March 2, Sunday

A long day, but not much to say. Since it’s our “day off,” we were allowed to sleep until 8:30. Julia made sure that we started our laundry first thing so that it has time to dry outside. Then breakfast as usual – except that I opted for tea instead of coffee. I fear that I might be developing an addiction to the daily black jolt of Italian coffee. The weekends, I’ve decided will be tea only – a resolution I started yesterday. Cleaning the house followed. According to the rotation, it was my week for the kitchen. Ho-hum, ho-hum. So I cleaned the kitchen. Bruno did his standard fish tank and desk maintenance, then went out to play tennis all afternoon. In the meantime, Andrea was all over the place with her cleaning. Apparently there was mold growing in the hall closet, so everything got pulled out, reorganized or thrown out. The rest of her day was spent deep cleaning their bedroom. Whenever she emerged, I offered to help with something else. She usually didn’t take me up on the offer.

After a lunch of pasta con tonno (tuna), it really was a free day. I tried to justify splitting my time between the audio book that I now helpless absorbed in and typing. The problem is that the book is suspenseful and there is seldom a good place to pause. If it turns out to be a cliffhanger, I am going to be mad. That’s just lazy writing.

I spent a little time in the late afternoon at the beach. Its not good to spend all of your time off indoors. The faces on the beach are changing. The regulars haven’t made an appearance the last few times I’ve been there. The tourists are probably just more than they care to deal with.

But there is another local couple that I overlooked the first few weeks on the beach. While not old, the duo wouldn’t be called young either. Her hair is still black with silvery streaks that she flips back without a thought. The husband looks older, but not elderly yet. The woman is in a motorized wheelchair – MS, I think. Because of her mobility restrictions, they stay on the park side of the wall that runs the length of the beach. Between the bushes, they are often easy to miss. The first time I saw them was Valentine’s Day. The woman was wearing a red coat and her husband had helped her out of the seat and onto the wall. He took her place in the wheelchair and held her hand. She sat so comfortably on the wall, so pleased to be there, that I thought the chair belonged to him. It wasn’t until a few days later when I saw them leaving the park that I figured it out – she was the one sitting. That day on the beach, they were the happiest ones around. Every time I’ve seen them since, he walks slowly or sits by her side and she laughs at everything he says. Of course, I can’t understand the snippets of their conversations that I’ve overheard, but I know that its never a complaint or hint of self pity. I wish I could talk to them. The woman seems like the kind of person that would tell her own embarrassing moments without shame, laughing at herself and expecting others to do the same. The husband looks at her like children watch fireworks – with a sense of amazement and expectation that never ends in disappointment, only wishing for more. He never takes his eyes off of her. They are so enthralled with one another, that they have probably never noticed me, but they are my favorite locals.

My outdoor adventures ended when the sky let go of its pinks and oranges. By seven, the constellations seep through the black sky over the even darker sea. The town lights bleach out the more timid of the celestial sketches, but the display is still impressive. From this latitude, Orion drifts right overhead – so close it seems like I could shake his hand. Buona sera, Signore Orion.

Maybe because I am tired of pasta, or maybe its just being in Italy, but the brochette that Andrea made for dinner was absolutely delicious. The recipe’s simplicity mismatches the resulting gastronomic masterpiece. I watch Andrea make it – no tricks up her sleeves. It must have been the ingredients. The mozzarella is authentic – bulbous plops made from cows grazing somewhere in mainland Italy. The bread is handmade by the local market’s baker and the tomatoes come in from the southern mainland every week. These are the flavors of Italy – the simple ones made from simple ingredients readily available.

The night ended as always. This post’s writing might be lazy, but no cliffhanger here.


I am working on 2 other posts that are my usual style. I had hoped to get at least one up tonight, but there were too many dinner dishes and I didn´t have time to finish them. But tomorrow, they will be up! So please come back!!