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.