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Last Tuesday, I took three rather long naps. Normally, if I take more than one I don’t sleep at night. Even then, I have to time the nap – 23 minutes max – or I’ll wake up at a ridiculous hour for an unpredictable period. But Tuesday night, I slept like a stone. On Wednesday, interesting intestinal symptoms introduced themselves. Thursday, my neighbor Renzo invited me to dinner. During the invitation – issued from his balcony while I stood on my exterior stairs a full story below – I asked him how he was feeling. Not so good, some kind of influenza; no fever, but tired all the time – he hadn’t been to work since Monday.

With unpredictable exceptions, I slogged my way through the week, drawing comfort from the knowledge that whatever I was afflicted with was something going around.

Last night, I went to what has become a weekly Dinner and Scrabble gathering of Americans. We met at Roy’s, and he kindly prepared me a hot toddy with whiskey. By the time the Scrabble game was over, I was floating in a subterranean surreality. I drifted home, reaching down with my toes to find pavement, wondering where I was and how I’d gotten there. In spite of having taken three long naps, I slept uninterruptedly for eight hours.

This morning, I should have woken up grateful, refreshed, and invigorated. Not quite. I felt better, but nothing over the top. My routine took its usual turns until I received a notice from my phone provider, Tre Italia, that my credit was exhausted. I had recharged the account online with no problems in January. For the past several weeks I’ve been trying to replicate that feat without success. When the notice arrived, a twinge unsettled my stomach. I foresaw an Internet battle, and one I was likely to lose.

Once on Tre’s homepage you click “Customer Access” and recharge through a short series of simple steps. That’s the theory. Lately, the access page will sometimes load, sometimes not. When it does load and I enter info, am sometimes taken to the payment page, but none of the various choices for means of payment have worked. They worked in January. It goes on like this. I tried using my phone instead of my computer. I tried accessing both indoors and in the yard, with and without an active wi-fi connection. I used every credit card and PayPal account – and combinations of both – I could remember having. By 10:00 I was exasperated and deemed it far better to take the funicular to Scalo, walk to Tre Italia’s store, and recharge in person, than to continue to suffer online convenience.

The funicular was crowded with tourists. They annoyed me. I silently practiced my description of the morning’s non-events in Italian. I drove myself into an sullen rage by reviewing all things Internet that do not function, function only occasionally and never with reason, or promise the world with their slick design, while delivering only frustration.

The funicular docked and the tourists squeezed out of the car, all – save one – in front of me. The one remaining gestured with his enormous camera that I should go before. I groused a thank you and sloped into the sun for the kilometer’s walk to the store. I had dressed for temperatures as they were in my yard. They are always higher in Scalo. The sun, a welcome and cheerful force this time of year, annoyed me. It felt too warm. I walked quickly and continued to fume.

When I arrived and pushed at the door, it failed to move. I peered at the little sign that announced hours. They were supposed to be open. I cursed under my breath, gave the door a stronger push. It opened. A gentleman stood chatting with the man at the desk. He stepped aside and waved me forward. I mumbled a thank you and moved up to the counter.

“I want to recharge my account, but can’t make it work online.” He interrupted my rehearsed diatribe with a shrug that said, “Of course you can’t, the website works only occasionally, and no one really knows why.” I told him to charge me for a year. He set about the task. His unhurried manner dissolved the monologue I had prepared about how I never again wanted to encounter online convenience, and was buying a year’s worth of time so I wouldn’t have to. In 60 seconds, the transaction was complete. I shook his hand. “Thank you, that was much easier than anything online.” His smile communicated the same subtext as his shrug had a minute before. I bounced out of the store, opened my jacket, and relished the sun as it fell onto my face.

A block or so from the funicular, I noticed something on the sidewalk. It looked more official than anything lying on a sidewalk should, so I picked it up. It was a transparent red plastic sleeve that held a bus pass and twenty euro. I took out the card. On it was the photo of a young lady with long brown hair. Well, I thought, I’ll give this to the fellow at the ticket window for the funicular, he’ll know what to do.

As I turned to enter the station, a young woman with long brown hair reached into her bag, gave a little jolt, slapped her pockets, and reached again towards the bag in panic. “Did you lose a bus pass?” I asked. She turned, I held it up, her shoulders dropped, she nodded, thanked me. I explained where I’d found it, took it over to her, and brightly responded “You’re very welcome.”

There was a horde of tourists streaming into the station. They looked fascinated and eager. I took a seat and checked my email.

About a week ago, I translated a proposal into English for an acquaintance who had found herself in a terrible bind; bad knee that wouldn’t let her leave the house, no Internet service at home, and a deadline for a proposal to be submitted to the European Parliament, in Italian and English, on the following Tuesday by close of business. I worked on the translation the entire weekend, and had a wonderful time doing it. In return, she suggested several outings in Rome, one of those a reenactment of the assassination of Caesar on March 15.

As we waited for the car to ascend into Orvieto proper, I read that my friend’s knee was better and she had returned to work in Rome where there was Internet. What do I think about the assassination of Caesar? Do I want to go? My resistance to ever leaving town weakened, I told her sure, why not, let’s go see the tyrant get punctured. The sun leaned into the car as it crawled up the slope.

The temperatures on the rock were still cooler than below, and the sun was warm and welcoming. I turned towards the city offices. Another abiding Internet problem has been that ENEL’s website will not accept my codice fiscale thereby preventing an online account. Without an account, I can only pay my electric bill in person, which could prove awkward when I’m in the States this summer. Even though such options are, truly speaking, theoretical, the anagrafe (demographic services) is somehow instrumental in the issuing of the codice fiscale, so as I was in the neighborhood during office hours, it seemed worth the time to see if they might help.

All three of the people in the office became interested in the dilemma. They accessed my file, they looked at all the cards upon which the codice is written, they discussed possible next steps, and they ultimately apologized for not being able to do anything on their end. Shoulders were shrugged, smiles conveyed the universal subtext of sympathy with all attempts to do anything useful online, and one of them sent me off with a sort of flyer with directions to the ENEL Point in Sferracavallo. We all bade each other farewells like the longtime friends we had just become.

The sunshine was glorious when I exited into the courtyard. A woman passed with her tiny, perfect, granddaughter settled into a stroller. The child flung out her arms to welcome the sun as the two of them emerged from the shade of a small oak.

Both sides of my family raised cherries, prunes, and apricots in California’s Santa Clara Valley right up until the electronics boom began in the early ’60’s, so when I was introduced to the cottage in Via della Pertiche, and to the apricot tree in its yard, it was like coming home. Childhood July’s were spent cutting “cots” at the Lopin “ranch”; fifty cents to fill a three-by-six foot wooden drying tray, surrounded by aunts and uncles and cousins who were raking in the cash through exercise of the same skill. My grandmother cooked elaborate lunches, and plied us with fresh lemonade which the afternoon heat turned into ambrosia. July was my favorite month.

I don’t remember when that July tradition began to wane. Looking at it from this perspective, it should have continued into the morning that the “ranch” was sold. Maybe it did. Or maybe by the time I was into my twenties the July gatherings had lost their glow for me, had become passe. Or perhaps my uncle, who did all the heavy lifting, had grown weary and hired day laborers.

I know that after my grandmother died, there were a few years of awkwardness as the ten acres were divided between the three brothers. The will my grandmother left behind was old school, probably drawn up according to her husband’s wishes who predeceased her by ten years, so the two sisters (my mother being one) received a bit of cash, but no land. By the early seventies some of the property had been sold, and the remainder was taxed at residential or commercial rates, so it didn’t pay to grow fruit anymore.

The apricot, however, still holds a special place in my heart, and even though I had never been fully initiated into the mysteries of its cultivation, elements couldn’t help but be absorbed. In 1980, I bought a small house in Santa Cruz with an apricot tree in the back yard. In fact, the small yard was only the apricot and a slab of concrete. It’s a miracle the tree survived.

My first February in residence, Dad saw fit to pass on the particulars of pruning an apricot: trim fruit-bearing branches back to just beyond the third lateral bud, remove suckers wherever they appear, trim new growth off the trunk and principal branches, cut outliers so as to shape a well-balanced tree that fits within an imaginary sphere, its center just above the crotch, that is, where the trunk forms a “y”.

As soon as I looked at the giant apricot in my yard on Via delle Pertiche, I knew it needed a serious pruning; it had been years, and the only one of Dad’s rules that might possibly apply would be the last. All my neighbors agreed, and starting last April, reminded me with astonishing regularity. “In February,” I always replied. “Oh, yes February is best. But don’t forget!” Forget? Between the scandal the tree had caused the neighborhood and memories of Dad counting out to the third lateral bud with assurances that a good tree, regularly pruned, would experience only mild fluctuations in crop size, year to year, there was no way I was going to forget. In fact, I began planning the operation in August. By January, pruning the apricot had become an obsession.

February arrived wet. Given that at least half the tree had to be approached with the ladder sitting on soft soil, I deemed it best to wait for drier weather. Then, starting the 9^th, a week of rainless, relatively warm days was predicted. I sent an SMS to my neighbor Renzo to ask if I could borrow his extension/a-frame combo ladder. He was hauling it over before I could open the gate. I gathered my tools and contemplated the structure of the tree: how best to approach branches, what parts would support the ladder, and in which mode, where to begin. Countries have been conquered with less forethought.

“So, what are you using for a saw,” Renzo asked. I proudly showed him my little pruning saw with the red plastic handle. He agreed that it was a good saw, but his eyebrows involuntarily raised. The skepticism registered.

I began after lunch. Using my extendible handle pruning sheers, I thinned out the first few branches, and threw the cuttings into a corner. When most of the small branches were down, I climbed with my pruning saw and went to work on the larger. Five hours later, I had done about a quarter of the tree, I was exhausted, and a room-sized pile of branches stood ready to be sorted into firewood. I examined the rest of the tree. The remaining branches would be harder to reach, they were thicker, and there were at least twenty of them. This called for a visit to Frangelico at the ferramenta (hardware). His brother, Raffaello, had suggested back in October that if I needed one, I could rent a chainsaw. That suddenly sounded like a great idea.

But reaching some of the branches was going to be a stretch. Hefting a gas powered chainsaw, even a small one, with one hand, while precariously balanced on an aluminum ladder didn’t thrill me much. So, I asked Frangelico if he had an electric saw for rent. He did not, but offered to do the job himself a week from Sunday; that would have been February 19^th. I thanked him, but with reservations.

What I remembered about why you pruned in February – the rule for California, and therefore applicable to Umbria – is that it falls at the very beginning of the budding process. Too early, the wounds won’t heal quickly and that exposes the tree to disease. Too late, the tree will be confused and not put energy into developing new branches, or at least not as effectively. So that extra week made me nervous.

Online research revealed that an electric chainsaw – lightweight, and of adequate size and power – could be had for a reasonable price, and would be delivered by Wednesday. It was going to take a couple of days to sort wood anyway, and Wednesday was five days earlier than Frangelico would have been able to start, so I ordered it. “What would you think of a chainsaw,” Renzo asked from his balcony a few minutes later. I told him about my order. “I have a little gas one you can borrow, but it’s always flooding, so probably you’re better off sticking with your electric.” I felt reassured.

The saw arrived a day early, so I visited Frangelico for an extension cord and oil, assembled the machine, and began the pruning of the apricot with great and private ceremony on Wednesday after lunch. To allow the new saw to become familiar before I took it up a ladder, I began by sorting the pile of trimmings in the corner. It took all afternoon.

On Thursday, I gazed skyward and plotted the cuts. Progress was much faster in the twenty-first century than it had been a week before in the fifteenth, and I was able to take down all but three of the major branches by five-thirty. “Buona sera!” I heard from over the wall; Renzo returning home from work. I opened the gate. He approved of my progress. I asked for his advice on the remaining branches, the most difficult to reach. “I’ll do them.” Why? “I’m taller?” We’re about the same height. “I’ll do them, anyway.”

He put down his groceries, peeled off his jacket, planted the ladder with no thought at all, grabbed the saw and was into the tree like a monkey in a matter of seconds, wielding the motosega like a butter knife. Branches fell in perfect order. I gawked, amazed. Ten minutes later he was on the ground again. As I dragged felled wood towards the already enormous piles, he explained; “I used to cut trees for lumber, trees this big,” he gestured a trunk the diameter of a large garbage can. “It was like climbing back onto a saddle just now. Thanks for letting me do it.”

Yesterday, I got through a third of the pile, sorting it into twigs for tinder, small branches for kindling, and logs. The picture attached shows the yard at the end of that day’s work and only half the pile is visible. Today, I got the invisible half sorted, and tomorrow, I’ll be able to finish so the garden can gradually be put back into shape for spring. It’s hard work, lovely work, and as I grow older, physically easier work – which makes no conventional sense, but I’ll take it.

I’ll miss the apricots this summer – if, after such a radical pruning there are any at all – because I have to return to the States for a new visa, but summer after that there is sure to be a good crop. Maybe even enough to cut and can or dry; just for the sheer heck of it. Fifty-cents a tray, anyone?

“The doctor doesn’t speak English,” the secretary at the policlinico warned me in very good English. “I speak some Italian,” I told her in especially bad Italian. It was early in the day, those were the first words I’d spoken to another person. Thus it is, always. My mouth and brain are not ready for speech for the first hour or so after waking. It is possible, though how likely I do not know, that the same mish-mash would have erupted from my mouth in English.

I had been to see the doctor the secretary referred to in November when my face suddenly broke out in a bacterial rash. It was ugly and sudden and spread like fire. He recommended the same ointment I had coincidentally brought with me from the States, the one I used the last time such a rash occurred, seven or eight years ago. I went to my farmacia for a fresh tube in case what I had was expired. The lady there was familiar with the brand, but had none in stock. She checked to see when it would arrive on order. “None available in Italy until March,” she told me. “You’d better go right now to all the other pharmacies, see if one of them still has it.” I had no difficulty understanding her; urgency is a elegant translator.

Anyway, as I was instructed to do by the immigration interceder, Alessandro, last March, I bought my way into the National Health System for 2017 in early January (for about $150 – because I am here on a student visa, it’s not free). To do that, I had to specify a doctor, and since the fellow I’d gone to at the policlinico was the only physician I knew, I specified him.

Last July, my doctor in Scranton suggested I have a blood test in January, so once I was in the system, I walked down to the policlinco for an appointment. That’s when the secretary warned me about language issues. She had a slot open for the next day. It’s always like that, and it always surprises me; I go almost anywhere for an appointment, and there is invariably something available within twenty-four hours. Advantages of a small town? Must be.

My doctor is reputed to be very good, he’s kind and courteous, and he speaks no English. Why should that be a problem? I know enough Italian to get by, even though I lack a medical vocabulary. The issue, however, quickly became apparent; he mumbles. And possibly has an accent. “Mumble” may not be fair. How am I to know what mumbling sounds like in Italian? But whatever the reason, I could understand almost nothing. When that happens, I can speak almost nothing. So, we got off to a great start.

“I registered with National Health,” I told him right away, before he had mumbled anything to render me mute, “and was told I should make an appointment for a physical.” He blinked as if I’d just spoken Chinese. I don’t think it was my words, I think it was that we were operating on parallel assumptions about what “a physical” meant, or perhaps how Sanitaria works. He mumbled something. I pretended to understand based on two words I thought maybe I had recognized. “At any rate, my doctor in the US said I should have a blood test in January.” That he understood, and he told me how to proceed. His explanations included references to several places identified by initials. My confusion worsened. He called the secretary.

While waiting, I also asked for prescriptions for the three medicines I am obliged to take thanks to genetics. When you have a prescription, medicine here is free, and even though at full cost all mine together run at about 30% of what I pay in the States (with insurance), free is free.

The secretary arrived. I explained, in Italian, that I was trying to determine where the initialed offices the doctor was talking about, were. She translated into an Italian the doctor could understand, and told me his response in English. The conversation continued in this odd way for awhile. At some point I mentioned again (I forget in which language) that I had registered for National Health the week before. The doctor raised his brow, looked in his records, discovered my name, and threw the prescriptions he had written away; since I was registered, all that could be done electronically.

Eventually satisfied that she had accomplished what was needed, the secretary left, and I was back to relying on speculation. The doctor asked something like was there was anything else I required. He had explained how to pay and make an appointment for my blood work, and that I should ask his secretary for the printout I would take with me to assure the proper tests were made. So, I told him all was well, and returned to the front desk to fetch my various bits of paper.

Lacking among them, however, were my prescriptions. The secretary sighed and called the doctor who named one of the three. When, after the lone prescription had been printed, I noted that I was still missing two, she sighed again. Counting in my mind the pills remaining at home, I responded that the other two could wait until the appointment I would presumably have when the test results came in.

Today, I went for blood work. The ladies who handle paperwork and payments are cheerful, funny, and an utter delight. When I stumble my way through a sentence that wants words I would be hard-pressed to remember in English, let alone Italian, they laugh with great exclamations of feigned emergency, and everyone waiting their turn laughs, too.

The nurse who drew blood was a recipient of my early-morning Italian, as well, so attempted to answer my opening sentence in English. It was charming, as her English is worse than my even my groggy Italian. I vocally appreciated her effort. We locked hearts and proceeded in a terrible mix of whatever language seemed useful. She painlessly drew blood. I complimented her on that. She smiled. We laughed a goodbye.

In all of this, there are several lessons. That more needs translation than words, is one of them. I never did have what I would properly consider a physical, for instance. Maybe that will come when we look at the results of the blood work. I’ll inquire. Any one of several friends will be able to fill me in – if I remember to ask. Another lesson is that I am more annoying when I pretend to decipher mumbling than when I repeatedly ask for clarity. The purpose of language is not to seem to have communicated, the purpose is actually to have communicated. Anything less is a genre of rude. Finally, the heart speaks more clearly than the mouth. Put your heart forward for both listening and speaking, and the words fall into proper alignment. That’s a lesson that can be carried into the world at large, no matter what the cultural context. Grazie.

Last Friday, I had my neighbors Renzo and Patrizia over for dinner. They were joined by Patrizia’s mother, Puni, and their grown children, Beatrice and Giovanni. I like all of them a lot, and to have them as my second dinner guests in Orvieto was a heartfelt response to that affection, but it was also reciprocation for the several times they’ve so kindly had me over to dine with them. I’m not sure we had all sat down, however, before I was invited to join them, once again, on Monday night. The reciprocation wars have begun, and I am sure to be the loser, because – simply put – I’m not Italian.

When other friends Vera and Giovanni were more active in their little grocery on Via del Duomo, and I brought various friends in to meet them, we could never leave without having been gifted a bottle (or two) of wine. I attempted all manner of payback, including gift items I packed from the States. It was hopeless. For every item I was able to pass to them, two came back at me, and in a manner infinitely more gracious than I could ever drum out of my tally-rendering, American soul.

Something is at work here that I don’t yet fully grasp.

When I arrived last night to Renzo and Patrizia’s little apartment next door, the table was covered with a slightly oversized piece of furniture-grade plywood. Renzo grinned as he watched me eye it, and explained that it was there for the polenta. “Really? No joke?” No, he was serious, and pleased at my astonishment.

I vividly remember a scene from an Italian film I saw many years ago in which the contadini were gathered for lunch during a harvest. The entire, very large, table had been covered with what looked like pizza. There were piles and dots of meat and vegetable scattered around, and everyone took a spoon and dug in. That intrigued me on so many levels. So my excitement was acute; a similar scene was about to unfold in front of me, and what looked like pizza in the film had probably been polenta. Illumination!

Minutes later, Renzo cooked up a large pot and was soon spreading the polenta across the table. Then as Patrizia ladled a sauce onto it, Renzo followed with a finely grated cheese, liberally sprinkled. Finally, sausage and pork rib were placed randomly, more or less in the center. Wine was poured, salutes were made, everyone took a fork, and we dug in.

I asked if there were any rules. Beatrice: “Only one – you have to eat your way to the meat, you can’t just stab it with your fork. You need to earn it.” Puni tunneled an alleyway through her end towards a piece of sausage. “She’s been at this longer than the rest of us. She knows how to bend the rule.” Puni looked up and grinned, everyone laughed.

Renzo: “This is a style of serving that’s only done within the family, but in the old days, it was also common within a very close community. Polenta was a good meal that even the poorest could afford, and one therefore that could be generously shared.” And serving it this way makes it seem that we have more of it than we do. “Yes!” Renzo hit me on the arm as reward for a good observation. “There’s a psychological angle to all of this, too.” Then he told us a story.

“A poor family spread the polenta and sprinkled it with the tiny bit of cheese they had left. Then over the table, they hung a salted fish. Before you ate with your right hand, you whacked the fish with your left. Then you rubbed your hands together and took some polenta. The fish was the flavoring. But if you whacked the fish twice, the father whacked you because that was cheating. You were claiming more than your share.” Everyone laughed and kept eating.

About halfway through our meal the polenta suddenly came to resemble a map of Italy, without the islands. I pointed this out, and Renzo immediately began to devour Trieste. “I have nothing against the city, personally, but you gotta eat what you gotta eat.” He grinned, everyone laughed, and Renzo’s sister, Anna, ate Puglia.

Behind me the television showed Trump giving an interview in an nondescript office. He formed his vowels like a hungry fish, while two journalists – apparently Italian – nodded, and seemed to wonder if it was him, or that their English wasn’t up to the task of making sense of anything he said.

When I was a kid, Christmas Eve was always at Grandma Zarko’s. She was born in Croatia in the late 1880’s as Irma Berich and emigrated to California to be Vito Zarko’s bride.

Vito had returned to the Dubrovnik area in search of a wife when he was in his forties, broke his leg, and ended up in the hospital not yet having been successful in his mission. During his recuperation, and being a bit desperate at that point, he began proposing randomly to the nuns who ran the place. Finally, one of them recommended a girl in the laundry room, a lay worker, who never ceased to talk about moving to America. The young woman was sent for, the proposal made and accepted, and six months later she was on a freighter from Liverpool holding a ticket sent her by a Vito Zarko from Sunnyvale, California.

What my grandfather loved most about Irma was her cooking. He died in 1935, but she continued to ply us with fabulous dishes made according to her Dalmatian recipes. Quince candy, spaghetti with prune and garlic sauce, a kind of strudel that has not since found its equal in my experience. On Christmas Eve and Good Friday, we all congregated in her dining room to feast on codfish, white cabbage, white onions, white potatoes, white wine, white bread, and white cheese. It was served on white soap-box china set on white linen. I never knew if this blinding combination was intentional, traditional, or happenstance, but twice a year we risked our vision to celebrate the coming of the light.

Irma died when I was fifteen, and Christmas Eve dinner was taken over by her daughters-in-law. Having no facility for preparing codfish, over the next few years another tradition emerged, one of little things; stuffed mushrooms, open faced melted cheese sandwiches with olives, small cups of creamy fruit salad.

This year in Orvieto, my lovely neighbors Renzo and Patrizia invited me to their celebration. I had dined with them at home before, was aware of their small apartment, their two grown children, Patrizia’s mother, Puni, and the size of their table. So, as I had another invitation to share fondue at a friend’s house in Porano, I sent a message to Renzo allowing them to opt out of their invitation if I would constitute a burden. An hour later, my buzzer sounds – Renzo at the gate.

“No! There’s always room! If you’ve other obligations, we understand, but please come if you can. Let me show you.”

A few weeks ago they hosted a block party in their street level cantina. It’s a narrow room that goes the full depth of the building with a kitchen and bathroom at the very back. He takes me into it now to allay my fears. “We’ll put a table here.” he indicates a span of about twenty meters, “it’ll be tight but we’ll be fine.”

I went for a bottle of prosecco to add to the fig and cinnamon-apple tort I purchased at the elementary school’s holiday presentation last Wednesday, dressed as nice as I’m able, and showed up about 8:30 for a dinner that would commence at nine. I went to knock just as Renzo opened the door. He pulled me in, took my gifts, and started with the introductions, ones that consisted of first names coupled with a dazzling network of relationships. As we reached the far end of the room, more people arrived and we wove our ways back for further introductions. Including the three little kids, there were thirty of us. Daughter Beatrice was introduced. “She speaks English, you might want to sit close to her.”

Didn’t work out. While people sat at table without making any obvious choices, and without instructions from anyone, except for the little kids we ended up with the youngest of us closest to the street and evenly progressed towards maturity as the table arrived at the kitchen. I was between Patrizia’s mother, Puni and Ermette, the husband of the lady across from me and father of Filiberto. Antipasto was already on our plates, and amidst scattered toasting – also without order or instruction – we began to eat.

We would not stop for three hours, the meal consisted of little things, and I felt right at home.

Antipasto was seven, distinct and delicious, finger foods, a tiny cup of salad, and another even smaller cup of a savory whipped confection topped with nuts. The lady across from me raised a warning finger as I reached for what Puni offered me because she couldn’t eat it all. “There will be more. Much, much more.”

Pasta in the form of risotto with peas followed, accompanied by a complete pink sea creature of some variety, that if it was to be eaten, I had to idea where to begin. Then small portions of eggplant parmesan, chickpeas, beans, greens, fruit, the tort I had contributed (“Who fixed this, it’s delicious!” “No one, I bought it.” Laughter all around.) and finally tiramisu and coffee.

Of course, there were various wines and proseccos to choose from during the meal. And lots of talking. In a flip from my young days, it was the youthful half of the table who took pictures and videos of just about everything. The three-year-old boy across from me, Filiberto, delighted in all he discovered, that is, whatever was in reach. Growing gradually more engaged and histrionic as the meal progressed, Filiberto’s performance culminated in a generously sustained squeal and jumping up and down in celebration of a tower of cup holders he built with his uncle.

The faces. Oh, what expressive, open, unselfconscious faces. What sustained affection. What ease.

Amidst all this genial confusion, a couple of internal reflections played out.

Next to Puni on my left was Renzo’s sister, whose name I forget, a ceramicist with a studio in Orvieto. She looks so much like my mother’s brother’s wife, Philomena, that it made me dizzy. Even her hair, the way she arranged it, and the style of combs she used to hold it in place. Her style of clothing, the way she held her head, her gestures. Only her energy distinguishes her from my aunt.

Phil was a little crazy. She stole from my mother, lied to the people at church, and manipulated to such an extent that even her own offspring couldn’t deal with her. At the same time, as one does with family (even family by marriage) I loved her. When she first met my uncle, her prodding, high-energy ways were a breath of fresh air. They lived together for years — though Phil insisted on their perfect rectitude, perhaps correctly. Then they married, two weeks later began to argue, and never stopped for longer than it took to breathe. All of this came flooding back to me whenever I glanced to my left.

To my right was a young man who reminded me so much of a friend of about thirty years ago that I kept wanting to refer to common memories in a language he wouldn’t understand. I never caught his name either, and although not quite as virtual a resemblance as Renzo’s sister has to Phil, his energy made him so hauntingly familiar that I was startled whenever I saw him relating to his friends or taking another photo. We were good friends, me and the guy he reminded me of, then we drifted apart as will happen, so last night was a sort of unanticipated illusion of a reunion.

All through childhood I wanted to attend Christmas midnight mass. My mother never could stay up that late, and my father had famously not been to church since 1934 when they passed the collection plate twice. I don’t believe I ever did get to go. So last night I had high hopes that the family would all troop towards the Duomo shortly before midnight. The hour arrived before I knew it, the table rattled with everyone’s drumming, auguri was shouted, and a group of young people went for the gifts – but no one left the building.

The gift exchange was modest. Puni received a device for cutting potatoes into french fries. She looked at it as if it had been discovered in an Etruscan tomb. I tried to explain, but was intercepted by a girl in her late teens who seemed to consider the device to be the ultimate in modern technology. Perhaps it was her gift. She enthused as Puni continued to grow more perplexed. I could see her trying to find a place for the thing, still in its original box years hence, where it wouldn’t be in the way. The middle-aged man across the table from her took the gadget in hand and mimed how Puni would use it. But all she could think was why would anyone ever want to eat french fries at home, let alone have a special thing to make them with.

Renzo gave me two history books, one in English and Italian about the Etruscans, the other in English about the Duomo. I ordered a book for him too, but it has not yet arrived. The woman across from me who comforted her crying son (not Filiberto) with such patience that for a moment I mistook her for the mother of Christ, gifted me a little white angel, which, once I’ve given it a more careful inspection, I may be able to eat.

A celebration of the arrival of the light cannot help but cause reflections.

It comes in waves.

I live in a beautiful city with wonderful, kind people. I have great neighbors. I’m working on a script I’ve been struggling with for years, and thanks to a comment from a friend of mine here – who never even heard about the play before we shared dinner – something important clicked and I’m gaining traction.

But then I read about what’s going on in North Carolina – one of those states I have, in fact, never even been to – and paralysis set in.

Things today that helped me learn to move again were:

My super-neighbor, Renzo, delivered more little blue lights to help me decorate for Le Feste. While here, he took a look at the cabinet doors in my kitchen (which were never installed correctly, as it turns out) and at a wet patch on an exterior wall (probably a leak in a pipe that is embedded therein). Then he invited me for lunch and shared the best pan-cooked chicken I have ever tasted and salad of fennel and onion, carrot (and other things) that fit the same category within the world of salads. The topic of conversation was primarily about food. I worry I’m unable to be kind enough in return.

Then I walked towards Piazza della Repubblica to see if Gianlucca, who owns the used bookstore, had a copy of a book I think Renzo would enjoy. (I slyly asked if he had read it, and casually, while he was sorting salad.) Gianlucca found it on eBay, but not on his shelves. He allowed me verbally to despair about politics for a few minutes, and did his level best to see events from my American point of view – more than many of us are able to muster for an Italian. It helped.

I had bought a ticket to Canto di Natale (A Christmas Carol) this morning, and set out for Teatro Mancinelli not quite knowing what to expect. The only thing I understood about it last year was that it took place in the lobby and was aimed mainly at children, so I skipped it. But then Andrea told me it was wonderful, so this year it became an event not to to be missed.

It did start in the lobby. Hooded figures swooped out of the shadows – what seemed like a dozen of them – and then, after a short introduction by the fellow who would play all the nice guys conflated into one (Cratchit, Nephew Fred, etc.) he bid us follow him upstairs. He ushered us into a beautiful room, primarily yellow, and we found our places to watch Scrooge at his greedy, cranky, blustery worst.

Then Ebenezer went home, and we followed him into the grand upstairs lobby, so deftly changed by pieces of gauze and lighting, that I, for one, hardly knew where we were at first. There Marley issued his warnings, and an acrobatic nymph of a Spirit of Christmas Past gave Scrooge his first lesson in gaining kindness; face your sadness and fear.

For the Spirit of Christmas Present a tall man with a black beard, a blue bouffant wig, a tutu, and stubby angel wings took us into a room primarily blue, and encouraged us all to dance and party while he provided Scrooge with lesson two; be humble, put your little life into perspective.

Finally, we were sent back to the upper lobby where we were greeted by a tall man in black tie and tales wearing white makeup, who moved beautifully and gave us the Spirit of Christmas Yet to Come. We watched a little silent film of Old Joe and his minions trading quips and coins over Scrooge’s precious nothings that he valued so dearly in life, and Scrooge was given his final lesson: you will die regardless of fame, fortune, power, or conceit.

Then he welcomed Bob into his folding arms.  The actors bowed silly, exchanged places with the audience, and wished us happiness as we exited, employing hearty handshakes and warm smiles.

It all took about an hour, but was so rich it felt like two – in a good way. The company seemed large and varied, but only five actors bowed. The kids were enthralled. I was enthralled by the kids.

I came home, took the blue lights Renzo had provided, filled a large lantern I have on the outside stairway with them, and let them cascade. Renzo’s wife and mother-in-law, Patrizia and Puni, came onto their balcony as I was finishing. “Bello! Bello!” I thanked them, agreed, and probably glowed as brightly as the lights. They admired the scene for a bit, and as they turned into their apartment Puni asked if I’d had dinner, yet. Yes, I said. More than my fill. Thank you.

My travel chum and I went to Firenze for a couple of days this past week. We shared an apartment at Casalini in the tiny village of La Romola. Maria Teresa, who runs the agriturismo there, is a friend from way back.

We arrived in La Romola Wednesday afternoon and drove to Scandicci that evening to catch the tram into centro. I’d not seen Firenze so tranquil in decades. People were in the streets, but there were no crowds. The holiday lights – turned on a day early, perhaps as a kind of tech rehearsal – are impossibly beautiful and difficult to describe or photograph, at least in a way that does them justice. That Firenze values the arts is elegantly on display though the medium of tiny, white LEDs, ingeniously arranged.

We returned the next morning to a different city. Already at the tram stop it was evident that this was the day to go into centro. The station’s parking lot was jammed to overflowing, so we followed the lines of curb-parked vehicles to a little, roughly paved, residential street, and were lucky to find a casual spot there. By the time the tram had gone three stops, it resembled a Queens-bound train during the evening rush hour. Once into town, we found crowds on the major streets so thick you could hardly move. But it was a gloriously brilliant day with a brilliantly blue sky, the air was fresh, the sun warm, and the city lolled in its own loveliness.

We strolled – not that there was much choice as to speed of travel – stopping for a beverage here, a pastry there, a light lunch. I’d never been to Orsanmichele, the church I have long heard is closest to the Florentine heart, so that was a goal for the afternoon. Then we would look for posters advertising concerts for the evening. The last tram out of town is around one in the morning, so there was nothing to require an early return to the countryside. Or so we had concluded in our innocence.

We had installed ourselves in one of the large outdoor, tourist-dependent, over-priced bars on Piazza delle Signorie when, halfway through my mini-torta della nonna, I happened to feel at my coat pocket. Hmmm. Kind of empty. I felt the other. The same. I stood up. Catherine glanced away from the Neptune Fountain with a quizzical eye. I checked the pockets of my trousers. Kleenex, two euro. I dived into my back pack, found nothing, took a breath, and announced that I could not find the car key.

Catherine remained remarkably calm. So did, I. I checked everything four or five more times before suggesting that I revisit the string of bars and restaurants that had so far marked our day. That was deemed by both of us to be a complicated but necessary response. Catherine can’t walk long or quickly, so I set off alone, avoiding the main streets as I wound through the Roman city between Palazzo Vecchio and the Duomo.

As I went, I reviewed our possible options. Catherine had suggested we call the only person with a key to her apartment who has a car, ask him to search for the extra key (she wasn’t quite certain where she’d put it) and drive up with it the next morning. But first I would make sure the key wasn’t lying on the ground next to a chair where I had dropped it from my coat pocket while retrieving change or a tissue.

I moved quickly, but noted a singular lack of panic. Once the likely scenarios had played through my mind, I arrived at a point of certainty that this was a “false” emergency. That I’d left the key in the car, that the car was on a street no one would wander and so my stupidity was unlikely to be taken advantage of by a thief, and that there was no complicated rescue ahead of us that would involve grossly inconveniencing other people. But of course, one has to go through the steps, just the same. Speculative certainty didn’t mean we could kick back, enjoy a concert, then go in the dark and the cold to the car only to discover than my inner voice had been lying to me.

All the people at the food establishments we had lingered at were friendly, helpful, sympathetic. In fact, I had a great time describing the problem, searching without success, and receiving hopeful good wishes from everyone I dealt with. I’m not suggesting I would do the whole thing again on purpose, but it was more than not unpleasant, it was downright affirming.

Catherine met me on Piazza del Duomo, and we sat in the sun while she called our friend with her apartment key. She went into the bar to stand in a long line for the restroom while I watched her dog, Jake, at the curb. Jake is an adoration magnet. Not only was I not bothered at how long it took Catherine to return, I could have stood with him for hours. Young women squealed with delight, reserved men broke into smiles, older ladies stooped to pet him, babies in strollers stared, wide-eyed, hands reaching out. I exchanged glances and smiles with almost everyone who payed homage. Jake in the meantime craned his neck at each woman with blond hair who exited the bar.

By the time we arrived at the tram stop near the train station, Catherine had exhausted her allowed steps and was in considerable pain. The cars were packed, and she wasn’t able to find a seat. For two stops I watched her sink into a puddle, and practiced how I would ask the gentleman whose chair she was holding onto for the favor of exchanging places with her. I finally opened my mouth and talked. He was friendly, laughed a little, reported that he had just had a knee replacement, but that he was okay. Odd response, I thought. On the way to the next stop I reviewed what I’d said. I hadn’t specified that “the lady” was in pain, instead I had used the pronoun “lei” which is also used for second person formal address. So what I had asked may have been interpreted as a rather out-of-the-blue concern for his wellbeing rather than the request I’d intended.

In one of those sympathetic moments of internal exchange, he seemed to have replayed the conversation and come to the identical conclusion, for at the next stop he offered Catherine his seat. “I only have a couple more stops before I get off. I can deal.”

We arrived at Villa Costanza, at the other end of the line, and walked slowly towards the residential street where we had parked. When we got to the intersection, I bolted ahead, engaged by the mystery and suspense but still without anxiety. Inner reality; I left the key in the ignition. Outer reality; it would be disingenuous to pretend I don’t have a stake in the outcome. I arrived at the car and opened the door. My backpack wouldn’t allow me to climb in, so I removed it and placed it on the passenger seat. I leaned, put my hand where the key should have been and…

I pulled out the key and held it up in a victory salute. Catherine cheered. Jake looked up to see what the excitement was about. It was a false emergency after all. But the steps along the way are necessary, regardless of the anticipated result, for the learning that we hope occurs has greater value than we may ever know.

I came home from the far end of my street, Via delle Pertiche Prima. I’d just had an enjoyable “tea” with my friend Veronica, stopped by the ferramenta to see if Rafaelle might have time to fix a few things in my kitchenette (and to buy a new shower head while there) pet a cat, and enjoyed watching a dozen toddlers revel in their discovery of life. I already felt great.

I turned the corner from Via delle Donne to be greeted by the sight of three guys, three ladders, and twinkle lights. “Let the festivities begin,” I said as I approached. Renzo grinned, Gianni giggled, Giancarlo waved. The grand seasonal illumination, nationwide, is Thursday night. The good people of Via delle Pertiche Prima will be doing our part.

When I noticed last December that this little street made an extraordinary effort at beauty, all I could wonder while gazing at its hundred meters of lights, swags, and poles was how they figured out the electric bill. Some of us have feet of clay, I know, but really… what a community organization must be behind this, I thought!

Three weeks ago I came home to a similar sight; Renzo with a ladder replanting the sconces that are hung every three or four meters for the length of the street. The colors of Corsica, the quartiere we live in, are yellow and red. For spring and summer, the pots were planted with cascading petunia in the official colors, but they contracted a fungus, so in August, Renzo repotted them with red and white vinca. I could tell then he was a little distraught that the proper colors could only be approximated. The pansy that replaced the vinca are yellow and violet; a tad closer, but true art embraces limitations, and seriously, Renzo is a true artist.

By the time I’d reached my gate, Renzo had disappeared into his caverna and reemerged with several medium pots of pansies. I asked if he needed help. He grinned and shrugged and remained, best I could tell, non-committal. So, I went into my house and came out again carrying a ladder. We potted pansies past sunset and into an approaching storm. I’ve not felt so grateful and graced in years.

I offered to help tonight, too, but Renzo and Gianni both made it clear that as the job was already half done, and done by veterans, that all they needed was my moral support and appreciation. They turned on a few lights. The effect was magical. I gasped. They beamed and returned to work. I told them if they needed anything, to ring. Well, they did need to plug the lights they’d just hung into an electrical outlet. My curiosity of a year ago was about to be satisfied.

Gianni asked where my closest outlet was, for they were, after all, hanging lights on the wall to my garden. In the house. “Oh!” said Giancarlo, who was now leaning out of his second story window, “then hand me the wire, I’ll plug it in, your house is too far away.”

All along the street are metal mounts used to hang the banner poles in spring. For le feste the banners are removed and the poles, the pertiche, are wound with lights. Pertiche, as in the name of the street, refers to a Roman unit of measure of similar length to the English rod. I mentioned that tonight. “This was all orchards in the old days,” it was explained, “and they used pertiche to measure land, crop rows, the height of trees. The pertica became associated with this neighborhood. Hence, Via delle Pertiche Prima, Seconda, Vicolo delle Pertiche A, B, C, et cetera.” I pictured my little yard as part of a larger plantation, my house a storage shed, the soil well-tended, the apricot properly pruned.

At the neighborhood feast of a couple of weeks ago, a big topic of discussion was this year’s decorations. Last year, all the lights were colored. I found the street quite beautiful that way. But the dinner conversation seemed to revolve around getting new lights, LED’s, more efficient, more durable. And the subject of color was broached. I’m only speculating, but I think Renzo may have promoted white, a simpler look against the potted flowers on the walls (last spring’s innovation.) He turned to me and asked if I wanted to participate. Absolutely, I said! Can’t imagine anything more wonderful right now. “Good, then we’ll need several meters more of the new lights. That property was always a great darkness, now it will be a part of the street.” Others nodded in approval.

So, now I know who the movers and shapers are on Via delle Pertiche Prima, and how they’ve organized the electric bill; it goes something like “hand me the wire, I’ll plug it in.” Not quite the intricate systematization my American mind imagined, but it works – community planning, Italian style.

A friend of mine here has no choice but to shortly move back to the States in order to resolve personal matters, and is eager to experience as much of Italy as she can in the interim. Because I have a difficult time, both logistically and emotionally, of ever leaving Orvieto, we’ve become mutually companionable travel chums. Today was projected to be sunny, so she suggested we tour Villa d’Este in Tivoli, east of Rome. It would be her fourth visit to the Villa and its water gardens – my first.

A couple of weeks ago we took an day in Caprarola to see Palazzo Farnese. After wandering the cardinal’s humble residence and gardens (insert an ironic twist on the word “humble”) we sought lunch in town. The first place we came to seemed closed, but Catherine knocked anyway, and we were invited in to one of the best meals either of us could remember having. At its conclusion, Natale, the restaurant’s owner, recommended we check out the nearby church of Santa Maria della Consolazione. He pointed to a opening between buildings across the street. “You’ll turn right, go down a few steps under an arch, enter a small piazza, and the church will be straight ahead. You can’t possibly miss it. If it’s locked, go to the pasticceria across the piazza and ask the guy there for a key.”

Improbable as it may seem, that is exactly what we did.

The church is lovely with a richly carved wooden ceiling, paintings, and elaborate stucco work. Towards the end of our twenty or so minutes, we were joined by the ladies of its altar society come to decorate for Sunday mass. Each one looked familiar.

My mother was president of her altar society for thirty years, and I came to know the ladies quite well, having volunteered for twenty of those years to decorate for Christmas. My mother’s flock were all first-generation American, who if questioned about their backgrounds, associated with their immigrant roots before anything else. From those roots, sprung exotic flavors my generation never tasted, until we sought them out, ourselves — a quest that has dominated my adulthood.

So, this morning at nine, Catherine and I set off for Tivoli, eager for another adventure, another good lunch, another unexpected key to something. Tivoli is not far from Orvieto, about an hour forty minutes. At close to the halfway mark, the GPS warned us of an accident ahead, but warned too late for us to do anything to avoid it. As predicted, traffic began to slow, and five or six kilometers later, came to a halt. Then, something very Italian happened.

There is an aspect of Italian culture I attribute to residents of this peninsula having had to make the best of whatever circumstances they’ve been presented with for centuries on end; disasters of every kind, both man-make and natural. So, their reaction to inconvenience, like stopped traffic, is particularly accepting; a sort of “hey, we got off easy this time, let’s have fun!”

Once it became clear that this was going to be more than a brief interruption, about a third of the people left their cars to joke with each other, to trade opinions, personal information, a few of them smoked. The young father from the car in front of us walked ahead, sought news from up the line, shared it, returned to his car, made goofy faces at his daughter through the back window, then circulated again to tease and remark with those around him. He seemed to be having a great time, as, frankly, did everyone we saw strolling the autostrada this morning. It became, for a few minutes, a piazza, and the stalled traffic was interpreted as permission to promenade with strangers.

My travel companion correctly sized up the situation that had caused the interruption. Traffic in both directions had been stopped, she predicted, to allow for an air evacuation. Moments later, a helicopter lifted off a kilometer or so ahead of us. Those standing outside, looked up to watch. Her next observation was that debris would have to be cleared, and hard upon those words came a kind of platform truck used for that purpose. The assembly pivoted to note its passing. Then large rigs crept forward ever so slightly. Everyone instantly understood that the creeping promised movement – signs having been spied more easily from an elevated cab than from the level of a passenger vehicle – and into their cars they climbed. Almost immediately, the lanes flowing against us began to fill, and shortly after that, our lanes moved forward, albeit more slowly. We passed a car that had pierced the guard rail, badly shattered but alone, a few minutes later. “Heart attack,” I posited. “Or a text message,” Catherine countered.

The gardens of Villa d’Este are astounding. I read their history aloud, as put forth on Wikipedia, on our way there – all the names and layers of artists and patrons who contributed to their creation. But once there, I was reminded of the Italian response to traffic jams, surprisingly good lunches, and church keys. The gardens are a joyous and jubilant manifestation of a highly evolved ability to play, to make magic from basic things.

Water flows everywhere; rushing in channels, shooting up through nozzles, cascading into ponds and pools, falling over precipices. There is no machinery to propel or pressure this hydraulic miracle, it relies only on gravity and the ingenuity of its designers.

The Avenue of a Hundred Fountains features faces (a hundred? I didn’t bother to count) of animals, vaguely human, spitting water, each one unique. I couldn’t help but imagine what fun the stone masons must have had in carving them; faces that perhaps reflected those they saw in Tivoli’s piazzas, perhaps the angry faces of people inconvenienced by the garden project or outraged by the local cardinal’s repeated abuse of power, people who brought suit against him (unsuccessfully), who fumed and cursed at the foreign artisans who had invaded their lovely town, a town perched on a hillside overlooking Hadrian’s equally extravagant villa of a thousand years before which was quarried by the Este to augment their own glory.

Today is, as I was told, Italy’s first Black Friday, um… weekend. Of all the useless things to import, that is, by my lights, the crowning stupidity. Upon our return to Orvieto, my friend needed to pick up a few items at the Coop, a large, sleek, white, supermarket in a small mall in Orvieto Scalo. The place was packed. The lines were long and slow, so Orvietani transformed them into little social clubs, just as their countrymen had done this morning with stalled traffic. A stage had been set up in the common area that promised music or stories, I couldn’t tell which. Families crowded the lobby and transformed it into an indoor piazza.  Its commercial function grew lighter, less sterile, more socially useful.

My friend reported that there were cheap televisions being hyped into bargains, within, and those manipulations had caused manic behavior in a few of the customers. Nothing can offset the corrosive influence of consumerism, not entirely. And that this culture has found ways of countering the lies of the powerful with a kind gesture, a shrug, or a smile, does not prevent rude individuals, abrasive moments, or partisan delusion.

But, again and again, I am struck by a talent people here take utterly for granted; the talent for making life not only tolerable, but joyous, by the giving of their major attention to little things, things that are clever, beautiful, delicious. All the manipulations of the modern world fall helplessly at the feet of this sort of behavior, if not always or forever, at least for an eternal moment or two. And when we, who have invaded their towns and cities, can see them with the same eyes with which they regard stalled traffic or angry faces, we are graced with a glimpse of freedom as radiant as a stream of water dancing in the sun.

Michele gave me a lift from the train station in Scalo. His boys Mirò and Leo were in the back seat, cheerful and friendly as ever.

Michele practiced his English on me as we drove into the country, and merit to me, I encouraged him by returning in English. It was a turning point in my learning Italian; in short, conversation is not always about me, but it is always about us. Hey, Zarko! Wake up over there! Been trying to get that through your thick skull since you got here! And who knows how long before that?

Claudia and Enrico’s home in Monterubiaglio is an old stone house on two levels with a rooftop terrace that looks over the town. Cotta floors, open fireplace, stone drain board, deep set windows. It’s relaxed, kid-friendly, and thoroughly charming. We might say “authentic,” though as with any word co-opted by marketing forces, that begins to sound hollow when describing the real thing.

Enrico fixed a favorite of his, spaghetti with tuna sauce, Claudia prepared an arugula salad with tomatoes and onions, someone put together a cheese board, there was wonderful sour dough, whole wheat, brown German bread (ordered at the leather shop in Orvieto), regional wine, and sweets from Bavaria. The kids ate pasta, ran off to play, and returned for dessert. Some things are universal. Leo was the one who asked where he should take his empty plate – smiled, and followed instructions – before he ran off to join the others.

After the boys left, conversation turned to the American election, as it frequently does these days. Enrico referred to the photo of a sullen White House staff watching DJT coming in for his first meeting. He found it, passed it around, everyone shook their heads, groaned, then chuckled. He asked if I’d seen photos of Trump’s New York apartment. I’d not. Fake Renaissance, he said, not a place most people would care to call home.

Yesterday, an American friend and I took a day trip to Caprarola to see Palazzo Farnese. The Farnese were an exceedingly powerful Roman family of the Renaissance who had palazzos and villas surrounded by what were essentially their own private towns scattered all over Central Italy. The palazzo in Caprarola began as a fort, then was converted into a country seat for a powerful cardinal of the 16^th century. The finest and most admired architects, painters, sculptors, and landscapers were brought in to manage the conversion. The result is impressive, indeed. The artists did a fine job, and if their boss’s instructions exhibited a lack of good taste, they did well smoothing the rough edges.

Over and over again in the historical notes, various points of décor are described as extolling the cardinal’s virtues, showing him victorious over enemies, exhibiting his power, winning the admiration of the gods. It started me wondering what Trump’s apartment looks like.

Enrico had pictures of that, too. He showed them around after lunch. Mr. Trump did not have editors as strong as those employed by the Farnese cardinal (or perhaps the copyists Trump hired were second rate) and no one explained the symbology, but the apartment looks like a casino with – well, fake frescos. It reminded me of the joke about a sign in the palace at Versailles that warns “Do not try this at home.”

Claudia and Enrico’s youngest, Andreas, marched in with the Game of Risk, called Risoko in Italy. The adults made jokes about the name being shortly changed to the Game of Trump. Andreas, Leo and their fathers played a remarkably short set (they may have just ended it on a time limit, I don’t know for sure) while Claudia and I chatted and interacted with cats. The men invited me for a walk through the village, joined by their Risoko partners, trailing the older boys who were already at the soccer field.

We strolled, the boys ran, Enrico and Michele talked about the year it snowed so heavily, and unusually, and how the steep streets turned into recreation centers. The both remarked how magical it was. Lately from the American northeast, I held my tongue. Why snow on their parade?

After a few minutes at the soccer field, Claudia joined us. Andreas went off to the older boys, while Leo engaged Claudia and myself in our own game of soccer using a ball so tormented that it would hardly roll let alone bounce. Leo began as the goalie while Claudia and I attempted to score points. Having no idea what the rules are, I imitated. Leo turns out to be an excellent goalie for his age. Then gradually the game evolved into variations on soccer, until it became about throwing the ball backwards through a hole in the fence.

When I was about Leo’s age, my family had supper one summer night at the home of Gain and Jane John. Gain was a customer at my father’s auto repair shop, and Dad was always struggling to get his name straight. They were a lovely family and their house was a miracle to my young eyes with a wood paneled office where the front porch should have been, a conservatory, a grandfather clock, a baby grand piano, and copper bottomed cookware perfectly polished (the last intimidated my mother no end.)

After supper, somehow we fell into a game of pass the balloon, four adults, me, and the John’s daughter who must have been about four. It seemed to go on for a happy eternity, playing as equals, neither of the families all that familiar with the other. I kept replaying that unforgettable half hour today, and imagined Leo, fifty years from now, recalling his own memories of our tossing around a broken soccer ball.

The music of the band, Organicanto, began to be heard from the piazza, so we found our way back to the main event, La Festa del Bigonzone – the festival of the young wine. I’d been to the festival last year at the end of my third week here; I felt privileged, and stunned, and stiff, and more than a little frightened. The weather last year was mild, the piazza packed, the band… oh, my, the band was a miracle.

Organicanto are all local musicians who create music that is a mix of traditional folk, rock, and something else unique to them. Last year there were eight or ten members by the time I arrived. Instruments included bagpipe, flute, viola, clarinet, harmonica, concertina, guitar, stand up base, cello, and various percussive items. All that melodious instrumentation created a musical fabric that was so rich and expressive, I became a life-long fan on their first number. They traveled the world with each song, effortlessly and without pretense. Their lead concertina was, and is, a rock star.

This year the group was smaller, though it began to add members just as I had to leave. Consequently, their music was not as richly textured. But they were still worth the wait. Two little boys danced figure eights in front. Eventually their fathers joined them, first lifting them up in quasi ballroom style, then joining them in a jubilant circle dance. No one listening stood still for long. Except for Simone.

Simone is one of my favorite people in Monterubiaglio, and I’m not alone. He’s developmentally challenged in some way, but with a sly smile and a sweet disposition, and everyone cares for, helps, and protects him as much as they can. Last year, whenever I saw Simone he was in constant motion, holding hands, repeating his latest fascination, always in the middle of things, dancing jubilantly to Organicanto. Then, for reasons no one quite understands, his meds were changed. Now he passes about in a daze. People still try to engage him, it works briefly, then he runs out of energy, and wanders off. I’m heartbroken. Many are, and are trying to figure out how to influence an adjustment so we can have our friend back.

The roasted chestnuts, however (that last year were not so great) were excellent. And the wine was perfect. Whatever was missing will be back, maybe next year. So, we shrug, give a mental finger to the ghost of Mussolini and all those Renaissance cardinals who betrayed their faith for power, dress against the cold, and keep celebrating the oil and bread and wine and sausage and chestnuts and fennel in season and boys dancing with their fathers, for centuries without end. For now, we are fortunate. May our small celebration beat like the wings of a butterfly.