It's nature red in tooth and claw out there lately, kids.

This morning, I innocently went out back to hang up our laundry on the line. While I was busy with my clothes pins, there a scuffling commotion and a loud thump and a big SNAKE fell from the roof of the house -- the house that I myself live in -- and landed on the paving stones at my feet. It did not bite me because it was locked in mortal combat with a big lizard that it was trying to consume head first. The lizard was having none of it and the two of them thrashed around underneath the clothesline -- the lizard half in and half out of the snake and the snake whipping its tail/body around in a frenzy. The lizard was using its tail and back feet (the only non-ingested parts of it visible) to fight off the snake. I have no idea what the ingested parts of it were doing. 

I screamed, but Jonathan didn't hear me. I had to run inside and call him to come out and save me, but by the time we got back, the snake and the lizard had both vanished. 

"I wish I got to see as much wildlife as you do," Jonathan said, while sort of poking at the wood pile that is just there in a attempt to flush them out.

I wish Jonathan got to see MORE wildlife than I do -- perhaps all of it, in fact. I would be content to hear the stories after the fact. Although I guess that the news that the roof of the house where you sleep (ha!) at night is infested with snakes is not particularly any more comforting for being second-hand.

Our friend Luciana who lives across the street tells us that she hit a wild boar with her car on the lovely Via Capriglia the other night. She says it sounded like an explosion. Fortunately, her car has "pedestrian air bags" that deploy outside the car when you hit someone. This seems like a very good idea to me and I'm surprised it has taken this long to come into common practice. The boar seems to have gone off uninjured and will live to be eaten later in the fall.

And the first wild porcini mushrooms showed up in the market this morning. How they managed to grow is a miracle given the searing heat and complete absence of rain for weeks on end. But they were there and I bought them and later today they will be sauteed in rosemary-infused olive oil and then eaten. They would go nicely with some roasted boar, but at the moment, all I have is the possibility of roasted viper.

In November 2022, I started the application process for my residence visa -- to which I am automatically entitled as the spouse of an Italian citizen. Yesterday (a full nine months into the process), my visa identification card was finally ready. (And this is only because we have retained the services of an immigration attorney -- without her help, we would be completely stymied.) The bureaucracy of the Italian Immigration Service is such that I actually at one point found myself wishing for the efficiency and orderliness of the Post Office. I mean, at the Post Office, when your number is called and you get to go up to the teller, you can never do whatever mail-related thing it is that you had wanted to do, but at least you get to go up and be told to fuck off in a systematic progression.

After milling around in a mob of others outside the Police Station in Forte dei Marmi for over an hour, we finally just snuck in on the heels of some Russian oligarchs who had arrived after us and were having none of this waiting-until-you're-called shit, but just pushed their way right in. Russian oligarchs do not stand around patiently in the heat. 

The actual handing over of the card itself took only five minutes and then we ran back to our car which was overparked by that point. I thought that getting the car towed would have been the icing on the bureaucratic cake, but that did not happen.

Instead, when we got home and I looked at the card itself, the real icing appeared. I was only given a one-year visa instead of the four-year visa that I should have been granted. And the one year starts from the time of my initial application -- nine months ago. So now I get to immediately begin the process all over again. In the meantime, until a new visa is actually granted to me (presumably about nine months from now), if I leave the country of Italy, there is every probability that I would not be allowed back in.

Fortunately, there are worse places to be trapped. There are certainly colder places.

 

At 10 p.m., it was 88 degrees in our bedroom. Jonathan and I had a discussion this afternoon about whether or not it would be worth putting on clothes just in order to go down to town and stand next to the butter in the grocery store and feel the chill coming off the refrigerated cases.

What we have now here is the life of nighttime. Dinner starts at 9:30 because it is simply too hot any time before then. There is no point in trying to go to sleep much before dawn. Only mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun. Better -- saner -- to spend the long afternoon hours sitting in the shade. The early evening is for singing. A person who thinks about ticking off the items on their to-do list is a fool and possibly a maniac. 

But in the deepest part of the night, there is often a breeze and it is easy to have ideas and visions.

For a long time, living here felt like being on vacation -- like Jonathan and I were only playing at living in Italy for a while. And then, someday, we would go back to our "real" life at "home."

But real things have started to happen here now and real life -- a life that doesn't revolve around marveling at the produce or gasping at the view -- has begun to ground us here. We are not on vacation.

Many months ago, I first noticed a white-haired, quiet, and frail-looking man among the more boisterous crew at the pub. He was often in the company of his son, who is maybe 50 or so years old, and also inclined to be quiet -- but kindly and shyly friendly. They are very sweet with each other. Our assumption has been that L, the son, is caring for his aged father.

But now we find out that, in fact, L has cancer -- every treatment has been tried, even the most experimental ones -- and after a period of remission, it has returned, very virulent. He can't work anymore or drive and he hasn't much longer. It was not what we thought -- that he was taking care of his frail old father. It is that his father is taking care of him.

And so, sometime soon, a face will be gone and hearts will be broken.

So yesterday, I was paying for my (obviously egregious) sins committed in a previous life by having to go to the Post Office. While I was waiting*, an elderly woman finished her business at one of the counters and as she left, she said to the room in general "Ciao, bimbi!" ("Bimbo" is Italian for "baby" and the plural of that is "bimbi," so this rather ancient woman basically said to the whole room full of the damned [i.e., people waiting their turn for customer "service" in the Post Office], "See ya, babies!")

Then this morning while I was in the Frutta D'Oro buying this lovely garlic braid and a fairly large quantity of apricots, an elderly man came in and said to the room at large, "Ciao, bimbi!" ("Hey, babies!")

So I feel fully justified in going ahead and unilaterally calling it now: this is the Hot Bimbo Summer. #Feelin'It

(*Jonathan was told that he would need to submit Form 251c in order to mail a birthday card to the US. As God is my witness, this is the truth. In the end, they didn't make him do it, but it was touch and go there for a while.)
 

 

We've had a short snap of cooler weather -- temps in the low 80s or even high 70s. Having assiduously acclimated ourselves to Inferno Italia, naturally we now feel chilly -- so much so that I wore long pants and a jacket to go down to the market in town on Saturday morning when the temperature was a mere 82 degrees. I'm not saying that it's logical; I'm just saying that it's real.

At the market, we bought extremely local honey from the road just below ours off the lovely Via Capriglia and also a big bunch of sunflowers. It is possible that our very own bees from right here at the house may have played a part in the production of both. 

Saturday night was the annual performance of the Cappezzano Monte Chorus, held in an abandoned quarry behind the church. Our friend Valerio gave us very specific and detailed directions for how to find it. "You can't miss it," he said. 

We missed it. But our adventures in the bustling metropolis of Cap. Monte (pop. 355 -- so half again as large as lovely Capriglia-by-the-Sea) turned out okay in the end when we we rescued by the director of the chorus herself, who led us through their rehearsal room where all the singers were warming up and where Valerio smiled and waved and, if he wondered how we ended up there after his very careful instructions, didn't say anything about it to our faces.

The concert itself was lovely and, although we won none of the raffle prizes (including a gift certificate for a free haircut), we were only one number off from winning the 5-litre can of local olive oil, which is probably the best outcome possible.

Since then, I have made a painting of one of the sunflowers, which is, I believe, legally required of of everyone who stays in Italy longer than six months. They check at the border when you try to exit and you are turned back if you haven't made at least one (photographs can also count, but nothing involving AI is accepted.)

And I am still plugging away on my new novel. I have no idea why. Maybe it doesn't matter why. Another piece of it is below.

We neither one of us even stayed in the state of Arkansas, which, for all its spacious piney woods and river bottom land is still not quite big enough for us and our mother at the same time. Brother teaches English 101 and Beginning Composition at a junior college in Oklahoma City and I managed two fried catfish houses in Memphis. It was hard work, but I liked it. Plus, there’s not a single alley cat in a 50-mile radius that wasn’t my friend.

            But the real reason I lived in Memphis is on account of my husband, Caleb. He’s the database administrator at the Elvis Presley Memorial Trauma Center. He started out as a nightshift network administrator and worked his way up. The first time I ever laid eyes on that man, I knew he was the one.

            It was high summer – the 4^th of July – and I was visiting my friend Betty at her folk’s place in Marked Tree, Arkansas, just across the Mississippi River from Memphis. It really tells you something about Babbitt that folks from there would vacation in Marked Tree and consider themselves lucky to do it. There was nothing in Marked Tree but about seventeen churches and a Dairy Freeze. And the Dairy Freeze looked to be about on its last legs.

            Still though, Betty’s folks lived there in some bottom land off Highway 308 and they were having a big 4^th of July barbecue and there I was, standing in a patch of boysenberry brambles and swatting away at the State Bird of Arkansas, the mosquito. Mrs. Dewlap, Betty’s mother, had sent all us young folks out to pick boysenberries down by the river for her famous boysenberry cobbler. Betty had already snuck three cases of beer down there to help fortify us for the task ahead because she still had hope then that some of us would come to visit her again someday. Betty was nobody’s fool.

            So we were swatting and picking and fortifying ourselves. Betty’s brother was there with a bunch of his friends from his job in Memphis and, let me tell you, those city kids were suffering. The only reason they think they have mosquitos in Memphis is because they have never been to Marked Tree.

            So this boy there who was originally from Louisiana and was pretty well fortified already tells this story about how one time back home he was walking down the road and he came up on two mosquitos that were in a ditch eating a baby cow and one mosquito says to the other, “Let’s you and me carry this baby cow over behind the barn and eat him there.” And the other mosquito says, “Nah, if we carry it back there, the big mosquitos will take it from us.”

            That boy was not Caleb. Caleb was a different boy, standing there listening to the story about the two mosquitos and then laughing. He laughed this bright, sharp laugh and his eyes crinkled all up. Well, a girl notices a man who laughs and his eyes crinkle all up. But that wasn’t all.      

He was kind of quiet, for one thing, which was unusual at that stage of the fortifying, and when people talked, he actually listened to them, paid attention to whatever foolishness they were saying. A man who will pay attention in such circumstances will surely pay attention when it comes to more important matters.

To tell you the truth, there was maybe not as much berry picking going on right then as Mrs. Dewlap might have hoped, what with the swatting and the fortifying and the foolishness, but this boy Caleb was doing more than his fair share. I watched him, his hands going gently through those brambles, slow and easy, one berry after another, careful so as not to bruise them, but firm. Those were some fine hands and that boy clearly knew how to take his time with them. Lord, I almost fainted right there in the mud. It might have been on account of loss of blood from the mosquitos, but it sure felt like passion.

I spent the whole rest of that day kind of sidling up next to him and then getting chicken and sidling off. But I kept on looking at his crinkled eyes and his slow hands and feeling faint and I knew he was it. It was long after midnight, after the cobbler and the bottle rockets were done and even the fireflies and Betty’s brother had gone to bed or at least passed out and only the katydids and the bullfrogs and the stars were out that he finally kissed me. That was almost thirty years ago and, even now, seeing his eyes crinkle all up when he laughs is still the one thing I miss most about being dead.

 

It is hard to write about summer. Pietrasanta is jammed with sunburnt Germans and Americans looking hopelessly for parking places and open tables, but nothing much is happening up here in lovely Capriglia-by-the-Sea. Of course, we are not hosting a crucifixion up here like they -- apparently -- are down in town. So that may account for presence of the more boisterous crowds down there.

It continues to be sweltering ("inferno" is the Italian word for "hell," incidentally) and we have been given conflicting information with regard to the prospects for this year's olive harvest. Mimmo is quite downcast, saying that we got too much rain in the spring and not enough now. The old men in the pub, however, assure us that it is no problem -- that the olives like the sun and that they can easily go as much as four months without water. Given that Mimmo spends his time farming olives and the old men spend theirs drinking wine under the shade trees, we have resigned ourselves to disappointment.

The summer sound is katydids. They seem to have an "on" switch that is suddenly hit every morning when the temperature reaches a certain point. They are so loud that they drown out even the birds (but not the singing that floats up from the pub sometimes in the late afternoons.) This is the sound of my own childhood summers (the katydids, not the Italian singing) and when we also catch sight of fireflies in the dusk-shadowed woods around our house, I am eight-years-old again in Arkansas and twilight is magic and the future is still only a jumbled-up dream.

We are not cooking much because of the heat, but eat salad after salad. The fruit spoils fast these days, even in the fridge, so I made peaches and apricots and lemons into a crostata. And I work away on a novel. I am at the place in the writing process where I have given up all hope over it, but work on it anyway -- perhaps from some sort of inner compulsion, perhaps just because it is too hot to go for a walk. Below is a section of it that is an actual true story that really happened to a high school friend of mine. He is an attorney now.

There’s a speed trap out on the highway at the edge of Babbitt, just before you get to the new feedmill, right where the Sonic Drive-In used to be before the emanations from the new feedmill significantly dampened down folk’s enthusiasm for outdoor dining in those particular atmospheric conditions. Jud sits out at the speed trap most afternoons in his police cruiser with the radar gun propped up on the dashboard and a good supply of international intrigue thriller novels in the seat next to him. He says he doesn’t mind the emanations now that he’s used to them.

            Jud loves those international intrigue thriller novels. He says they’re the reason he decided to go into crime prevention as a profession. There is no bookstore as such in Babbitt, but Darlene at the hardware store can get them wholesale from the same magazine distributor where she gets her Farmer’s Almanacs every year and she always does right by Jud whenever the magazine distributor comes around and, therefore, goes as fast as she wants out on the highway. She says she hit 120 one time, but Jud says she exaggerates and that it was only 115. Not a person in the world was surprised when they announced their engagement.

            Everybody in town knows about the speed trap and makes sure to slow down whenever they get close to it (which they can tell by the emanations) and to wave at Jud. Given this, it is unclear just how much of a trap it actually is, but Jud says he’s really there to catch the out-of-towners, the big-city speeders running through here with their tinted-window cars and their fancy high-octane engines like wild dogs through a cat’s pajamas. But there is nothing in particular in Babbitt for the fast-living jet set to come for – especially since the Sonic Drive-In closed down – and it’s not even remotely on the way to anywhere in particular, so Jud has himself a fairly relaxed beat out there at the speed trap. At one point there was even some talk of using town funds to get him a recliner to put next to the cruiser, but nothing came of it after Booty Cox took his driver’s license test.

            What happened was that Booty, who was known for having been kind of high-strung, was driving along with the certifier from the county DMV there in the car with him. He had already demonstrated how he could stop and start and turn right and turn left and merge onto the highway and was doing about as well as a high-strung person could be expected to do in a situation of uncommon tension like that when Jud saw him go by and, knowing how het up Booty was over the whole thing, waved real big at Booty for encouragement.

            Well, Booty didn’t see Jud wave on account of how tense he was having to look at the highway lines and the speedometer needle and everything else all at the same time, so Jud just tapped his horn to get Booty’s attention and waved real big again. But when a police cruiser taps its horn at a high-strung person like Booty Cox, all good intentions aside, it does not help the situation. In fact, it startled Booty, who thought Jud was waving him down and thought he had better stop. But in the excitement of the moment, he hit the gas pedal instead of the brake and went straight head-first into the drainage ditch by the side of the highway at about 60 miles an hour.

            He said later that it happened so fast he was hoping maybe he could fix the situation before the certifier from the DMV noticed. So he threw the car into reverse, kept his foot down hard on the gas, and shot backwards out of that drainage ditch like there were saber tooth tigers down there. He was thinking so hard about the gears, in the commotion, that he clean forgot that he needed to steer the car and lord only knows where he would have ended up if he hadn’t by chance backed straight into Jud’s cruiser going so fast that his car just kind of bounced off the cruiser and went directly right back into the ditch. Jud says he never would have believed it if he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes.

            When they finally came to a permanent stop, Booty asked the certifier from the DMV if this one incident would mean that he failed the test, given how well he had done with the stopping and the starting and the turning right and turning left and the merging and all, but the certifier wouldn’t even speak. Jud drove him back to the DMV in what was left of the cruiser and we heard later that he retired that very afternoon and moved away to Tulsa.

            Booty eventually passed the test six months later when the county DMV managed to convince another certifier to get into a car with him, but the town council decreed that Jud had to keep a lower profile from now on, so that was the end of the plan for the recliner. Folks felt that it would be conspicuous and might distract other high-strung people like Booty when they were out on the highway. For a time, people in Babbitt maintained a lively discussion among themselves as to who else in the world there could be who might even begin to do such a thing. Although several names were floated as possibilities, Booty was always at the pinnacle of the heap.

            All of this is just to say that the closer Brother and I got to Babbitt, the slower we drove, so that if Jud was out at the speed trap, we had absolutely no fear of a ticket. We weren’t going more than 20 miles an hour by the time we got to the Booty Cox Memorial Drainage Ditch and it still seemed too fast.