Reasons to be cheerful

Weather’s crazy here right now. It’s a sunny blue-sky day with snow on them there hills. Two days ago it was as dark and stormy as a bad opening line, and the rain bucketed. They have that expression in Italian as well, for the rain ‘bucketing’ down.

But I’m not complaining about the weather. Ever. As long as everyone is safe.

It’s my birthday as I write this, and it has become the least important thing. Still, I might well have a couple more vinos than usual. The phone call this morning was to tell me that mia figlia, my darling daughter, is laid up in hospital, having been pushed to the ground by a drunk outside the restaurant where she works in Sydney. She cracked her head on the pavement. Sound familiar? I know!

Suddenly Mama feels a long way from home… I could almost sprout wings and fly back there without an aeroplane.

Thankfully, it seems she is fine, despite a slight fracture behind the left ear. We are so fortunate.

At the café, both Vasco and Giorgio greet me, Vasco with ‘Buon compleanno’ (happy birthday) and Giorgio singing “Happy birthday to you” (he enjoys brushing up on his English). They’re a bit perplexed when I explain what happened as well as I can, torturing the Italian language before losing it and performing a tearful blithering charade of a drunk man pushing Coco down in the street. I now wonder what the other customers made of it.

What could I do? Despite my non-believer status, as I’m in Italy, surrounded by churches, I walk into one on my way home from Caffé Garibaldi to thank the universe for keeping Coco safe and to think with compassion of those parents who have had it much worse.

The next day: Now I’ve prepared a little speech for when I see i miei due amici (my two friends) in the café today:

“Mi dispiace per essere una bambina cosi granda e piangere dappertutto..." You don't need the rest; this is what I said: “I am sorry for being such a big baby and crying everywhere. My daughter has a little head fracture… The doctors think she doesn’t have any permanent loss of hearing…”

The unexpected things that can happen when you’re travelling…

I took a little pleasure in the idea that after visiting the local dentista today I would have a pain in the left side of my head to (possibly) match Coco’s, all the better to empathise with her plight. I made this appuntamento more than a week ago, having agreed with the dentist that extraction was the way to go. As it turned out, the antibiotics she prescribed had banished an infection, and as the pain and swelling had disappeared I figured I would rather keep the tooth, even if only for an extra week or month or two, or until I get home. Read all about it: Tooth Lives to Bite Another Day.

Words, delicious words

Some Italian words are squisito – that is ‘delicious’ and it is commonly applied to food. I think it is appropriate because of the way words feel in the mouth. Like prezzemolo, so much tastier somehow than good old ‘parsley’. And what about papavero for 'poppy'?

Out walking in the nearby mountains with Ann, Carlo and Armando recently, I learned another delicious word: scoiattolo. It took a while to master. Sco-y-at-tolo. I love the way in Italian you’re meant to hear both letters of a double letter like that ‘t’, or the double in, for example, vittoria, victory. Vit-toria.

Scoiattolo means ‘squirrel’, and we saw evidence, in the form of many gnawed pine cones, that plenty of them were around.

A different pace

In Anghiari, as in many smaller towns in Italy, if you want to stock up on groceries, it is necessary to do so before 1pm when all the shops shut, or after 4pm or even 4.30pm when they open again. Between those hours you can imagine the tumbleweeds blowing through town and the odd lonely cowboy making his way down Main Viale. Apart from the cafes and restaurants, of course.

Imagine that it’s just before 7pm on a Saturday. Here in Anghiari, the macelleria (butcher shop) is full, the barber is busy, the clothing and gift shop on the corner is open, the Mastra Santi shop with its lovely marquetry boxes and framed pictures is open, across the road the jewellery and lingerie shops are both waiting for customers. Dinner for most might be at 8 or 8.30 or even later, even here in this small town. But from 1pm until 4pm, there's a hush. That’s how it goes.

Some residents who were born elsewhere complain that Anghiari is too “small-town” – everyone knows everyone’s business and you have to be careful not to make a mistake. (Maybe people who were born here complain of the same thing – I really don’t know yet.)

As someone passing through briefly, I have no problem with any of this, although I can imagine. What I do notice is how safe it feels.

When the grocery store closes for the big lunch and siesta break, its open trays of vegetables are left out in front as though nobody would dream of taking any. And they probably wouldn’t. The florist and other shops that sell potted plants leave their colourful offerings outside under completely accessible loose coverings overnight. Safe. The churches, with their beautiful centuries-old art works, are open at all hours with no one guarding them. How about that for small-town? It’s enchanting.

What I’m reading:

The wider world wouldn’t care what I’m reading but I know you are part of a select group of people who care for me, with whom I can have this sort of mundane conversation. So:

• The New York Times (international edition) on Saturdays. Started out buying it every day but found it wasn’t good value and the crossword was too weird to make it worthwhile. But Saturdays are good; especially, but not only, the book and theatre reviews and the Modern Love column in the Weekend section. It’s also good to get a wide, informed, around-the-world look at critical events.

Last Saturday the enormous gift of 13 original plays was included in its 84-page colour magazine. For 3.50 euros in total. You’re kidding! With what must be a healthy budget, the magazine commissioned playwrights to imagine the USA five years from now.

• The Sydney Morning Herald online. Especially enjoyed reading about Labor’s election campaign launch where Paul Keating, in fine form, drew the comparison between a lump of coal – “a fossil” – and Scott Morrison – “a fossil in a baseball cap, but a fossil nonetheless”. Gave me a good chuckle. Thanks Mr K.

• Books: I’m still on my Ruth Park binge, started a late last year. I love her more with every book. That’s enough now. Ciao, i miei amici. Vi amo.

A terracotta by local artist Andrea della Robbia, 15th C.