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.