We are back to what I now think of as home after two weeks in the United States, specifically Alaska, where we watched my tiny baby boy run the Anchorage Marathon and where we saw an excessive amount of both taxidermed and not-yet-taxidermed (although clearly that lies ahead) wildlife.

Jonathan had never before watched Tris in a marathon, so this was his first experience standing not too far from the finish line and having runners collapse literally at your feet, requiring the immediate assistance of the medics, while you wait, heart pounding, for your own precious child to come into view.

And wait.

And wait -- so much so that when you finally see him coming, your screams are less of support than of relief. Far less.

He actually shaved some time off his record, which is an amazing thing to realize about someone whom you had feared collapsed somewhere, all wild and vivid imaginings so terrible that ten seconds seems like ten years. I have done this before so marathons in my mind are forever tied to stretchers on wheels and dread. But Tris seems to like them. It's a mystery.

The border guards at the airports both leaving and returning from here have begun to take an uncomfortably keen interest in me and my temporary visa. The permanent visa was supposed to be ready six months ago, but a bureaucratic morass the likes of which it is beyond my (or possibly anyone's) powers to explain has swallowed it and our immigration lawyer will buy a lovely seaside villa with the fees we are paying her to sort it out. We are hoping to be invited down for weekends.

And last night we went down to town to watch our friend Fabio, who lives across the street from us here in lovely Capriglia-by-the-Sea, play in his bluegrass band at a little club near the Porta Lucca. He is very good and he and I obviously admire the same music. Such similarity of tastes is unexpected (at least by me) in our tiny medieval village and is a true testament to the globe-spanning power of songs about heartbreak, moonshine, grinding poverty, and dogs.

 

The official publication day of my new book is tomorrow and the first publicity about it has appeared. It's kind of exciting!

http://page99test.blogspot.com/

The police arrived here unannounced on Tuesday. 

This, of course, triggered in me the old dread -- not "What have I done wrong?", but instead, "What of the many things that I've done wrong have I -- at last -- been caught at?" 

It turned out that they only wanted to verify that I actually live where I say that I live as part of one of my many applications to continue living here. There have been numerous applications, all of which exist in a netherworld of Italian bureaucratic limbo. And so neither Jonathan (who speaks Italian) nor I (who tries her very best to speak Italian) actually completely comprehend what it was all about.

All we know is that the police can get into our security gate without us letting them in, that I have a valid US passport with a picture that still looks like me, and that Jonathan's outfit of neon orange sports socks paired with Birkenstocks are humorous enough to engender good feeling even among initially stern-faced servants of the law, who (try as they might) cannot manage to maintain a straight face in the presence of such sartorial splendor. 

The entire town of lovely Capriglia-by-the-Sea is buried in blooming jasmine (as is our house) these days. This is a small place and it is not an exaggeration to say "the entire town" is doing something. During the time that we have lived here, when Jonathan and I take our evening walks, we have processed through different seasons -- the season of chestnuts, the season of sea views, the season of jasmine. And I feel like we (we who in spite of everything cling to this forlorn and lovely mountainside) have all been through them together.

I try to photograph the poppies that are blooming all among our olive trees here at the house. They glow along with the dandelions and the tall grass and the wildflowers that Mimmo leaves untouched for our delight. But no picture that I take seems to capture the moment of wonder I have every morning when I see them.

 

Last night Daniele told us about the time he ran the Rome Marathon. This was many years ago, before he and Alice were married, before they had even started to date or knew each other very well. The race was just about to start when he ran (not literally) into her. It was then that she first gave him her phone number. But he had nothing to write it down with at that moment. Then the gun went off to start the race. 

"For 26 miles!!!" he said. "For 26 miles while I ran I said that number over and over and over in my head so that I would not forget it!" He told us the number. He still remembers it.

We discovered a wasp nest up near the mailbox this morning. They are hideous-looking beasts, menacing black and almost as big as my thumb. 

"Oh, no," Jonathan said, "now we won't be able to get our mail!" 

Then we laughed and laughed.