Sundays random thoughts under a massive rainstorm

We attended a meeting at home scheduled for 7:30 MT (3:30 AM here), and since sound travels quite a bit, we padded to the car to Zoom onto the meeting in the dark, setting the phone on the dashboard. Daughter Kelley didn’t need to be awakened with our chatter. Afterward, now wide awake, we read books through the night and slept late. I woke from a dream, a twisted plot from a WW2 book I’ve been reading, with bombs crashing overhead and lots of gunfire, and for a few moments, I was in grave danger from the Nazis. I wakened enough that the splendid storm overhead now sounded like wave after wave crashing onto some rocky shore, growing in intensity as it went along.

But no-it was an old-fashioned thunderstorm of magnificent proportions, the kind that Denver seldom ever has had. The kind where you stay in bed and read a book. You know that kind. Massive lightning strikes, extravagant thunder, heavy splats then constant beating against the roof and skylights, the reverb on the roof is the best all to begin over and over in some small cycles. We stayed in bed, only to emerge late, and have brunch fatto en casa ( made by hand) and laundry time.

We nearly had the cleaned, wet clothes out on a line, in what we hoped was a permanent rain-break, but it was a teaser-lull, a momentary cessation before beginning all over again. As I write this it is mid-afternoon, still raining and we have dinner plans; reservations at the #1 rated place, a prix-fixe in what looks to be a cavern. Anticipation is high.

The lights have gone out, the internet is down- OH NO -GOD FORBID- NOT THE INTERNET. We may be playing pinochle by flashlight soon if power doesn’t decide to return to us. It is now over 8 hours of constant downpour. On the other hand, as we come from Denver’s high desert location, this is quite entertaining. We never get our humidity this plumped up.

Enough weather chatter! Exciting to us, but not to anyone else. I may have to write those stories into my website and put out some of them, as I do, at Judithlavezzi.com. Meanwhile, we listen to the apartment building next door where they have a crying baby-it cries lots, and lots – must be a sensitive child — and we all know how to close our ears and not be bothered, but somewhere floating through the air we hear the weary mother, rather sharply lose her patience, and command “ Basta!” ( enough ) and smile knowing that it’s her problem and not ours. I am sure there is a German word for that in 16 syllables too. Something about compassion mixed together with gratitude that the poor person has to deal with it, and not yourself.

The lights and internet have returned. It is as dark outside as during the approach of a tornado, which I doubt they have here. But mudslides-hoo boy- they have those. With luck, we’ll have a fabulous dinner to remember the day by. When we arrive someplace for dinner, BTW, normally no one else is ever there. We Americani eat so much earlier than the Europeans that we always are finished with our leisurely continental pace about the time that the legitimate Europeans begin to arrive after 9 PM. This place doesn’t even open until 8:00 PM, and I wager we are the first in the door, again.

Okay – recap of dinner. This is a boring blog.

Before we even get inside our two-hundred-year-old cavern with roman arches and a stone ceiling, waitress Sabrina has to help us turn the car around. We’re perched on a space that almost has room for four cars, but without space to turn around and leave by way of the pedestrian bridge afterwards. We park in a flurry of Italian, hand signals, and cheery orders we don’t understand. This will later be a problem. Delightful, we all agree about the cozy, warm place. I presume the owners live above. Within minutes Sabrina, and Francesco, and we, are mugging for the camera, everyone is yelling formaggio ( cheese) and we are welcomed guests, and the food begins to arrive. We count 11 courses, maybe 12, each one something new, each in small plates, and each delivered with elan and it is possible that we had 6 appetizers before we got to the primi piatti. Lost count.

House wine loosened our spirits from the chill and rain. Lemoncello delivered as a digestive finished off our drinkers quite nicely. We were there at 8:00, and we left at 11:00 PM into a thick blanket of fog. The fun of leaving was movie-worthy. Us in the little black car with no room to turn around, Sabrina doing double duty as a parking attendant and director trying to get us turned around in a dime-sized space, yelling ESTOPPE every now and again, shouting instructions in Italian that no one knew translations for. She was soon joined by Francesco, both now yelling as we gained one inch, lost another, our vehicle whispered at the guardrail on the bridge but never kissed. Did I tell you how small it was? Finally, the chef also came out and was shouting instructions from the rear right, Sabrina from the front, and side, and Francesco from the rear left. Each one yelling directives, waving hands, and each one saying something different. Kelley and Judy convulsed with hysterical laughter, and Lew worked the wheel and brake, shifting back and forth, back and forth. All memories to be repeated later, and no doubt expanded upon whenever retelling happens.

Pepen is the name, and tell them the Lavezzi’s sent you. Be sure to park up top. Makes one’s day.