#77: Am I Italian Yet?
Ciao Nonni,
Hello from Lucca! I hope you're feeling ok today. I know you've had a bit of a rough time lately, so I'm sending an extra big hug this week.
Tuscany has finally come to the springtime party - and in style. It's that perfect post-winter climate where the sun is shining and warm, but the air is still crisp and cool enough to wear a light coat and keep you from getting too hot while riding your bike around town.
Two slightly less exciting arrivals are, of course, the pollen and the tourists. Both are out in force.
Hayfever is annoying, but largely solvable. I've just finished the last of my stash of Australian antihistamines, which means I'll have to go and run the gauntlet at the farmacia and see what they give me.
Like all service interactions here, the concept of "the customer is always right" just does not exist. In fact, usually the customer is very wrong, an idiot, and has no idea what is good for them. I don't think I have ever gone into a pharmacy and left with the exact thing that I wanted. But then, what they give me usually works - so maybe I should just shut up and take what I'm given.
The tourists, on the other hand.
I was horrified the other day when I was riding home along the walls (after dropping the kids at school) and I saw a woman walking in sandals. There was something about seeing bare toes this early in the season that was just completely wrong. Am I finally turning into an Italian when it comes to "rules" about dressing for the seasons? It seems quite possible.
This feeling of discomfort at seeing someone else dressed "inappropriately" happened again this morning.
It was a beautiful crisp and sunny morning, so I decided that the kids and I would walk to school.
On the way home, I made a quick little pit stop at my old favourite Pasticceria Dianda. For the first six months, this was an almost daily ritual, but recently I have been trying to cut down a bit on my crazy sugar consumption. So it's actually been a while between their excellent pastries.
The person who entered the bar after me was a woman dressed in an exercise t-shirt, bike shorts, and runners. But she didn't actually seem to have been running.
It was one of those moments where my conscious and subconscious brain had a real tussle to see who would come out on top.
Of course I know that in many places around the world, this is a totally normal outfit to get around in - even if you have no plans to actually exercise. I myself have worn similar clothing to many cafes around Australia.
On the other hand - it's only early April! Isn't she freezing? Surely at least a jacket is in order...
I think this might be the beginning of my transition to a judgemental old Italian lady.
Last weekend we had a short but sweet visit from Cameron Carter. It was so nice to have him make the not inconsiderable effort to hop across from Dublin after a work event, and as usual we had an absolute ball showing him around. The perfect weather really helped to show off our beautiful home town.
I feel like it is hard to form any negative opinions about a place when you spend mornings at the beach, enjoy heaping bowls of pasta for lunch, walk around the walls in the afternoons, and pass the early evenings chatting with friends, spritz in hand, while the kids run around the piazza in front of you.
We had a classic interaction at our first lunch. I drove the short distance down the road to Pisa Airport to collect Cameron, and on our arrival in Lucca we ducked into town to one of my favourite little restaurants for lunch.
We sat outside in the small piazza, and ordered plates of pasta and a mezzo litro di vino rosso. As we'd started a little late (around 1:30pm) and had plenty to catch up on, by the time we were wrapping up our meals it was after 2:30pm. This is usually when most places close up after lunch on a weekday.
Our waiter, who had been super friendly from the moment we arrived, approached us extremely apologetically and asked if we wouldn't mind paying the bill. He was very sorry to ask, but he was the last staff member at the restaurant (the chef presumably having scarpered as soon as the last food order had been sent spinning out from the kitchen a good hour ago). He wanted to lock up so that he could go home and sleep. He said that we could stay as long as we wanted, and just put our remaining glasses on the table by the door when we left.
It was one of those perfectly Italian moments that would never happen in Australia, for so many reasons.
Sending all my love, and a big hug. I hope you feel better soon!
Kate
