from Italy: in retreat

Maybe I could stand the Pacific northwest after all. I have gotten comfortable with gray skies and wet pavements.

We have only a few minutes in Florence. We walk to the river, curious how high it will be after a night of rain.





But, the heavens are acting kindly toward Florence. Even as the Tiber in Rome floods the city, the Arno shows signs of retreat.

As we walk to the train station, we see streets blocked off from traffic. Why? I could ask the police, but I’ve had bad luck with this in the last day or two. Florentine folk are too busy to listen to how terribly foreign I really am: I have been getting a lot of incomprehensible to me rapid fire Italian answers to questions. And so now I don’t want to ask.

But as we approach the station, the answer is there before us.





City shuts down for small, lefty student march (in support of the general strike that today is crippling much of Italy). The students are moving slowly, to music. What happened to anger? Doesn’t a demonstration by definition have to show anger? Not here, not this time.


Okay. One last look from the train station. Sigh...





I’m thinking that traveling backwards, in retreat, seems mildly depressing. As we are about to purchase train tickets back to Levanto, it strikes me that we should do this differently: I ask Ed – you want to stop for the day in Lucca? Lucca? It’s lovely and historically interesting and it’s not completely out of the way… I am making this up. I have never been to Lucca (though have wanted to go, so there’s that).

An afternoon in Lucca. On the downside --I can’t say that I feel unencumbered. There’s the constant opening and closing of the umbrella. It goes like this: from Ed - Nina, it’s not raining. I close the umbrella. I feel a few drops. I worry about the camera. Up goes the umbrella. - Nina, it’s not really raining. And so on. Additionally, my backpack, which was heavy before, is even heavier now that I have added a pair of boots (yes!) and some bottles of olive oil from Tuscany.

And still, it is a lovely walk. The walled city center is mostly a pedestrian zone – easy to navigate, pretty to look at. We’re told to be sure to catch the Murano glass Christmas tree on one of the squares. We do. Possibly it looks spectacular when lit at night.





The town center appears almost completely empty. As elsewhere along the Mediterranean, the doors close for a several hour lunch break in the afternoon and we happen to be here, poking around, during those hours. We see kids walking home for a meal and later, returning to school. We see the occasional person scooting from one point to another. But basically, we see very few people.





And then, just as we’re turning back toward the train station, the city opens up. Lights go on, shops open, the pedestrian traffic picks up.





This isn’t a town that is especially besieged by tourists. But this makes the shops especially interesting. And we are tempted. By this place, for gifts to take back for the holidays (the shop is called "The sisters;" it's run by four of them):





And by this place, to restock my dwindling supply of dried porcini mushrooms. The shopkeeper is proud of the salami, the cheeses...





...but especially of the porcini. The stems are removed, the caps are set free of dirt! They are the best! He tells us. And then the inevitable – where are you from? Germany? No? America? Really? I have a brother in law there. I have always wanted to go too. Here, life can be tough…





[I pass on reminding him about our failing auto industry and the tanking market; I would imagine that the three automakers would draw little sympathy here anyway. Ed and I see small electric cars everywhere. We see recharging stations where they are plugged in, side by side. Tiny and so very pretty. Some are made of fiberglass. Wont rust. Practical. Cheap. And for distance travel, there are the trains. When no one is striking. Here, life can be tough. There, life can be tough. On balance, what can I say, life can be tough.]


Our last train ride for the day. We’re on the coast now, but it’s dark. And still, it’s all so familiar. Riomaggiore, Monterosso and finally Levanto.

Here, too, I notice now the holiday lights.





It is funny to see the Americanization of the Italian Christmas. The Santas, the music – to me, it’s like a clumsy package of American holiday cheer. We’ll walk by a shop and hear Jingle Bells (hands down the most popular shop song here) or White Christmas. What does that even mean in a region that knows no snow? And right next to images of Santa, there’ll be the more traditional images, captured so well in this bakery display in Lucca. Baby Jesus, in chocolate, sheltered in a carved out Pannetone (or is it bread?). And with a 'Merry Christmas' train on top.





In Levanto, we go back to Miki’s, our favorite pizza place. Salads, anchovies in lemon and oil, and the wonderful wonderful porcini pizza with extra garlic and olives.










We are giddy from the good food and the carafe of Levanto white. It’s past ten and the waitress, happy to have us back in this slow season, brings us limoncino. We watch the Italian version of Funniest Home Videos on the TV screen. They seem especially funny this evening – to us, to others in the room, to the waitress.

Our last night in Italy (we’re heading back to Nice the next day). I ask Ed – did you like it? It’s okay, he answers.

I suppose there is the upside: if you plan a trip with a person who doesn’t fully engage his (non wilderness) surroundings, you cannot entirely fail. You can never achieve magnificence, but at least you cannot fail.

from Italy: occasional traveling companions

I read that Italy is experiencing severe winter rainstorms. And with that – flooding.

No kidding. Yesterday, the Arno looked like a river on a summer evening. Still and quiet. With lights reflected from shoreline buildings (see previous post).

Today, it hurled water furiously between bridges.





Camera crews were out taking films. Others watched and took note.




Me, I was remembering my very first trip to Florence. It was in 1966. Just before the great flood that destroyed so much of the city.

Water follows me. Or does it? Today, the rain hovered and came and went and it barely touched us, even as the skies were so dense with cloud cover, that you could not even imagine a patch of hope.

I write this from the Osteria de' Benci. I am eating dinner here and I am half listening to the dispute at the table next to mine. She is so angry! And he, in his attempt to add normalcy to their evening, is not hearing a word that she is clumsily speaking to him.

Such passion! An Italian thing? No, not at all. The woman is American, the guy is British. But their voices stand out beyond the buzz of Italian in the room. And it’s not that they are louder, or more comprehensible to me. It’s that I hear their agitation over and beyond whatever else I hear. You can't not hear it. We're programmed to pick up signs of distress.


The early afternoon remains wet, though not especially cold. We walk across the Boboli Gardens, Ed and I, and Ed wonders what the fuss is about. It’s hard to explain why I love this quiet corner of Florence. The view? Sure, great view…




…but that’s not it. It’s the peace amidst all the (admittedly beautiful) chaos. The smell of Mediterranean foliage after the smell of…city. Ed listens and pets a cat that seems to live here. And then another cat. The second pet is much longer because the cat responds with great fondness.




Now, at dinner, the pair at the table next to mine is talking about a living funeral. My God. Really? I want people to celebrate me for who I really am! -- she says to him earnestly, dramatically. Is it the wine? No, they seem to be working through a carafe, much like any other dining pair.


At the Boboli Gardens, I could not have my anticipated cup of espresso. I could not sit down and scribble nonsense. The café was closed for the season.

We make our way to the Medicis and Science exhibit at the Pitti Palace, just at the edge of the Gardens. I look at the exhibit through the eyes of a person who understands science, understands how invention takes hold. I look at it through Ed’s eyes.

Outside the Pitti Palace, we find a café. I want tea to warm up, but I see that it is 4 Euros. Too much. We leave.We enter another place – a corner bar/café/bakery. We both order a large cup of vegetable soup. The bill comes. Ed remarks that it is the most expensive bowl of soup he has ever had. (I believe him: it was 8 Euros per person.)

Early in the evening, we stop at a wine store to pick up a very basic bottle of wine. Ed hands over a 5 Euro piece and the wine is ours. I am listening to the music in the background. Lovely! – I tell the shopkeeper. Who is it? He writes down the name. There’s a CD store a couple of blocks from here... Let it go, Nina, Ed tells me. But, the song is sticking and I want to hear it again.


It's very late now. I'm eating dinner alone. Ed had too many biscotti by the kilo. He’s not hungry. I have within me an eating schedule, he does not.

I think about people who travel together. I admire them. Me, I can only travel with maybe a handful of people out there. At the end of the day, I like quiet.

Some ten years back, I had eaten dinner here, at the Osteria dei Benci, with my young-ish kids and their dad. We sat outside then and one of us loved the food, but I do not remember the who or the what. Just that one of us loved the food.

I’m finishing my meal now. Ending with a Florentine steak. Have you ever had it? It’s thin, very thin, very rare inside, swimming in olive oil, garlic, herbs. It’s interesting that my last meal in Florence ends with a Florentine steak. No dessert. It’s as if I thought about this meal when I was climbing the mountain in Riomaggiore.




And I tell myself: this is a dumb way to end a meal. I'll get an espresso and a dessert on the main piazza. I remember a night when I sat there with daughters and some money grubbing guy was singing “don't worry, be happy.” It was sort of sweet.

But the piazza is wet and empty and the café is closed.





Did I mention that not all the narrow streets of Florence are decked with holiday lights?





I walk home, to our warm little room of the Albergotto.



On Friday we return to Levanto for a final night in Cinque Terre.

from Italy: settling in

The clouds have settled into the region and we have settled into our warm room just two blocks up from the river Arno.

We have no agenda. Tell Ed how to do a city, be it Paris or Palermo, and you can watch his feet harden, his eyes bear down, and his interest wane. Tell him that we’ll set out and take things as they come and he’ll look up and sometimes even smile.

The rain comes in gusts and spasms and through no doings of our own, we manage, until the very end to avoid all of it.

In Florence, I have only two goals – that Ed should see the Duomo from up close and that we should set foot in a museum that may stir his soul. Oh, and throw in a view, too. What is Florence if not a city that is as beautiful from above as it is from its inlaid stone pavements.

In between, there are, of course the small delights. Some are Florence through and through. Some are seasonal. Some are idiosyncratic, given the two players who have such definite ideas about what brings pleasure.

So, most importantly, the Duomo. Up close.





Nearby street scenes offer plenty of people, but not much people watching material. It’s not cold, but it feels wet and people are in a hurry. Except for this guy.





The merry-go-round is admired, but no one is taking the time to put their child on a horse.






Me, I'm steering Ed to a museum that is actually a new one for me as well -- the Museum of the History of Science. It's not surprising that I would have passed it by up to now. Perhaps my least favorite subject in school was physics. (Perhaps Ed’s most favorite subject in school was physics.) Still, there is currently a special exhibit devoted to Galileo’s telescope and I think both of us would find good things there.

Indeed. The exhibit is superb! (And we are the only visitors, so that we can lose ourselves in the beautiful story of how Galileo and those after brought us closer to the science of heaven.)










Inspired, I forge ahead. We should see the Pitti Palace, where there is an exhibit on the Medici rule and the development of science. On the way, we stop for what becomes an Ed favorite: biscotti by the kilo.





But, there is a penalty for pauses. We just miss the cut off time for buying entrance tickets (3:30 in the winter… who knew…) And the Boboli Gardens are also closed for the day. The view will have to come from elsewhere. That’s not hard. We walk along the Arno, then climb up the hill to the Piazza Michelangelo. From here, you can truly take in Florence -- the city that changed art and life and the link between the two.






It’s starting to sprinkle. Nothing severe, really, but a reminder that luck wont let you coast. We walk back along the river at dusk and I watch cranes play at the waterfront, as lights pop up along the bank and in the calm waters of the Arno.





Back at the Gelateria Neri, we refresh ourselves with wild strawberry and dark chocolate gelato.





At the hotel, I struggle with Flickr. Flickr doesn’t like my connection here to the Net. Flickr, like a pouting child, is acting up. It’s near 9 before we set out to dinner.

I choose Acqua al Due even though I am mindful that this place draws a mixed crowd. Italians, sure, but also Americans. It has been discovered some years ago and it has kept its spot on the trendy lists for a while. Still, I really like it. If you’re here only for a few days, why not go to a place that’ll serve you five dishes of varied pastas and risottos for 9.50 Euros? And three salads for 7 Euros? And a wonderful porcini omelet that is puffed up like a soufflé?

No, no meal photos. Not enough light to show off the foods. Outside, on the other hand, the lights are plentiful. And beautiful.

from Italy: waiting for rain, waiting for trains

Overnight, the skies have changed.

It is supposed to rain, starting this Tuesday evening. Not small rain. Heavy rain. The kind that makes trails impassable. The kind that chills you even before your clothes are soaked.

So I said—let’s hike until we can’t anymore, and then let’s go to Florence.

In another life, at another time, Florence used to be my most favorite city. In my eyes, it had everything: history, art, food, style and you could cross it, back and forth and still have time for an aperitif at the Boboli Gardens. There, you could write your crappy scribbles and take surreptitious glances at the best view in the world. Bliss.

Now, I know cities aren’t Ed’s thing, but I thought that maybe Florence could at least fall into the category of "okay." I can manipulate our path a little: stick to the pedestrian stuff. Avoid stores. Avoid crowds. Avoid shopping for anything. I had reason to hope: Ed did like Venice some years back and one could easily label Venice as one big, crowded shopping mall.

But Venice had boats and quiet alleys. Florence? Let me not begin at the end. Let me go back to the morning.


It was a cold night and our eco friendly Cinque Terre b&b economized on heat. By shutting it off during most hours of the day and night. I was up at 4, working on Ocean matters and answering emails and I felt the chill.

The shower across the hall was also eco friendly in that it produced only warm-ish water. That’s when I decided when the rains came, we would leave.

But the rains weren’t due until late that day and so we packed our packs and headed for the trails.

The first one, from Manarola to Riomaggiore was everything I feared yesterday’s would be. Paved, railed, short. A wimpy walk. The kind of place where people go to do this:





There were some very nice, even dramatic at times, water and cliff views, sure…





… but basically – yawn. We wanted challenge and so at Riomaggiore, we decided to head up the mountains.

The Italians do mountain trails straight up. None of this easy on the legs switchback stuff. You go up until you cannot go anymore. You pause, get psyched, and force yourself to continue.





My pack -- toting clothes, a winter coat, camera stuff and the computer is, as usual, too full. Meanwhile, I’m watching the sky. It doesn’t look good. Then it doesn’t look bad.





Then it looks really awful. Still, we push ourselves. There’s something about getting almost to the top that’s very unsatisfying. It’s like saving for dessert and then finding out that the cook has gone for the day and you have to make do with the meat course as your final plate. So I try to ignore the possibility of a very wet ending and we keep going.

Finally we are at a point where I can make a case that it is indeed a summit. There can be many summits! This is one of them. There is an old monastery, there are views to the north, to the west and to the south. Summit! Now let’s please turn back. But Ed wants to sit down and munch on stale bread from yesterday’s breakfast. Ed likes the contemplative moment on a hike. I give him six minutes to look out at the coast line and chomp on bread. I feel you can accomplish a lot of contemplation in six minutes.





We head back down. Forest turns into terraced vineyards, then olive groves and finally gardens with oranges and lemons.





The rain holds off, but it’s plenty slippery and so we descend slowly. Coats off because of the climb. Coats on because of the cool air and slow pace. Off. On. And then they stay on.

I’m feeling cold by the time we are back at Riomaggiore. We pick a café/cioccolatteria and settle in to wait for the late afternoon train (to Florence, via Pisa).






We’re getting ready to stand on the platform when Ed tells me he’s hungry. Can you wait until Florence (three hours away)? Yes. But couldn’t we stop at a store for bread and cheese for the train ride? Maybe with a tomato? And some brined artichokes and olives? And a small bottle of wine? (Ed is very good at saying the coaxing words.)










Train rides increase the appetite. Besides, food warms you and I need that internal fire. The cioccolateria had kept the door open and so I never really heated up. It’s the way Italians deal with the café smoking ban. The men keep their drink inside and they move back and forth between their smoke and their beverage, keeping the conversation going on both ends. It’s quite an accomplishment.

We wait for the train.

You have to come to love waiting at the binario (train track) in Italy. Of the half dozen trains we’ve taken on this trip not one arrived at the time it was supposed to. Just don’t set your watch by their coming and going and you’ll be fine. And if the sign outside says Pisa, get off, even if the arrival time is fifteen minutes ahead of schedule. Signs matter. And even more -- the kind words of strangers matter. They say Pisa – believe it. And, they say this is the binario for Firenze, even though the sign says it’s for Napoli – believe it.

The last stretch from Pisa to Florence is crowded. We have seats because I am Polish enough to figure out how to find seats, but it really is packed. And here’s this small exchange that to me, is so revealing about how Europeans approach Americans. For we clearly are American, what with our English books and American shoes. A little into the ride Ed whispers to me – I think I should let that woman sit. He nods toward a woman who is maybe a notch older than I am. He taps her, offers his seat. She looks surprised, then grateful. The two women in seats across from us engage her in conversation. They nod at Ed, smile at me, ask me where we’re traveling from. Cinque Terre. Really? We are from there!

Oh, you’ll say there’s nothing to this little scene. You’ll say I’m putting too much emphasis on one small exchange. Maybe. But here’s the thing: sometimes I listen to our leaders (on all sides of the political spectrum) proclaim that we are the greatest nation in the world and I think how this must sound to all who are not American. Because when you travel, and you are American and you show even the teensiest bit of humility – people are surprised. And relieved.


In Florence, I am keenly aware of my shoes. Hiking shoes. Not beautiful, sophisticated, stylish Florentine leather shoes. I tell Ed the story of when I first took my very young daughters to Florence and how, at the end of the trip, during dinner (at the very place where Ed and I eat dinner) they gave me a pen from Florence – as a thank you for a trip well planned. I suggest how boots make a perfect gift, if you’re in that mode. We both know that buying Italian leather boots, even fairly inexpensive leather boots (95 Euros! I know where to find them!), is not really an Ed thing, but there is amusement value in pushing my case for this nonetheless.

We walk through areas normally so congested, that you can’t frame a photo without including half the world from all sides of the ocean in it. Not so in early December. And the lights! This is Florence now:





Along the river, the street lamps seem especially luminescent. Though maybe this is what I want to see -- a city that doesn't give in to the darkness of the season.





At the best gelateria in the world (I mean it: Gelateria Neri, on the street by that name), we buy predinner ice-cream – fruits of the forest and pistachio. Christmas colors.





We eat dinner at the Cinghiale Bianco, on the "wrong" side of the Arno.

On a typical evening, the place is so crowded that people sit outside on the steps waiting for a table. Empty tonight. The waitress tells us it’s the slowest day they’ve had since she started working there. The economy? – I ask. Oh no. People eat out in Italy especially when times are tough. It’s the time of year, the weather, the day after a holiday. (Yesterday was a holiday? Yes… Which one? I don’t really know the name – some religious day).





Hearty winter vegetable soup, dumplings, and wonderful fried artichokes. With a local Chianti. We stroll back to a café bakery we had admired earlier. Still open. Good. We buy four little pastries and head back.










There is something extremely beautiful about visiting a city when it’s napping, buried somewhere, hiding from the cold. When you have kids, vacations are necessarily pushed to the summer. Is it really that different? I think the price of our hotel room says it all. We’re staying now in a lovely little place (the Albergotto). It’s central, it’s old but fresh. The room (the cheapest one) has a maximum allowable charge of 335 Euros. We are paying 100 per night, which includes a copious breakfast buffet and taxes. We run into other Italians. They can do this, they can be here when the rates are low. In the summer, they’re in the country or by the sea. But now, they stroll the empty streets of Florence. Friends and lovers. It’s their place really. To enjoy without the madness of a summer crowd.

from Italy: a matter of luck

I cannot think of a day in my life that illustrated so in-you-face boldly how, in the end, your lot is often made great or not so great because of dumb luck.

It had it all, this day, really, it had it all – frustration, beauty, brilliance, kindness, adventure, local food, color, camaraderie, huge drama and – a sun that set perfectly over the Ligurian Sea. [Reader beware: long post ahead!] Not much of it was of my doing. The best of plans could not have anticipated many of its components. Really, it was a day when luck took the ball and ran wildly ahead. We just tried to keep up.


It is an early morning for us. Our b&b, the Villa Margherita, is charming (I care about that) and quiet (Ed cares about that) and full of Italians enjoying a holiday – all wonderful…





…but we could not connect to the Internet. And it’s important that I log in – there’s Ocean, sure, but there are also work projects that need my attention and, I like to keep an eye out for daughter news.

And so even though I have known for a while that weather-wise, this will be far and away the very best of all days this week – not one to be wasted, still, I needed to find a place to log on. I groaned to signora at the b&b that it is the only beautiful day for us and she shook her head. Do not complain. The weather last month? It made your hair stand on end. Two days decent, twenty eight crazy. (At least this is what I think she said; my Italian is 64% accurate.)

Levanto, it turns out, is a pretty little town. Here, just to give you a feel for it:










And it’s big enough so that I do find an Internet café and Ed finds a place to buy a cell phone card. A lucky break. Frustration overcome. By ten, we leave my small suitcase at the b&b, hoist our backpacks and set out.





















The trail is easy to find. And it is a brilliant morning! Someone wrote that a hike along the Cinque Terre should start from the north and continue along the coast south. Great advice. The light and views are perfect this way. Particularly if you got yourself a day where the sky is so piercing and blue that you can see all the way to the Alps up North.















It’s a tough walk to Monterossa. The climb is hard and the descent is slippery. I trip once and almost bang my camera (yes, the new one!) on a rock. I`am reminded to take care. It's hard to keep your eyes on the path when the views are stunning, enhanced by the traveling sun.















Three hours of strenuous climbing and we are in the next village – Monterosso. We are ready for a break, for food, for an undisturbed few minutes in the warm air. Salads, anchoives swimming in lemon juice and olive oil, followed by a macchiato and a Ligurian lemon cake.















We mean to stop for only twenty minutes, but you know how it is – the lunch, on the terrace of a seaside enoteca, is so dazzling and leisurely and so full of people watching that we hardly notice the time. It’s two in the afternoon before we’re stretching for the next haul.

And now we have to make choices. There are only three hours left of walking light. The plan is to reach a village way too many kilometers away. And we hear that at least part of the trail is washed out, requiring a detour.

This is what I love about hiking the Cinque Terre. It doesn’t matter! You can’t get to your destination? Hop on the local train and make up the distance! We decide to make it to Vernazza before sunset and from there, we’ll catch the 5:30 to Manarolo (where I found a tiny, two room b&b, with WiFi!).

We set out. I’d been poo-pooing this part of the trail as “touristy,” less remote. It is, indeed, the preferred hike – right along the coast (initially I had wanted to stay on the higher, less traveled path, the one we had picked up in Levanto).

I ate my hat on this day. For one thing, the scenery is absolutely mind numbingly beautiful.





The sun keeps us company, moving now, unfortunately, rather swiftly to the west, but offering colors to compensate for its fleetingness.





The climb is huge and I quickly take back all that I said about it being baby stuff. And the path is disconcertingly narrow. I would have had great trouble with it (I have vertigo issues), but the drop is not severe – there are many olive trees and pines and vines and Ligurian bushes of beautiful fragrance to catch you before you crashed to the sea below.


We are sweating one hour into the hike. The temps are in the fifties, but the sun is warm. I’m loving the fact that a sweater is almost too much and that my winter jacket is buried in my backpack.

But we are bothered by the constant buzz of a helicopter. I’m thinking it’s a private one. No, it’s going back and forth. It’s a patrol. Truly, my thoughts run to terrorism, that’s how sensitive we are on this issue. Or is it a fire? But it’s so damp from last month’s rains! On the last stretch we were crawling down wet rocks, concerned that we weren’t gripping the surface.

And suddenly we know. There has been an accident on the trail. A woman slipped off into the ravine. Caught by the bushes, she has now been hauled back up to the narrow path, crying in pain. (I’m thinking – crying is good; at least one leg looks broken, but a broken leg is not a heart attack or a cracked skull.) A half a dozen rescue workers are all around her. We are on a path that is impossibly difficult to navigate (and we are upwards of an hour away from either end) and yet, they rush from both sides, and from above. But they cannot carry her back. They tell us to wait. The helicopter is going to attempt to pick her up.










It is an amazing feat. I am shaking, terrified for her, for them. But they know their stuff. She is packed, IV and all, into a bag and a rescue worker, literally strapped to her, or the bag that is her, is pulled by a rope dangled from the helicopter. The brush is in a torrent of wind from the spinning blade. The rescue team is focused on one thing – getting her up and out of there.










And they succeed.

I’m crying for her, for their courage, for the care they took, for the care she didn’t take. But they are tears of relief.

We hike on, exchanging greetings of amazement with others who were stalled because of the accident.

And eventually, we Vernazza. One more cliff to circumnavigate and we'll be there,





… just as the sun sets over the sea.











We have a few minutes before our train. We stroll to the harbor, where fishermen are casting around, waiting for luck to kick in.










It is dark now. We ride for ten minutes and we are there, in Manarola, where the cliff is littered with holiday lights, and the high school band is playing a festival of songs.



And dinner? Where can we eat well? Go to Da Billy, our super nice hosts at the eco friendly, tiny Da Paulin b&b tell us.


We’re in a small dining room, with three other tables occupied. We’re at a loss as to what’s good and so we point to what everyone else seems to be ordering – today’s special. Inky pasta with seafood. We throw in grilled vegetables. And a bottle of local white. Like the Veneto wines, these Ligurian wines are pale and light and 100% enjoyable.














The food comes, and slowly the conversation in the room grows larger, so that first one, then two, then all tables are engaged. The father and son (owners) join in and the place is now exploding with laughter. I can only catch strands of it, and sometimes I ask for a translation, and they are happy to try, but really, it is inconsequential: it is about the owl outside, the Sicilian wife, the weather in November (all rain), and so on.










We’ve long finished. The husband of one nudges his wife to get going. They have a train to catch back to Lake Cuomo. The others are all local. They are in no hurry. The owners pour us grappa and then limoncello, on the house, because, well, because you like it when people in your place are having such a good time.

We leave late. The air is cold, so cold. I have my winter coat and still I am in a hurry to get to our b&b.


I’m ready for the rains to begin. I feel I've taken up my share of the beautiful and sublime. I’m okay with a turn at the wet skies.