Villa in the Hills

Saying yes to a dinner invitation on Saturday night took me on a long drive through the old city and into the hills above, to a beautiful house owned by some kind people who know how to eat.  After the initial pleasantries and meeting their pet squirrel (that's what I said), we got to feasting--all sitting or standing around the kitchen island with paper plates, helping ourselves to awesome formaggio and focaccia.  There was a fireplace casting soft light on everyone, lots of laughter, and rapid torrents of Italian coming from every direction all at once.  There was wine--oho, was there wine.  For primo we had pasta alla bolognese, and then more wine.  For secondo, wild boar, more wine.  For dessert, cake, cannoli, gelato on a stick.  (More wine.)  For a digestivo, the man of the house offered up amaro, whiskey, or grappa, and I jumped at the chance to have some grappa.  That stuff is seriously good and seriously strong.  I figure, ok, I may not be fluent in Italian, but loving grappa has got to count for something.  Franci's home-made fireworks ended the evening with a few colorful bangs.

Saturday night was also the last night of the Sanremo Music Festival, which is the biggest music event that happens in Italy.  Every year it goes on for a week, and works sort of like American Idol, except that it began in 1951 so it's quite a tradition.  When we got home we all collapsed on the couch to see who'd win the final competition, but I could only stay awake long enough to see a runway model trip over herself (Italian TV concerns itself almost solely with aesthetics) and a pasta commercial that declared "Where there's pasta, there's love."  Truth, man.  So much truth.

Sundays in Italy are slooow.  G and I took Mela for a walk in the evening.  He showed me another park from which, if you climb a bit, you can see the whole city.  Told me about how Bologna's in bad shape.  He noticed I've been writing a lot in my notebook, so we tentatively labeled me a "writer."  His favorite Italian poet is Eugenio Montale, who won a Nobel prize in 1975, and whose poetry is rather gorgeous, I found upon doing some research.  The sky was getting dark purple-y blue over the hills to the east, the wind started to pick up, the air was warm and I felt like I was home in summer before a storm. 

Feeling floaty and unmoored lately.  All this time and space to fill.  It's exhilarating, but also terrifying.

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