Sunday in the hood

Our weekend workshop was Friday through Sunday, daytime, USA. Here it looked like afternoon through the next morning. Lew in one room participating on his zoom, and me in another, we managed to attend most.I gave up at 4:51 AM, and left Lew, who has amazing stamina. to stumble in a couple of hours later. We slept very late, and my eyes feel as though they have tiny weights handing from their lids. Napping is underrated.

Rappalo promised sunshine and a beautiful day, after we’d slept undecently until 9:30 or so. It would seem that a lot of people do close up their shops after the first weekend of October, and take their own vacations, recovering from our vacations. But as this seems to be an Italian vacation spot, this year anyway, we heard mostly Italian-speaking natives, who are very tolerant of us and our pitiful attemps to speak. It is amazing how many people have a few words, and gestures take up some of the slack, and pretty soon we’ve got contact.

Lew left me beach-side to soak up some rays, and an elderly woman was carted and placed carefully on the bench. I moved over, and she began a conversation that goes like this. Grazie, senora, ( her) Prego. (me). An unintelligible burst of Italian, with laughter. (her). Shaking my head, I apologized, explained that I was an American, and therefore couldn’t understand. She smiled, and I explained that my ancestors came from the Fontanabuona Valley nearby. Aha, she says, shaking her hands vigorously, so I am Italian? Si. (me) I tell her I have had a birthday trip, and she breaks out in a wide smile to tell me that her husband lived to be 90 years old. She herself is 94 and cackles. I get the impression that she is tickled at outliving him. Her daughter-in-law from Santo Domingo — I presume this based on her facial expressions of mingled disapproval and long suffering martyrdom and because I do not know the word for daughter in law — is married to an Italian. I have a lovely little unintelligible conversation with her before Lew arrives and I can introduce him to my new friend, who grasps my hands and we bow to each other just a little, both enriched, as we goodbye, offering good wishes, both enriched by our small encounter.

My Italian is a bunch of separate words without the connector-words and I can often figure out what is being said without understanding the whole. For some reason, people ask me for directions, here, where I don’t understand anything of significance, like I understand what they are speaking about, but not what actually happened or where things are. I usually answer, in some form or another, and wonder later if they got where they were going.

In my efforts to better understand Italian, I listen to radio, read newspapers, etc. Today’s topic on Italian radio was that this day was ‘Coming Out Day.’ There was lots of talk about things maschile ( masculine ) and things femenino ( female), along with words of diversity, binary, school, family, and it sounded positive. Every time someone came onto the radio and made a statement there was recorded applause that played.

Earlier we had eaten in a mountain top restaurant (Fabulous) next to a church that seems to be a destination due to an apparition a couple of centuries ago. From Rapallo, one can take a Funivia (fu knèe via) who is a cable car that runs up to the restaurant and accompanies what is called a ‘delightful hike’ up the side of the mountain. Along the way, we could see how the other half lives, with swimming pools, long handsome stone driveways, multiple car garages, and very, very, large pastel homes. I’m supposing if I had many millions ( accent on the many) I could live in this lovely place too, but for now, the ride alone was exquisite, the view amazing, and at the top? The worst cup of cappuccino I’ve ever had in Italy, just to bring me back to ground.

My favorite Santa Margherita source for sugar-free gelato was closed. (sadness)

Recycle bins – they are serious about recycling, with instructions on the packaging for most items, and public bins for people to take — and they really are earnest about it — to separate all of their stuff in a neighborhood, with glass, plastic, paper, food waste, and a large commercial program too. There seems to be a national consensus about participating, as the recycling ingredients are listed on each juice box, paper wrap, etc, that is sent from the store, not simply a number, although they have that, but also how much of each type is in the package.

Old men and small trucks. I have discovered a great fondness for old men in their jackets, courteous behavior that is often accompanied by sparkling eyes, sometimes red or yellow pants, and good shoes. Love em. Additionally, I should have one of the baby trucks that are around here. Tiny, Volkswagen-sized trucks with a bed and room for two. I don’t know how to get one, nor what I’d do with it, but I love them and want one.

When I wrote this blog the first time it was last night, and it was full of thoughts of the day. I’ve had to recreate it because some mysterious mosquito ate it. It vanished from my computer.

I bought some fruit. The one vendor who was ugly was from this transaction. I chose a lovely lobed Hearts of Blue tomato, with the intention of keeping the seeds for next year. I took the tomato to the owner, who then exploded on me — in disgust. So glad I don’t really understand Italian — before throwing my change onto the counter. Confused, I slunk back to my tablemates, criminal tomato in hand. Here, you do not handle anything, and I forgot that, grabbing the victim and handing it to the seller. One puts on plastic gloves available in the store, reads the item number and weighs it, putting the weight and price slip on the plastic bag, or you point to what you want and they do the choosing.

The next time we passed his store there was a generous sign saying DON’T TOUCH! I probably will never go into his store again. Ugly American indeed. But it really was a lovely tomato. I bought seeds in a package, and we ate the beauty.