It has been just another typical Italian day. What can I say? It’s a tough life, but someb
ody has to do it. We got up today listening to the birds just outside our bedroom which is situated so that we can look directly into the treetops. The sky has been blue for the last week or so and the night quiet was interrupted just twice by t
he sounds of the wild boar being pursued by some courageous canine night hunters. We ate a quick breakfast and drove the three or so miles down the hillside into the little village of Tuoro. We had in mind to do what the Italians do, so we parked the car and walked into the piazza to find the local bar where people gather. We ordered our cappuccino with brioche (Mary Ann’s was filled with marmalade and mine with “crema”). The piazza was just as we hoped – busy with people of all sorts going about their business with a mid-morning break for “caffe.” There was a French woman studying her 501 Italian Verbs, the Pharmacia owner first greeting a friendly gray cat then sho
uting for a dog to stop its barking, and the procession of little old Italian women with shopping bags attached to their arms. We sipped our cappuccinos while we quizzed one another on the forms of the definite article and the way that Italian adjectives get changed to match the gender of the noun they describe. As we felt moved, we meandered back to the car to drive to a vineyard we had noticed on an earlier drive outside of town. The owner was there and she asked us (in English with a German a
ccent) in whose house we were staying. When we mentioned the owner’s name, she knew it well, proceeding to tell us the story of the day her daughter had waited until the day of her wedding to find a musician. It was the daughter of our hostess who had saved the day with her wonderful skill on the violin. We must have felt like family too, because she insisted that we try her wine and encouraged us to go out into the vineyard where she ju
st knew her “workers forgot to pick all of the grapes.” We can still taste those grapes and the wine but the memories are even richer. We came home and sat down to garden-ripened tomato slices topped with fresh mozzarella and basil drizzled with olive oil from the country where they know “olio d’ oliva.” Come and visit us but don’t bring your Daytimer. It doesn’t work here.
ody has to do it. We got up today listening to the birds just outside our bedroom which is situated so that we can look directly into the treetops. The sky has been blue for the last week or so and the night quiet was interrupted just twice by t
he sounds of the wild boar being pursued by some courageous canine night hunters. We ate a quick breakfast and drove the three or so miles down the hillside into the little village of Tuoro. We had in mind to do what the Italians do, so we parked the car and walked into the piazza to find the local bar where people gather. We ordered our cappuccino with brioche (Mary Ann’s was filled with marmalade and mine with “crema”). The piazza was just as we hoped – busy with people of all sorts going about their business with a mid-morning break for “caffe.” There was a French woman studying her 501 Italian Verbs, the Pharmacia owner first greeting a friendly gray cat then sho
uting for a dog to stop its barking, and the procession of little old Italian women with shopping bags attached to their arms. We sipped our cappuccinos while we quizzed one another on the forms of the definite article and the way that Italian adjectives get changed to match the gender of the noun they describe. As we felt moved, we meandered back to the car to drive to a vineyard we had noticed on an earlier drive outside of town. The owner was there and she asked us (in English with a German a
ccent) in whose house we were staying. When we mentioned the owner’s name, she knew it well, proceeding to tell us the story of the day her daughter had waited until the day of her wedding to find a musician. It was the daughter of our hostess who had saved the day with her wonderful skill on the violin. We must have felt like family too, because she insisted that we try her wine and encouraged us to go out into the vineyard where she ju
st knew her “workers forgot to pick all of the grapes.” We can still taste those grapes and the wine but the memories are even richer. We came home and sat down to garden-ripened tomato slices topped with fresh mozzarella and basil drizzled with olive oil from the country where they know “olio d’ oliva.” Come and visit us but don’t bring your Daytimer. It doesn’t work here. 
