After it rained for two weeks straight in Italy, we went off to Paris for a few days to be rained on in France.

I had transcendent experiences in a couple of museums and one art supply store. Walking into the relatively unoccupied and quiet second room of Monet's waterlilies in L'Orangerie made me gasp -- like falling breathless into cool water on a hot day, not knowing which way is up, unable to find the surface and not wanting to. And the glowing Chagalls we stumbled on unexpectedly in the Pompidou changed the whole way I see the world now. But the only place I actually cried was in the Maison de Pastel, where they have been making pastels since 1720, and where they bring out ancient wooden cases with the sticks of color laid out on cotton like delicate jewels.

But after five days of big city life, I was happy to come back to lovely Capriglia-by-the-Sea, where we were just in time for the Festival of the Big Chicken at the pub.

"I'm putting you at the table with the beasts," Alice said, which we took as a great compliment. Sitting among the beasts, we pass the dishes around family-style and pour each other wine from big carafes with great abandon. I was so abandoned, in fact, that when the plate of actual chicken heads passed by, I accidentally took one. (Spoiler Alert: the photo of it is at the bottom of this post, just past the pomegranates.) Then when I tired to stab it with a fork, the head spat juice out its beak and actually hit Jonathan in the face. An eyeball squirted out, too, but it only flew as far as my placemat. I did not continue my attempts to eat the head, but let it just sit there staring at me from the edge of my plate for the rest of the meal. When Alice tried to convince me to eat something made of chicken tongues by telling me it would be a once-in-a-lifetime experience, I declined. It was a gorgeous feast and ended with roasted chestnuts from our yard, which made us feel very loved.

Here are six random recent pictures. The last one is the chicken head. You have been warned.