Meg flagged down a passing pedestrian to take this photo. In spite of my confident smile I was concerned he might run off with the camera.
A snapshot of the so-called 'Capriate Convocation', a seismic event in the world of book publishing, held over lunch in a sleepy suburb of Milan. Present are (l to r) Sr. Giuseppe Biffi, world-renowned artisan bookbinder and grilled fish connoisseur; Greg Hansen, publishing neophyte, poseur and erstwhile index-maker; Margaret Hansen, along for the ride (and the tasty prosciutto); Stefania Zacco, magnate, problem-solver, good fairy, chauffeur. Note the expertly bound folio-sized test volumes in the foreground; the finished product coming soon to a subscriber near you.
Margaret and her cousin Maryfrances embracing in Mary's front yard in Sovere. Just like old times, except for the ruined villa next door, which, incidentally, is for sale if anyone's interested.
Sergio (pron. 'Serjo') the wonder-chef, conjuring another batch of pizza dough. Sergio bakes pizzas, rolls, torts (cakes not law suits) and gelato in his spare time, sells them to folks in the community and donates all proceeds to a Catholic mission in Brazil. He is a VERY talented baker, the phone constantly was ringing with orders from customers and he spent his entire Saturday measuring, mixing, kneading...a remarkable display of faith and dedication. The gorgonzola/walnut/pear pizza was my favorite, while Margaret was partial to the eggplant/prosciutto. I believe Meg ate an entire liter of Sergio's chocolate-chip gelato by herself.
Driving to the supermarket, this was the scene...
Margaret and Elia, snoozing in the back of Maryfrances' Fiat. A hard right-hand turn soon had them both leaning the other direction.
Sovere (pron. 'SO-veh-day'), a village of 3,000 souls in the foothills of the Italian Alps. Home to Sergio, Maryfrances, Mattia, and Elia. Not a tourist in sight.
This photo fails to capture fully the chaos of an Italian supermarket parking lot. Autos are parked with complete disregard for the stripes on the pavement; in fact the stripes are a waste of paint. Parked cars crowd the storefront and limit traffic to one direction at a time. Mothers clutch their childrens' hands, walk nervously from car to store in the center of what lanes remain. The prevailing attitude is summed up in this carefree comment from Stefania, our charming book publishing coordinator and airport taxi service: "It is ok to be illegal when driving, as long as you are not immoral!"
Mattia, plotting his next move.
Greg, looking self-absorbed and condescending on a typical avenue in Sovere.
This street-sign was the source of much speculation and conjecture as Margaret and I strolled through Sovere. Clearly something is being prohibited, but what? The consequences are unambiguous: transgressoris will be puniti under a variety of local and regional codes, perhaps held for a year without trial in an Italian prison! Suitably awed, Meg and I took great pains to neither DIVIETO nor SCARICO, and, happily, avoided any grim outcomes.
A self-portrait of young--er, middle-aged lovers.
Margaret, suitably framed by the tangled terra cotta rooftops of Sovere.
Front steps, patio and door of our camere (rented room) in Vernazza, on the Ligurian coast. The door is nearly hobbit-small; one must reach below waist level to turn the knob then duck under the transom and descend two steps to enter. Nothing in Vernazza is regulation-sized. It would drive a vacationing building inspector mad.
View from our patio, where we enjoyed a languid breakfast of muesli, fruit, yogurt, orange juice, chocolate and foccacia bread.
View of Vernazza from the 12th-century stone tower atop the headland. Lookouts stationed in the tower would scan the Mediterranean for pirate ships and ring a warning bell when one appeared, sending the town-folk scurrying into the hills with their valuables and daughters. Now the tower is the domain of camera-wielding tourists.
Margaret smiling broadly. She's probably thinking about gelato.
Sun umbrellas shelter diners in the main square, while laundry floats on the afternoon breeze. The day was even more idyllic than it appears in the photograph.
Margaret, looking comely on the waterfront. The place agrees with her. I will have to take her back there again someday.
The unlikeliest door I have ever seen. I climbed the stairs and knocked, but no one answered.
Source of satiety; emporium of ecstasy; bastion of bliss. Hazelnut-chocolate is very good, and you can't go wrong with milk-caramel, but pistachio is the best. If Meg hasn't already told you her pistachio gelato story, she will. Soon.
Vernazza from a bluff on the trail to Monterosso. It is said that Vernazza once boasted one of Italy's best water polo teams, which would practice in the harbor behind the breakwater. Then the Italian water polo league imposed a rule that all water polo teams must have a regulation swimming pool, at which point the Vernazzan team disbanded in disgust.
Note by Margaret: This post was obviously written by Greg. This is just the beginning of our trip to Europe. There will be more to come... I must say that the small bit of MY pistachio gelato that Greg didn't eat... was amazing! And, I still love him very much despite this incident.
