At certain times each day our piazza buzzes with activity, then slows to a crawl, and eventually rocks to a beat.
I have come to prefer the twilight hours. Dinner time (well, for us Americans, anyway).
It's the time of day when the wind picks back up. After a lull. A sea change. That "aaah" in the day that provides a second wind. Reposo, buddy... I get you now.
Ferragosto is here. The Italians scurry off to the beaches (seriously, WHO can stand to touch each other -neigh-grope each other in 90 degree/80% humidity... ) where they pack in like beached sardines.
We have prepared by positioning a baby lagoon on the back patio reserved for a party of one.
It's been a year since we arrived.
My Italian is better. My cooking is infinitely better. The neighbors are nicer.
We have not yet tired of the beautiful fruits and vegetables...
If you haven't figured it out by now: Our taste in tomatoes is forever ruined.
We have discovered a type of beans that we have not discovered the name for,
an incredible type of olive oil,
a fruit like a cherry that's not really like a cherry at all...
the proper way to eat a kilo of mozzarella di bufala,
and why tuna absolutely belongs stuffed into a pizza.
We now know how to make scungilli properly the Gaetano way...
and the difference between speck, pancetta, and prosciutto...
We even found a place down the street where we can get our wine on tap...
We belong to this neighborhood.
Sort of.
The cashier at Conad speaks to us everytime we visit, but somehow she has the impression that we are French, so Smalls is greeted with a "bonjour" whenever we stop in.
We have become friends with the Butchers, who have opened a new restaurant - which hopefully we will visit soon.
The Major cracks a good recipe for hamburgers by giving them VERY strict instructions on how to grind the meat. We top it off with fresh smoked provolone. Finally, a fantastic burger!
Now, if we could just figure out how to get the ladies at the market to order avocados...
The last couple of months have been a whirlwind of activity.
We hosted the Major's parents, and Uncle. Since the Major's Grandpa was born in Gaeta, we spent almost a week there, visiting family friends, and comparing memories of Gaetano recipes recreated in the States.
We even discovered incredible ancient seaside ruins, that appear to be some kind of local secret...
After a free-wheeling, somewhat harrowing, golf cart tour of Rome,
Smalls runs the orchards
in between visits to some of our favorite northern cities...
Dinners were...
as ridiculous as Tuscan dinners should be...
With the parents safely returned to the States, we headed to a beach resort, in Sibari, on the Ionian coast.
And hit the Angel caves near Salerno. Where they produce a version of Dante's Inferno...
and during our visit, a rumbling antique car show appeared out of nowhere...
Later, Smalls' pal V brought his mom into town for a day-trip ferry ride to Ischia, the island that we watch the sun set over nightly...
Then, the Major's presence was requested again at the Nato school in Germany, so we packed up the Burley and headed north, stopping in Bolzano on the way.
Once in Garmisch-Partenkirchen, Smalls and I pedaled all over the map, finally putting some much deserved miles on our tires...
Which was actually a fantastic way to work off the german beer!
And then there was the sausage...
Did I mention there was sausage?
We got our head above the clouds on top of the Zugspitze.
Where we celebrated the dizzying heights...
After his stint as a facilitator ended, we headed to Prague, a city high on our to-do list.
On the way, we made a short detour through the charming village of Cesky Krumlov...
Where we discovered the roots of an all-American king...
Or rather, the original inspiration of an American knocked off version... locally known affectionately as Budvar...
In Prague we learned how to build a defensive corridor
I am confident this information will eventually come in handy.
Then we checked black light theatre off the professional bucket list.
After a couple of days we headed back through Austria and stopped to visit a castle on a lake at Schloss Fuschl.
Heading back down south, we looked up one of our favorite destinations from many years before, the incredible Hombre organic parmesan farm.
Smalls was treated to baby cow nibbles on her knees as we somehow scored (again) a personal tour from one of the sons in the family.
Since the Major's Italian has greatly improved since our last visit, we left the farm much more informed about the inner workings of the special cheese-making family. We head "home" with a car full of culinary treats.
We finish up a dinner of our trip's treasures, in our piazza-in-a-fishing-villiage-turned-urban-chaos.
The day sets into evening...
The Major heads down to cool off Smalls with a "batfh".
I cart a load of laundry to the lines overlooking the alley, where I have been faithfully hanging our underwear for all the world to see for about three months now.
I catch an impromptu calcio game erupting between the apartments, a background of pots and pans rattling in preparation for late evening meals, as cats scramble towards scraps, amongst passionate voices, and wacky cell phone ringtones...
Calls of "Maria", "Elena", and "Tina" echo and bounce between balconies as the evening news is passed between neighbors... ladies leaning, hands gesturing, laundry folding...
Then I hear Smalls squeal with glee, from the window below, splashing around in her soaked tile playground - the Major emitting half smiling sounds of having just gotten soaked.
At that moment I realize that we are now an intergral part of the rhythm of the neighborhood.
And it feels good.
