"But you just got back," exclaimed my furniture friend, DVM, his boyish visage assuming the star-struck expression of the recipient of a double-truckload order or of the exhilarating news that his devilish Dukies had landed another blue-chip recruit.
Well, we had, JSG and I, from New Zealand, on February 14th, but since now it was two months later and he had asked half in jest where we were headed next and when, what choice did I have but to unveil the embarrassing truth that shortly I would be embarking on my third trans-oceanic recreational journey in the past year?
In this case there were extenuating circumstances. Because when a friend tosses out an invitation to join him and his wife for a few days at their Italian villa, flexibility prevails, even if it leaves barely enough time to unpack, launder one's underwear, recycle a fortnight's mail and newspapers, resolve a company crisis or two, and reload the duffel bag.
Since our friends' view of cyclists -- strictly from the front seats of their rented Fiat Punto -- is that they are pesky lunatics asking for trouble on the narrow, twisting, hilly Italian roads, JSG and I will be forgoing our habitual mode of transportation and aerobic exercise. But not to worry; because for JSG the noun "vacation" is incomplete unless it be conjoined to the prescriptive adjective "active." In other words, if she can't ride, she's going to hike.
Which will require equipment considerably more trail worthy than the ragged running or work shoes she has seen me exhume once or twice a year for a Sharp Top outing and will send her on a reconnaissance mission to Outdoor Trails, knowing full well that left to my own resort I would fatally procrastinate. Amidst a display as intimidating as shelves of toothpaste in a drug store, she lights upon a bargain, and once I acclimate myself to the color blue -- a first for me, but, after all, a perfect match to my jeans and nearly all my socks -- and master the tieless laces -- which operate with a sliding clip, like a drawstring -- I'm sold, and the proud owner of a pair of Salomons even a cross-training enthusiast like my daughter can admire.
Since hiking is as abominable to our friends as cycling -- other than the trek back and forth to their residence, but more on that later -- it is up to JSG to plan this part of our itinerary. Why am I not surprised that she pinpoints one of the few places in the world that is accessible only by foot, mule, or boat, although that's a slight exaggeration; after centuries of isolation, a rail extension now passes through it, and in fact has turned this secluded corner of Italy into a magnet for tourists. Naturally it took my clueless self an on-site map perusal to fathom that "Cinque Terre" was not an area or province but, in translation, "Five Lands," or towns, all perched like peacocks on cliffs overlooking the Ligurian Sea.
Once one has seen a picture, it's etched into the brain as indelibly as that of his first granddaughter, now ten months hold. "Isn't this where we are going?" I say, directing JSG's attention toward the pastel palette splashed on the cover of a paperback I spy in the Charlotte Airport. "You've rooted through the libraries we already own, and come up empty. Maybe this is the book that's been waiting for you." Indeed it is, Beautiful Ruins, by Jess Walter, about a mythical sesta terra, which now she deems worthy of our Book Club and rests third in line on my upcoming reading list.
Whereas I formerly anticipated protracted plane rides with more trepidation than oral surgery, frequency has all but anesthetized me to the ordeal. In fact, once the marvel of aerodynamics lifts that 250-ton Airbus A330 off the runway, its increasing speed and altitude thrust me into a shrinking time warp.
Ten hours trapped in a steel cigar tube with three hundred other dazed captives? No problem: swallow a tiny anti-anxiety ativan pill; digest two hundred pages of sensationalism; hydrate on water, fruit juice, and coffee (no alcohol, please); circumnavigate the cabin at least three times en route to the lavatory, whether necessary or not; make the best of a couple of faux meals (the U. S. Air way: mac and cheese for dinner, a chocolate chip muffin for breakfast); test one's skill, luck, and patience at computerized sudoku, solitaire, and bejewled (a new one for me); surf through fifty movie selections but decide that the screen is too small and the earphones too annoying; mentally nudge the global positioned icon across the Atlantic; catch an upright nap or two, with his neck nestled in JSG's horseshoe Travelmate memory foam pillow; and before one can say "Buongiorno," he's on the ground at Rome's Fiumicino Airport.
Five hours and three transfers later we detrain at Vernazza, the second of the five towns looking north to south, and are immediately introduced to the first of the two predominant themes of this trip: climbing. After a few inadvertent downhill missteps we recalculate, and, lugging our three bags, trudge back uphill to our unpretentious (and elevator-less) pensione, where, of course, our cozy lodging is on the fourth floor. Our late afternoon exploration takes us up the circular staircase of the Doria Castle's Belforte watchtower, from which we admire the first of many panoramic views of the town and coastline, and three times to the summit of a rocky promontory, first to inspect the restaurant situated there (also the Belforte), second to reserve an outdoor table overlooking the sea, and finally to dine.
The next morning JSG, persistently law-abiding, leads us to the Visitors' Center to purchase admission to the trails linking Vernazza to its neighbors -- a bewildering encounter with perverse Italian logic. No tickets are being sold due to potential hazardous conditions from heavy rainfall and mudslides, yet all around us fellow travelers are setting out or trading tales of their previous days' adventures. We conclude that the trails are indeed open, and probably safe, yet the Park Service is turning a blind eye lest it be liable for any accidents, injury, or, I whisper in JSG's ear, fatalities.
With signage consisting of primitive scrawling buried in stone walls, heading south toward Corniglia we promptly make a wrong turn before being redirected by a sympathetic American. But once we're on our way, I am a believer.
The grandeur of this exercise is that we are walking not along the shore but above it, once we have scaled the heights that rise almost vertically from the sea. Depending on one's elevation, he looks forward, rearward, or down upon azure blue waters ruffled by gentle whitecaps, an undulating coastline defined by sweeping bays sculpted into the mountainside, and a spectrum of terra cotta canvases in coral, yellow, red, orange, and salmon stacked on top of one another like building blocks -- and each perspective is more spectacular than the last. Legend has it that local fishermen painted their houses different colors so that they could identify them when they were aboard their boats and confirm that their wives were home working.
Before long the combination of a warming temperature, the sun peeking through the clouds, and a steep ascent has me shedding my jacket and stuffing it into the JSG's backpack, which I have nobly volunteered to shoulder. Maintaining our pace and footing is a knee-rattling, quad-straining, and calf-stretching challenge as we traverse a variety of surfaces -- loose rocks and pebbles, treacherous roots, obstructive boulders, broad gullies, and flagstone steps carved into the hillside that at one point, according to one statistician, number three hundred and thirty and which are no less painful top to bottom than in reverse.
None of the above deters the horde of activists intent on tackling the Cinque Terre trails; it's a rush-hour traffic jam encompassing every make and model of age, nationality, and fitness level and exhibiting an all-too-familiar road rage. Senior citizens usurp the right-of-way, and propel themselves forward with long pointed sticks like giant praying mantises; one snags JSG in a bizarre insect dance. At one narrow intersection, we are stuck in park for interminable minutes as an endless chain of widebodies refuses to yield.
We do cross paths with a few friendly folks -- a couple from Kansas City (which elicits the quip, "Isn't that where everything's up to date?"), a youngster from Norfolk whose face lights up when he sees my Lynchburg, Virginia Turkey Trot polyester tee shirt, and an English teacher from France whose fluency in four languages keeps us from getting lost.
We pass fields sprinkled with bright cherry blossoms, lilies, violets, and poppies; lemon and olive groves enclosed by drystone walls; and sections of wire fencing where lovers have hung padlocks symbolizing their eternal devotion and thrown the keys into the sea. Suddenly we are surrounded by an army of head-high vines rising on terraces above and below us, their rustic uniformity intermittently pierced by a steel monorail used for hauling harvested grapes, the traditional farmers' sole concession to modern technology.
The next day is permeated with a "misery loves company" cordiality, as thirty minutes into our hike north toward Monterosso the heavens unleash a steady downpour, churning dirt into mud, filling slight depressions with deep puddles, and drenching the cotton shirt I should have worn yesterday, but dampening neither my socks (although the Salomons weren't advertised as waterproof) nor our spirits. "Are we halfway, yet?" hales a fellow coming our way, an absurdity to which I retort, "Are we?" When a woman inquires if I've seen her friends Mike and Jean, I reply, "You mean the two people I just saw slip-sliding away?"
We're rewarded for braving the elements. Halfway up the mountain, even under the darkening sky, there is one more breathtaking photo opportunity of the four towns to the south clinging to the cliff, each one progressively diminishing until the last, Riomaggiore, is barely visible, yet still glorious.
Upon every descent we are immersed in a hybridism of medieval totems and contemporary commercialism: Gothic churches guarding crowded squares; cobblestone alleys shadowed by imposing residences; green-shuttered windows decorated with flowered pots and trays; tiny shops bursting with homegrown mementos, jewelry, shoes, and clothing; sundresses hanging on rock walls; sidewalk bins overflowing with lush fruits and vegetables; twenty flavors of gelato beaming from glass showcases; outdoor diners savoring wine, seafood, and pasta; and the tantalizing odors of fresh focaccia and pastries wafting from hidden ovens.
Monterosso, boasting the only proper beach in the area and an adjacent multi-story hotel, is justly anointed a genuine resort, although the inclement weather has swept it clean of sunbathers. Between showers we linger by a public fountain and watch a boisterous dog-dunking before seeking warmth, shelter, and sustenance.
Corniglia, built on a one-thousand-foot-high cape with no access to the sea, is an outlier. We approach it from above, thus avoiding the nearly four hundred steps leading up from the train station, then wander out on a rocky terrace to swivel our heads back and forth, gawking at the other four towns off in the distance, two in each direction.
Tripping down a ravine no less steep funnels us into the charming hamlet of Manarola, where we circle the striking elevated piazza, surrender to a tempting menu and persuasive hostess, sniff out the perfect tee shirt (but not snagged until JSG returns later that afternoon), and peer over the bluff at the popular deep-water swimming hole thirty feet below.
Since the Via dell'Amore (Lovers' Walk) to Riomaggiore is not only closed for repairs but in fact blockaded, disdaining the train, we opt for the ferry. What native adventure would be complete without it? There's no dock, only a jagged shelf where a hundred passengers wait to cross a bouncing gangplank as the captain deftly holds his craft steady in the rolling surf. Once we're back on dry land, there's one more twisting climb to a hilltop botanical garden overlooking another rainbow of pastels.
But JSG has done her homework well. Because the trip advisers' consensus is that the most resplendent jewel of Cinque Terre -- and where we are anchored -- is Vernazza, which, compared to the others, is more relaxed, more insular, and more subtly protective of its Old World authenticity. By evening, the invading flocks have flown back to their own nests, leaving the main thoroughfare relatively quiet. We stroll to the waterfront square and promenade, where boats ring the curving, natural harbor, serene souls sip wine or slurp gelato, and dusk settles over a living painting of unique beauty.
Theme number two, which by now anyone who's been to Italy must surely have guessed, nicely balances theme number one, indeed makes it a necessity, to quote JSG. Because this is a land renowned for its cuisine, and, regardless of how one occupies his waking hours, never far from his mind are the critical matters of where his next meal is coming from and what treats the deities Bacchus, Ceres, and Neptune may have in store for him.
None fails to delight: arugula salad with squid; linguine with mussels, shrimp, and clams; blue ink squid trenette with seafood; fettuccini with mushrooms; spaghetti with whitefish, olives, and tomatoes; spinach ravioli with monkfish; eggplant parmigiana ("The secret is not to bread the eggplant," says the chef.); cannelloni ricotta; carmelized strawberries with ice cream.
Along the way we learn that baked pasta can be presented under a flaming crust; olive oil and balsamic are served with bread only by request, as dipping is strictly American; sparkling water is more refreshing than still; one liter of red wine is far too much for two sedate social drinkers, and not very good in a region known for its white (although none goes to waste); and every establishment claims to be the favorite of Rick Steves (whom we actually see in the flesh at the Belforte), two asserting that theirs is where he eats breakfast every morning.
If the fare at one of these, the Pirates' Cove, a wi-fi hot spot a few paces from our pensione, is not quite as superb as its proprietor, Massimo, repeatedly avows, the entertainment, in the form of his non-stop monologues, more than compensates. He's survived thirteen years in a location where five predecessors went bankrupt ("Rick says I've done well.") because, he says, "Up here, away from all the others, I have to serve good food," including the best coffee in Vernazza, at least if the standard of measurement is the cost of his machine, four thousand euros.
He reprimands JSG for picking among an array of stuffed cannelloni "the wrong one" and for ordering skim milk in her cappuccino ("It doesn't foam properly."), but with regard to eggs simply posts a sign on his counter, "Don't ask for them. This is Italy." He really doesn't mind Americans ("They don't complain; they just don't come back."), but decries Europeans for "not spending any money," and detests the Chinese because "all they do is mess up your store." He must like Dominicans, since he's hired two as waitresses, "because they're patient, unlike me, and good-looking, unlike my identical twin brother," whom he summons from the kitchen to prove his point.
If this lovely place seems plucked from a postcard, our following day's peregrinations are classic movie material. Standing on the platform waiting for our train to Pisa (via La Spezia), I surreptitiously relay my wallet from my hip to my front pocket, forewarned by the woeful tale of a nearby woman who had her passport filched -- from the inside of a double-zippered bag where it was attached to a hook. Apparently the culprits are familiar to the polizia locale, who nodded with recognition when she described two sisters jostling her on a rail car, yet whose motivation to enforce the law is on par with that of the trail vigilantes.
Although our next stop, the Pisa airport, is a little further from the train station than advertised -- a twenty-minute shuttle bus as opposed to a ten-minute walk -- we arrive in plenty of time for a quick panini and two judicious purchases at the Marina Militare boutique: a blue ribbed Patagonia look-alike jacket for JSG and a ball cap to replace the beloved Dryjoy I left in last night's restaurant. Our one-hour hop south to Rome along the coast offers some marvelous views of the verdant countryside set against a shimmering seascape.
"Just look for the signs to Europcar," instructed our friends, whom we are supposed to meet there. Well, this is Alitalia, not U. S. Airways, and our anticipated rendezvous consummates without a hitch. No sooner am I settled in with double espresso in hand than I hear the unmistakable southern drawl of JFD bemoaning the fifteen renters ahead of her. "I'm not waiting in that line," she says, delegating the task to her husband, FGD (the third).
Why is he so proud of having crammed a week's supply of clothing into a high schooler's backpack when one shirt is all he's ever needed anyway? On the other hand, I bow my head in reverence at the bargain-basement cost of their Sicilian junket, (which was so low he can't remember if it was $xxx per person or for both, including air fare with free upgrades and premium accommodations), courtesy of Gate 1 Travel -- just another in a plethora of globe-trotting deals they unearth as they collect credit cards like I do paperbacks and amass frequent-flier miles faster than a teenager does texting minutes.
Taormina, the resort they just left, must be well-deserving of the praise FGD lavishes upon it. He's willing to offer his extended family (five boys, two of them his, three of them hers, plus two spouses and a grandchild) the option of a vacation there when in fact our current destination, a worthy "plus one" appendage to my titular favolose cinque, earns profuse accolades from all who pass through its portals, especially when accompanied by FGD and JFD, who own a home there.
Our friend UPG calls it "Fantasyland," and indeed, for a person making his first approach after a two-hour car ride from Rome, Civita di Bagnoregio rises from the surrounding canyon like a sepia replica of Cinderella's Castle: a mystical mirage suspended in space; a jumble of rock, slate, earth, and mortar sliding down a mountain; a jaw-dropping, breathtaking window into a bygone era.
Founded 2500 years ago by the Etruscans, the town once stood proudly at the intersection of a network of important trade routes. For centuries it was ruled by feudal lords, the last of whom, the Monaldeschi, were overthrown in 1457; the triumph was commemorated by sculptures, still visible, of two lions grasping human heads placed over the welcoming Gate of Santa Maria.
Civita was already in a state of decline when a devastating earthquake shook it in 1695, damaging numerous structures and driving the bishop, the municipal government, and many citizens to its more stable suburb, Bagnoregio. During the ensuing centuries further seismic shocks, the corrosive effects of wind and rain on loose clay and sand ground cover, and the undermining of volcanic tufa rock by the two streams in the valley below gradually eroded the plateau edges, causing buildings and streets to crumble away and leaving the remainder balanced in a precarious equilibrium, destined to succumb to the march of geological time.
Quarantined from mechanized encroachment by an impregnable chasm, it is both vibrant and spectral, sunny and gloomy, contrasts epitomized by a landscape where muddy gullies stain the golden tuff. Once called "the dying city," it has foiled the curse of the splendid isolation that, while keeping the clamorous hounds of modernity at bay, threatened its survival. Although the permanent population hovers at a diminutive dozen, its rediscovery as an archaeological curiosity has inspired the rehabilitation of many residences and increased tourist traffic exponentially, so much so that the city fathers are now imposing a one-and-a-half euro entrance fee.
His palm duly greased, the elderly guard waves visitors onto the quarter-mile bridge that is the only means of access, other than parachute or helicopter. It's wide enough for the occasional ATV hauling carts back and forth laden with supplies and waste, for a camera-carrying couple walking side-by-side, and for solos dragging rollaboards or toting bags of groceries -- and daunting for all. Halfway across, its moderate declivity turns sharply upward, and by the time even the most compulsive fitness freak has conquered the span, he's gasping for breath. It's a false victory; concrete pavers give way to a steeply-pitched cobblestone ramp that doubles back on itself before the summit is finally attained.
Having been there twice before, I can circle the village in about thirty minutes; at JSG's more leisurely and studious pace, her photographic eye, like x-ray vision compared to my inveterate myopia, finds perfection around every corner: lush strands of ivy crawling across rock walls; potted geraniums marching up stairways, sunbathing on balconies, and dangling from window wells; massive arched doors emblazoned with intricate metalwork; secluded postage-stamp gardens beckoning behind gated enclosures; and alleyways and backyards ending in sheer cliffs and amazing vistas. Ancient pillars frame the Catholic Church that dominates the town square, where twice-yearly donkey races draw a throng of spectators.
FGD and JFD purchased their house in 2002, following in the footsteps of his sister, whose friend had stumbled upon Civita as an architectural restoration project many years earlier. The downstairs quarters include a couch and two chairs (which I offer to replace free of charge, provided FGD pays the shipping cost) gathered around a large stone fireplace, a rustic dining table and china cabinet overrun with plants and pottery, and a tiny kitchen tunneling back to an underground pantry. Upstairs are the master and guest bedrooms (the latter recently furnished with a pair of full-size memory foam mattresses, whose expansive comfort essentially barricades the closet) and the bathroom, where toilet paper is to be deployed sparingly (no problem for me), lest the delicate plumbing be harmed, and showering announced to the entire household, lest one be scalded by a simultaneous discharge from the sink below.
While very much a novelty, Civita is first and foremost a retreat -- from the buffeting waves of a materialistic, industrialized, and volatile society to the tranquil waters of one meditative, simplistic, and immutable. Oddly enough, since few people around are speaking English, the language barrier serves not to repel outsiders from this setting but to wrap them in more snugly. One amenity, however, is indispensable. No sooner are we arrived than JFD darts to the adjacent deluxe inn, where she cajoles the manager, Gustavo, into revealing the password to its wi-fi, so we can all fire up our phones, tablets, and laptops.
Within hours we are meeting other members of this miniature community: Yvonna, the graying, amiable entrepreneur who from the cigar-box cash register of her next-door gift shop, a low-overhead, high-markup model of retail efficiency, keeps watch over FGD and JFD's place in their absence; Tony, American expatriate, septuagenarian godfather, resident intellectual, esteemed engineer, now dispirited by the loss of his wife and hobbled by a botched knee replacement, yet still a gardener, whose tomato plants are flourishing, thanks to FGD's tender loving care; and the restaurant family of Sandro, who replenishes FGD's wine and olive oil bottles daily, his wife Maria, who greets us with a stirring rendition of Volare, and their son Mauritzio, whose double duty as chef and Rome policeman leaves him little time for sleep.
In a sense Civita's former strategic centrality has persisted into the twenty-first century. We're under the Umbrian sun, with Tuscany close by, and spread out all around us within a ninety-mile radius is a smorgasbord of riches -- gastronomic, oenological, historic, mercantile, and visual. FGD and JFD know the territory well, and are expert guides.
Our first stop is Bagnoregio. After grabbing two loaves of olive bread at the bakery, we head to the open air mall which is set up once a week in a large paved lot one block downhill from the main square. Rotating on a daily schedule from town to town, it's like a traveling circus, with stretch vans that maneuver in, entrench themselves, and then unfold like giant moths emerging from their cocoons. We're in the midst of a portable Wal-Mart, assorted free-standing booths purveying all manner of toiletries, detergents, pharmaceuticals, snack foods, paper products, beverages, linens, shirts, slacks, dresses, lingerie, jackets, fleeces, blouses, shorts, hats, shawls, hosiery, sneakers, loafers, dress shoes, sandals, belts, and jewelry. Further along is the fresh market section, a surfeit of recently harvested lettuces, asparagus, broccoli, artichokes, potatoes, tomatoes, eggplant, peppers, onions, scallions, oranges, lemons, and pears. Thin slices of aged cheeses are for sampling only, and not our primo piatto, JSG politely reminds me.
We're having lunch in Orvieto, only a thirty-minute drive. Sitting midway between Rome and Florence bestride a plug of volcanic rock and fields streaked with vines, cypress trees, and olive groves, it possesses a beauty all its own. For two stunning views, we detour to La Badia di Orvieto, a former abbey reborn as a luxury hotel, and to a popular winery, where the mistress is expecting seventy-five tourists and wonders who we are. JSG and I have about an hour to forage for jewelry (she buys a bracelet) and ceramics (she will come back later for two trays) and to admire the magnificent tripartite facade, the mosaics, the statuary, the cut marble, and the frescoes of the Duomo, the city's thirteenth century Gothic cathedral.
We follow FGD's directions up a side street to an innocuous wooden door bearing the sign: Trattoria del Orso. Inside, all the tables are reserved, although at only half will customers actually be seated; this is strictly a two-man operation, and the impressario, Gabrielle, admits only a select few, most of whom he either knows or are referrals. There are no menus; Gabrielle describes in broken English/Italian what he has prepared for the day, and, well, that's what one gets.
Six years ago when I was here (and acquired a taste for gorgonzola), the food was, to quote FGD and JFD, "to die for." Now it's "to kill for," (homicide having taken precedence over suicide, probably a wise adjustment), and rightfully so, since no finer can be found anywhere: strangozzi with black truffles, ricotta and spinach tortelli, arugula with spinach and eggplant, and thick spicy meatballs. FGD overhears an English couple (regulars, obviously; they own a farm just outside of town) commenting on the guinea fowl, and a plate mysteriously appears. In between courses Gabrielle reminisces with us about his years in New Jersey when he sold shoes to celebrities like Whitney Houston.
Two-and-a-half hours and two carafes of wine later, we emerge semi-inebriated and fully satiated.
This delicious scenario will be repeated with minor variations over the next three days: at Mauritzio's in Civita, seated next to Tony and Sandro, where the specialties of the day are artichoke soup, a whole baked artichoke unlike any I have ever seen before, and some sinful concoction of coffee, cream, nuts, and chocolate for dessert; from the deck of Gabbiano's facing the mirror-like stillness of Lake Bolsena, where we indulge in the local coregone trout (except for JFD, who orders pizza) and the french fries I have been craving for a week; and from the terrace of Osteria La Porta, in the hilltop village of Monticchiello, where the gorgeous rolling countryside, now green with cypress but soon to turn golden with wheat, forms an appetizing backdrop to our four pica pasta selections (lamb, duck, boar, and tomato for me) and three wine tastings, the last of which I discover is complimentary.
I almost miss that last lunch. We are in Pienze, a somewhat modernized world heritage site developed as a Renaissance planned community by Pope Pius II in the fifteenth century and now a bustling shopping mecca, and I get separated from the JSG, who knows when and where we are supposed to meet FGD and JFD. Fortunately FGD does not adhere strictly to his Sicilian tour leader's prescription for keeping on schedule: "Five minutes early is on time; on time is late; and five minutes late is left behind." I shouldn't have worried; JSG has been lured to an art gallery, where she consumes precious minutes before finally pulling the trigger on an exquisite oil painting.
One would think that after these five-star feasts our evening repasts back in Civita would be a let-down, but anyone who's had the pleasure of attending a dinner party catered by JFD knows that her own culinary skills are extraordinary, that she obsesses over every detail of preparation, and that her guests' satisfaction is always top priority. One night it's risotto with mushrooms, then spaghetti ragu, then lemon chicken. In seconds she has the fireplace blazing and a bed of coals smoldering at the perfect temperature for baking potatoes, grilling bratwurst, and toasting bruschetta. JSG calls it "cooking school"; assigned to salad-tossing, she learns the simple secret of pre-marinating the carrots and celery in rice vinegar. As for FGD, his job is to retrieve from the freezer the container of mixed gelati -- strawberry, pistachio, and terra mizzou -- homemade by the local emporium, while mine is to assure that a bare minimum of leftovers are available to succor the feral felines who congregate out front every morning.
Afterward each person extracts a device of choice to entertain himself or herself during the waning hours before we retire, which is usually hastened by another glass of wine or two on top of the bottle already dispensed with: an i-pad for FGD, so he can stay current on all breaking news regarding University of Virginia football and basketball, although both seasons ended months ago; a laptop for JFD, so she can continually monitor the Facebook pages of her three sons and her five hundred friends, lest she miss a "where I am right now" moment; a camera for JSG, so she can review the four hundred images she has digitalized over the past five days and dash outside for a few more; and for me an item doomed to obsolescence, a paperback book, appropriately published in 1968, Condominium, by John D. MacDonald, an engaging fictional expose of Florida real estate exploitation, as fifty senior residents of a shabbily constructed high-rise await the onslaught of a deadly hurricane.
But it's hard to sit still when the toe-tapping, head-shaking, finger-snapping sounds of an American Bandstand revival begin percolating from JFD's i-pod dock through a pair of strategically-placed speakers. "I just love music," she says, jumping her remote to another playlist of sixties, seventies, and eighties hits. They're all so familiar, yet when it comes to "Name That Tune," we're mostly flummoxed until the lyrics give it away. As for "Name That Artist," the only one out of a hundred I can correctly identify is The Isley Brothers ("This Old Heart of Mine"). Where's my friend JYH when I need him, whose ability to recall jokes and songs is legendary among the bar crowd at Oakwood Country Club?
Occasionally we are roused from our reveries when FGD, in an interlude of sobriety, launches into yet another retelling of some mildly humorous incident from his notorious past. He's like a gentle bear, gruff at times, and brutally transparent; but beneath that distended belly, which contracts or expands depending on his latest dietary fad, beats a heart of gold. He's been our family and corporate attorney for as long as I can remember, and whenever my eighty-eight-year-old mother has a question about her health, finances, or automobile, she calls FGD (for which I am eternally grateful). His personal life has been a whirlwind of reinvention, but he has finally found contentment in part-time practice, vegetable and turkey farming, global jet-setting, and an equally opinionated companion.
He takes us back to the thrilling days of yesteryear when the Washington and Lee alumni held a formal ball at the old Elks Club in Downtown Lynchburg, after which, around midnight, many revelers stampeded to the Texas Tavern at Fifth and Main for its signature cheesy western burger. After a long wait, FGD and NHD, his wife at the time, were finally being served when an intruding hand reached over his shoulder and snatched his sandwich right out from under his nose. When he heard the words, "Thank you very much," FGD didn't have to turn around to recognize who the culprit was; my father BRS, an incorrigible jokester. Since neither was aware of the business relationship between FGD and BRS, both NHD and my mother HPS were astonished at such rude behavior. But, as FGD says, as a young lawyer victimized by a major client, what else could he do but respond, "You're welcome. Have some fries."
He also likes to remind us that hell is not what it used to be. When he told his friend WPS that he intended to marry JFD even before they ever went out together, WPS predicted, "It will be a cold day in hell before that happens." Indeed, JFD had rebuffed numerous overtures from FGD before finally acquiescing to attending a party with him, as long as they went with another couple and she rode in the back seat with the other female. "And remember," she said, "this is not a date." After a few cocktails, FGD naturally wandered off to watch a football game. JFD went looking for him, and when she found him made the egregious error of scolding, "Some date you are." To which, of course, he replied, "But this is not a date."
They're now living "happily ever after," which should give us all hope. JSG and I stretch our own amorous bonds to the breaking point on our penultimate day, scouring the tortuous streets and alleys of Rome, map in hand, determined to eyeball every prominent landmark, which we manage to accomplish in an exhausting six hours: the Forum, the Colosseum, the Panthenon, the Capitoline Museum, the Piazza Navona, the Monument of Vittorio Emanuele II, the Circus Maximus, the Piazza del Popolo, the Vatican, and the Trevi Fountains. We skirt the Palatine Hill, refusing to pay the admission fee, my minor protest to greedy bureaucrats who have reduced the city's most beautiful spot to just another fishing net to snare euros.
Redemption comes during, what else, our last supper, at Alessio's, a restaurant recommended by our hotelier, where we fortify ourselves for the long ride home with spinach ravioli, fried eggplant salad, and panna cotta.
I wonder if the food will be nearly as good in -- Shanghai.
