Thursday night, the Italian National Soccer Team played against Spain in the European Cup. I got a series of four texts from Daniele that morning:

"Catherina buongiorno"

"This evening we are making a spaghettata to watch the game."

"All together"

"If you would like to join us, we are happy."

(I am translating this to the best of my limited ability from Italian. "Spaghettata" is beyond the scope of Google Translate, but is also pretty self-explanatory.)

It is nice to be part of "all of us together."

It was a lovely night out on the terrace of the pub and Daniele is a genius with sauces, especially when he is just cooking for friends and lets his imagination go. He made a light glaze with lobster and parsley that looked like nothing on the plate, but exploded with a dozen layers of flavor in our mouths.

Italy lost the game 0-1 because one of the Italian players accidentally kicked the ball into our own goal. I felt just terrible for the guy. I mean, I have fucked up plenty in my life (and in far more serious situations), but never with an entire nation watching me.

Semina (whose real name is Francesco and who was wearing a t-shirt that said "This is business -- nothing personal" and had a picture of Marlon Brando on it) said that if the Spaniards were polite, they would follow suit and kick a ball into their own net. But they didn't and so now we know.

We all drank beer because Daniele told us we should when watching soccer and because the beer was free. But it amazes me that anyone in Italy drinks beer voluntarily when the beer is so bad and the wine is so good. But the price was right.

I think about how much my dad would have loved all this -- sitting all morning in the sun at the beach and reading while little kids dig holes in the sand with their tiny spades and then going in the evening to sit on the terrace of the pub and have a glass of wine with the old men and talk about the day's events.

We are only a few weeks away from Nonno's 91st birthday, but he doesn't think he will have a party this year, unlike last year's giant blowout for his 90th. It would be too sad with Mirio still so sick. I haven't seen Mirio in many weeks now and my heart sinks whenever I hear the ambulance siren coming up the hill from town below. And Renata is still not back from Poland.

Other than that, we have been very homebound. Jonathan threw out his back on Tuesday and, despite taking some pills from the doctor, is walking around all hunched over and groaning. And on Monday, I managed to break my right baby toe at the beach by gracefully slamming into the only hard object (the edge of a walkway) on the entire expanse of soft sand and cool blue water. So I hobble around with my foot all wrapped up like I've begun to explore a future in mummification.

In spite of all this, we are happy. The baby olives and baby grapes are doing well, the Lemon Bar has decorated itself with actual lemons lately, the beach club is fully open as are the hydrangeas, we have nowhere particular to go.