter. Strong and determined to live.

Bella Giornata, Again...and Again

 Today is a rest day. Oh, and, it's another totally beautiful one, weather-wise. It's the kind of day that I could easily enjoy every day of the year. Domenica, our adorable hostess, tells me that we are in "Summer" now. How lucky are we? Summer without the sweat, high heat and humidity?  I will take it with a huge thank you. Joe has just entered my trullo and handed over a napkin filled with still-warm little pastries, baked by Mamma Theresa. I honestly don't know how she found the time. She's up and busy, busy from very early and never stops until evening. Her garden is enormous. Not a weed to be found. Lush and bountiful. This gal really knows how to do it. 

It's not entirely easy to garner, (remember, they don't speak English) but, we do know that Domenica, our light and lively hostess, lives here in a gy-normous and beautiful villa which her husband built entirely by himself, in 2003. This morning, she graciously took me on a tour. Her husband manufactures flooring and the area underneath the house is the place where it's all done. This is their headquarters. And, what a lovely place of business it is!  Naturally, she has very nice floors. But she also has large rooms and huge windows that all open up onto a wrap around veranda and total view of the beautiful valley. She did not deny it when I referred to her as a "Principessa", the Italian word for, you got it...."Princess". 

Yesterday, we drove to the coast, to the city of Taranto. I wouldn't doubt that half of the imports from Southern Italy pass through this port. It was an easy drive once we hit the modern roadways and, while it was totally unfamiliar to us, we enjoyed our trip and will return. We had the most delectable seafood lunch in a small trattoria, possibly the best pasta I have ever eaten in this country or any other. Home-made rigatoni, a fresh tomato sauce with the taste of the sea, and two small whole, perfectly baked, delicate fish. I'm not sure what the fish are. The waiter selected my lunch so I did not see this on the menu. Maybe the "Speciale per giorno"?  

It's back to resting. Back to realizing that we are, after all, on a vacation. We've waited a long time for these moments. I will sit back, enjoy the breeze, listen to the birds and the farm animals, visit the horse family, marvel at the beauty of the wild poppies that carpet the countryside and watch the family at work as they pass another perfectly orchestrated day in beautiful Puglia.

Little side note about the language and then I probably will leave it alone......if you are traveling, please do NOT expect everyone to speak English.  We see evidence of the toll taken by the Pandemic just  about everywhere, at home and here, and we have to realize that we have all lost two years of our lives. Pre-Pandemic, my Italian language capabilities were far greater than at present. Same problem applies here.  Without having to speak English for the past two years, they are as rusty at it.

We were all in it together and together, we're all managing to come out of it. 

Here We Are in Trulli-Land

We are surrounded, I mean totally encased in a countryside filled with trulli. Here, in the Itria Valley, these fairytale-like conical structures look like beehives from another planet altogether. They are constructed in layers upon layers of limestone and each is topped with a symbol or simply a ball, making the building look like a party hat. On many, large icons are painted onto the front exterior. We've learned that these signify some type of a Keeping-up-with-, the-Jones in the neighborhoods.  Several thousand of them dot the countryside here. It's important to remember that they aren't  some part of a Disneyland display, too good to be true. Diminutive in size, they serve as homes, farmsteads, guest houses and more. 

We're near the beautiful town of Alberobello, forty miles south of the port city, Bari, in Martina Franca. The sounds of nature and an occasional toot as a car rounds the narrow bend in the road just beyond our front door, pretty much describe the days. Nights are crystal clear and silent. When I looked out of the window last night, I felt as if I were looking at a Christmas card. Sapphire blue night sky, punctuated by tiny lights, spread apart from home to home over the spanse of acres. Early mornings, the roosters. Later morning, cows mooing in the distance. Birds chirping all day.  Doves cooing. Farm machinery. Agriculture is the heart and soul of Puglia. The sun is brilliant, the sky blue. A gentle breeze seems to never end when we sit on the upper outdoor deck.  

At the moment, the temperature inside my little personal paradise, my get-away trullo, is absolutely perfect. I feel as if I am in a spa or, at the very least, a little stone cavern, very far away from reality. I think I may have just been joined by a lizard.  I saw a tail behind a piece of furniture. Maybe a mouse? Funny how that thought does not undermine my tranquility. I doubt that anything could.

While traffic and tourism is not the same as in other regions, we still feel the need to come back "home" after venturing out and rarely do we eat anywhere but here. Yes, I cook. Yes, we shop for groceries. And, yes, the activities of daily living are still a challenge after all these years. Living in a foreign language does not come easy to me. While I have studied the language for many years, I don't use it every day and still can only speak, what I can, in the present tense as did the American soldiers here during the war, we're told. We've had too long a gap, thanks to the Pandemic, and we basically have to re-learn much of what used to come so naturally to us in earlier travels. Different from a lot of other areas, very few people here speak English. We never presume that one does. But, we manage.

Basically, can one imagine an Italian tourist on Cape Cod, asking everyone if they spoke Italian? Some rules apply no matter where we go. And, no matter where we go, there we are.

Tuesday Trulli Morning

 The choice of where to plant myself for a writing session this morning came easily despite the numerous options that I have here at "Casa tra il trulli". So, this morning, I chose to sit in my own little trullo, with the door opening onto a view of the countryside and the sounds of a farm beings heralding the arrival of a Puglian Spring morning. In all my life, I've never sat in a more wonderful place.

We arrived at Casa tra il trulli Monday  afternoon (it wasn't easy to find), escorted by Domenica, "Mimma", our young, vibrant and enthusiastic Airbnb owner.  Naturally, at the very last leg of our journey, we got lost (again). We're in a remote area and the GPS didn't take too well to our environs. Fortunately, WhatsApp was working and Mimma was able to find us and we followed her from our rendezvous point. Technology is a wonderful thing. Were we back in the Mapquest days, we'd still be by the side of the road!

I'd say we have hit another home run with our selection of this place. It's in hills, close to the town of Martina Franca. We're in a residential area.  All the residents have acres and acres surrounding beautiful typical homes. The serenity is stunning. Nature is at its best here. Most of the home sites include at least one trullo if not several trulli. Our host, who lives in a house on this property with her family and of course, her parents, owns an ancient trullo which was the former residence of her grandparents and dates back to 1870. In a future blog, with photos, I will describe the trullo with photos. But for now,  I just want to sit here and take it all in, listen to the birds, the chickens, horses and little dogs.

My personal trullo is accessed through our cucina. A short, narrow path leads right up to a set of narrow french doors. Inside, thick white plastered walls (all original mind you) form a tiny "hut",  a conical shaped room, carpeted with an asian rug. A small loveseat , a shabby chic chest and an antique table upon which rests books, candles and a framed history of trulli. A little antique suitcase on the floor holds a straw hat and a bouquet of dried flowers. There's room for a maximum two. Joe knew where to find me when he got up and he's grabbing his coffee for a well-deserved trullo moment. 

More, much more later........it's trullo time and the sun is shining in the tiny door. 

The only stress I own at the moment comes from the fact that I have problems transferring my photos from my phone to my MacBook Air and until I figure it out.......

Sunday Monday

 

Today finds  us in the province of Abruzzo (AKA "Wild Abruzzo"),  where my roots, and my blue eyes, originated. Many, many years ago.  To get here from Umbria, we traveled mostly good roads, accompanied by lots of would-be Formula One race car drivers. Let me take a momento here to say a few words about driving in Italy.  Don't do it unless you absolutely have to if you are over age fifty. Sound advice. The Italians are good drivers. They like to drive fast and they are impatient. This doesn't have to do with a sense of urgency to do anything, it's more about machismo. Even the women have machismo when it comes to the road.  And, they are fearless. Can't really say that there are such places as "no passing zones". Should you be machismo enough to try this death-defying activity, be sure that you study up on Italian road signs and have a good and trusted person along to ride shot-gun. It helps a lot. So does the bottle of "Calm" that I purchase from my chiropractor.

Along the route from Umbria, through Marche and into Abruzzo, we must have driven through, easily,  twenty long tunnels as we cut under the Grand Sasso mountains. We never cease to marvel at these engineering feats. The Italians think nothing of cutting huge holes into massive mountain rock. Why drive around them when you can simply drive through them anyway? We (at least I did - Joe was trying to please the Italian Formula Ones  by keeping us some semblance of speed and not killing us) saw acres and acres of green grass before arriving at Rocca San Giovanni,  our destination for the evening.  

Rocca San Giovanni is close to the seashore. Think Cape Cod in the off-season. A few miles of bobby-trapped, narrow and circular switchbacky roads and just before you need CPR, the Adriatic Sea unfolds in her majesty. Yes, the water is really turquoise. We've only seen that once before, when we drove down the Amalfi Coast a few years ago. The seacoast is breathtaking.  Kinda hard to describe but trust me, a really nice way to spend Mother's Day.

Trabacchi are restaurants typically found jutting out over the water in Abruzzo. Built high on stilts and not much else, they are used as gigantic fishing huts, poles and lines in the rear, making life easier for those who make their living from the sea.  I had wanted an authentic trabaccho meal but alas, we were too late for lunch and too early for the traditional dinner at eight. Sorry, Bucket List, you lost. In lieu of that experience, we chose to have a seaside aperitvo followed by an earlier dinner of fresh fish, grilled to perfection in their altogether. Yep, whole fish, staring right up from the plate at 'cha. Mind the bones. Loved every bite.

So, today, we're on a long stretch of highway, hugging the coast as we head towards Martina Franca. The road sign just told us that we have left Molise and are now officially in Puglia. We're on our way to meet Domenica, our future hostess but before that, we have at least two hours and visits to several rest stops which are a world onto themselves. Far be it for any self-respecting Italian driver to be far from a place where you can not only use a toilet, get fuel, or buy food and wine! And yes, face masks are still required, as well as reminders of social distancing and hand sanitizing.  There a visible signs everywhere that allow us to have a bit of insight as to the economic and social devastation in this country.  But, there also is a great sense of pride and hope and perhaps a whole other story. 

For now, the sun is shining and it's time to pull in to another rest stop. I'll never stop loving the rest stops - a little secret here......they also sell chocolate, so much and so inexpensive!

https://www.huffpost.com/entry/video-autostrada-rest-sto_b_12319868

Officer Charlie?

 I've always said that Assisi was a place where magic happens. The spiritual world. For me, as a believer, I attribute this to the history of the town, having been the birthplace of two movers-and-shakers, Saints Francis and Clare. Certainly, some of it is folklore but, most of it is amazing fact. Whichever path one chooses to go down doesn't matter because there's a story here for everyone. Take it or leave it.

Whenever I am in Italy, an especially when in Umbria, I tend to feel the presence of both my mother and grandmother despite the fact that neither of them ever set one foot down upon Umbrian soil and a visit to Assisi wasn't on either of their life Itineraries. But, Umbria is a slow-moving, authentically populated slice of this country and it therefore is easy to sit back and feel things. There's time. The pace is set for contemplation. There's even time to remember how to speak the language. But, funny thing, when my deceased mother and grandmother speak, it's always in English.

Yesterday, as we were driving along, on our way up to the center of town, we abruptly and shockingly were flagged down and asked to pull over to the side of the road by a young and energetic man who was dressed rather casually. Oh, I thought, it's a survey and he's going to ask us questions - maybe about our stay in Italy, perhaps about the Calendimaggio; are we attending, did we, what did we think about it? Get ready to use our words.......until he got up to the car window and we saw the badge pinned to his shirt. 

"Polizia"

In rapid fire Italian (why would he not think that Joe was a citizen with that face and olive skin?), he proceeded to demand that we produce our "documenti".  Joe was able to decode it and he quickly ascertained that it was his driver's license that was needed so he fumbled through his backpack and produced it, followed by his International license. "No, No, la signora, documenti!!!" Apparently, he wasn't as interested in Joe's driving skills as much as my passport! At this point, Joe was more than curious when he asked the frantic officier what it was that he did wrong? While we both knew we hadn't broken any laws, we weren't exceeding the speed limit or harboring a fugitive, we both had visions of being asked to step out of the car and worse, into a police car, handcuffed. And yet, I remained amazingly calm as I explained that my passport was back at our agriturismo, not on my person.  (Didn't they touch on potential purse-snatching at the Polizi academy?) 

It was a random spot check as it turned out. 

When I was a child, my father, a police officer, rarely spoke about the job. But he did share a story about apprehending a man who was about to rob his uncle's butcher shop. Dad had stopped by just in time to foil the robbery and took off in pursuit of the man who ran into a public restroom  Or at least that is where Officier Charlie thought he had run. So, the story goes, he banged on the door in the classic "Open up, it's the Police!!!" only to have an innocent and very frightened man appear at the door with his pants down. Case of the wrong man. Poor guy. 

Well, our guy on the job checked Joe's Massachusetts license which is cleaner than a baby's whistle, and didn't seem at all interested in his International version,  finally let up on me about my passport, and sent us back on our way. We knew we hadn't violated any laws but did share a few laughs about the possibilities, imagining us being thrown into jail. Even made me wonder if I had taken an Ambien the night before and had done something foolish of which I had no memory, the night before. 

As I process all of this, I can't help but put it into the right perspective. This is my first return to Assisi since the death of my father. It was his turn to show up. I told you it was a magical place.

Okay Officer Charlie, your watch is not over. Not in Assisi. Not in forever. Enjoy your tour of duty.

Calendimaggio!

The Calendimaggio of Assisi (sometimes also transcribed Kalendimaggio ) is a festival that is celebrated every first Wednesday, Thursday, Friday and Saturday after May 1st of every year, to greet the arrival of spring . The two Parts into which the city is divided, the Nobilissima Parte de Sopra and the Magnifica Parte de Sotto , compete for the conquest of the palio , through the development of processions in medieval costumes ( circa 13th century - mid 15th century), recited scenes of re-enactment of medieval life in the alleys of the city and musical performances: the winning party is decided by a jury, made up of internationally renowned experts, that is, a historian, a musicologist and a personality from the world of entertainment. ^[1]

So, that's the Wikipedia version.  Wanna hear mine? 

The Calendimaggio of Assisi is, and always will be, one of the best memories of my life.  

We started on Wednesday afternoon, standing on the sidelines and watching, for the entire afternoon, as just about every single resident of the town of Assisi, their children, mothers, fathers, sisters and brothers, dressed in the most gorgeous  of medieval costumes, took part in a big or small way, in the fantastic celebration. Drums, trumpets, horses, riders, young, old. Procession after procession, pageantry, tradition, pride, joy, laughter, smiles and one gorgeous way to welcome the Spring. The contest between the upper part of the city and the lower. But oh, so much more.

And, we were there. 

Yesterday, we returned for more.  This time, I had the pure joy of meeting up with my dear friend Isabel, a resident of Assisi.  She and I have been friends ever since the first day, in 2018, when I entered the cafe at which she worked as a barista, and sat, writing my blog at 7AM.....every day....for a month. I nicknamed her "Sam Malone" because after a while, it occurred to me that Cafe il Duomo and the Cheers Bar in Boston has so much in common. I was saddened the next year, when I returned and she did not. A better job lured her away but the things that drew us together have kept us in touch and, despite a twenty five year age difference, we still enjoy our times together. So, yesterday, my dear buddy made sure that la signora got a front row view (she can be aggressive), and, armed with a few Aperol Spritz, we did Day Two of this glorious event. Again, processions, drummers, beautiful prospective Madonne di Primavera and skilled archers, sportsmen and musicians.  I don't think I have smiled as much in a very long time. To say I was thrilled would be an understatement.  It was amazing and it isn't even over yet. 

Tomorrow is our big day. We have tickets. We get to sit down and see it all. This has been on my bucket list, that's a fact. But, I never anticipated that my heart would burst in the way that it did. After two years of the Pandemic, two years of cancelled Calendimaggio, the crowd was ripe and ready for a good time and, the Italians were never slackers when it came to a good party. 

Breath of Umbria

 If I could find a better place to sit and write, I would surely have to be dead. And that is because I would be in Heaven and from where I am now sitting, I believe that the living of a good and righteous life would be well worth the wait.  We're at an Agriturismo, a few miles from where we had planned to be right now up until the day before we departed. Our friend and usual landlord in Assisi, informed us that our apartment was without heat or hot water and, just like home.....he could not even get an answer from his plumber on his telefonino. So, he offered very kindly to apply our payment to this glorious place, owned by a business associate, outside of the hilltop town. I'm still taking it all in. It's Umbria and it's Spring. Even the roses are in bloom. 

After two days of travel and sleep deprivation, we arrived in Rome early yesterday morning. (Oh, how we miss the direct flights of the now-defunct Alitalia). Our United Airlines flights were superb however. Brand new planes, lovely service with an easy check in. Not one word was asked concerning our Covid status.  For all anyone knew, we could have been sick as two and a half dogs. Both Logan and Newark airports were bustling with un-masked travelers who didn't seem to have known that the past two years were obliterated from the face of the Earth. It wasn't until we boarded our plane to Rome that face masking, specifically the horribly uncomfortable N-95 version, were enforced. This is only because the "Italian Government" demands this with the insistence that masks remain on during the entire flight except for meal consumption. Anything after the meal, mask, sip, mask, sip.  To make this even more amusing, upon arrival at the Rome airport (by the way, it's Leonardo Da Vinci Airport IN Fiumicino), we saw lots of sip, sip, no mask and very few travelers and/or employees seemed to know about the Pandemic. We, of course, kept our noses and mouths covered because we will, at this writing, still be required to Covid test before returning, as ridiculous as all this sounds. 

I have so many sensual reminders of Italy. Sights. Smells. And, sounds. Perhaps the one about which I dream most is that unique noise that is created by the quick marriage of a china saucer as it is placed on a marble countertop awaiting the arrival of its beautiful mate, the beloved and adored cappuccino. Cappuccino should always and only be offered in such a vessel. A paper cup filled with what passes for "cappuch" is not the damned same and you will never catch one in my hands. Nor will you ever find myself or my husband arriving at the airport and not having a cup before we do anything else. Car rentals can wait. The rest of the entire world can wait, but we have our priorities and we hold them sacred. Arrival in Italy means living Italian from the moment we get here. And we're here now so as I sit outdoors now, listening to church bells ringing in the distance (never very far in any distance for this sound), I am going to finish my second glorious cappuch and breathe. Just breathe.

Just breathe.

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