Days

My days have settled into a rhythm of their own. I arise between 7 and 9, the time generally dependent on when the workers across the street begin making noise. I eat granola, yogurt, and maybe fruit for breakfast, then shower and make-up. I might write a bit next or head out for coffee at the Café, where cappuccino costs a bit more that other places in town, but I feel comfortable there. I can read a book while I warm my hands with a coffee or two. Sometimes I see Lana of Casantonio beginning her day with friends. She is always sure to say hello and sometimes gives me a three-cheeked kiss in greeting. I appreciate her friendly gesture.

Next, I pick up anything I might need for the day, perhaps some fruit or milk. Today is was two lemons at a little store where I was greeted by another customer, an elderly lady, headscarf tied securely under her chin to ward off drafts, who picked up my hand to see if I wore a wedding ring before she made sure to point out to the man working behind the counter that I was a “signorina” (“miss”). Perhaps she is the town matchmaker. Next, back across the piazza to buy white wine for a chicken dish I am making myself for dinner tonight, with a second portion for Maria, who brought me a glistening olive oil coated artichoke in a lovely blue dish last night. I have heard that I should never to cook for an Italian as they are the best cooks in the world, but Maria seemed to enjoy the chicken soup I make last week. Maybe it was more the gesture she appreciated, than the actual soup.

Weather permitting, I walk to the end of the park and read or just listen to music for 30 minutes to an hour, before walking back. Afternoons might be spent on laundry, cleaning, writing, or perhaps one of the 10 or so movies I thankfully brought with me. I usually visit the internet point in the evening around 6:00 to read email, accomplish any banking transactions, or update my blog.

Dinner is whenever I feel hungry, usually cooked at home. But, sometimes I sneak off to a carry out pizza place and point to whatever looks good, usually something with mushrooms, artichokes, or olives. The nice young lady heats it up in a toaster type oven, and then I carefully balance the pieces on my hand while picking my way down the hill on rubbery legs and back across the piazza toward home. I never attempt this stunt when the streets are wet. Disaster would be sure to follow!