Barb Voyage!

LAZY DAYZ

Roseto By the Sea

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Everything in the town, typical of most of Italy and many Latin countries, closes from 1 to 4PM.  And I mean everything;  banks, post offices, grocery stores, pasta shops, restaurants (except for an occasional café), Church doors, and even most gas stations.

The streets are as empty as if it were 5AM.  People leave their jobs to eat the largest meal of the day and take a nap, then return to work at 4PM and continue to about 8PM.  Stores stay opened later, and restaurants, of course, much later.

Romans and other city-dwelling Italians are beginning to pour in to this popular seaside resort town, making the Lido nights more lively, and the morning beaches full of “waders” in the ankle-high Sea, as groups of vacationers, large and small, claim their umbrellas and chairs for which they have paid.  They “pitch their tents,” so to speak, and park themselves for hours on end.

Beach-walkers and lido-goers fill the boardwalk until midnight, when everyone, from babies to great grandparents, stroll back to their vacation rentals and hotels.  The evening light begins to fade at 10 or so, lingering a bit, to create a twilight effect when most in the United States have been in the dark for several hours.  I love this latitude.

The opposite occurs in the winter, with short daylight hours, and long periods of dusk and darkness.  In the winter, I prefer northern latitude cities, like Paris, over small quiet towns, because the glow of the city streetlights and crowds of people give the illusion of daylight, even when it is dark outside.

Dark or not, families stay out late here.  A great grandmother walks a little princess in her pram, while the two big brothers race around the square on their bikes, under the watchful eye of their great grandfather.  It is 11:30PM.  

A "Pop" Shot!!

Next I see a family of at least three generations stroll by eating gelato.  The young mother is carrying a newborn in a sling, while the father hoists a sticky two-year-old onto his shoulders.  The grandparents, holding hands,  follow the lively bunch.  I experience this in Mexico as well.  For them, night is a time for fun.

Two kittens sneak up towards the front porch on the second to the last step behind their mother, whom I have been calling “Chicken Little” because she is quite petite, and very skiddish.  The playful babies peak at us, as their mother gives me her usual semi-trusting stare.  

She had snuck into the house our first night there and made a feast of the leftover proscuito on the kitchen table.  Since then, we have fed her a handful of times.  Tonight was no exception, as I emptied a can of yummy wet mousse onto a plate and slid it toward the threesome. Cautiously and voraciously, they sucked up the welcomed treat.

Carolina then gingerly “shooshed” them off the porch.

“Don’t let them get too comfortable,” she said, as I stood back, a little frightened of the mama’s fangs and occasional protective hiss.  As pretty as the feline is, I don’t need to get too attached to an animal again.  My Mexican Siamese, whose name already escapes me, disappeared a few nights after I had decided she was mine.

There are a lot of wild cats roaming around here searching for food, but not human attention - unless food is involved.  A woman arrives nightly in the town square to feed about fifteen felines.  Her elderly mother sits in the passenger seat of their old red Fiat, while the “feeder” opens can after can of scrumptiousness for the “locals.”  

Cousin Gabriele

Occasionally, local friend or cousins will swing by our villa to visit, offer a hand, or deliver treats, like homemade cake from Mario and his wife, Dora.  Fresh zucchini from their garden added to our basket of tiny sweet plums, making a beautiful centerpiece, until we gobbled up the sweets and Carolina rolled shredded zucchini into “meatballs.”  This dish was a first for her, drowning the EQUALLY-SIZED circles in her sweet red sauce.  Delicious!

Giovanni leaned into me with all his weight, as he does when we walk, and gently plucked the colorful fruit from its branch. Oval-shaped and apricot-colored, my first passion fruit taste, straight from the vine, was a seedy surprise, as the pomegranate-looking red insides, burst in my mouth with mild sweetness.  

He then proceeded to give me a lesson on grape-pruning, explaining how to remove the leaves preceding each bunch, allowing the nutrients to “not-a stop along’a the way’s.”

“You can-a make-a the wine-a now-a, but it will be-a vinegar.  No-a sugar yet-a.”  He told me how his father had hired a woman to do this tedious leaf-removing job, and that he, ten-year-old Giovanni, would work along side her all day, from 7AM to 7PM.  At 87, he continues in this vane, spending most of every day “putzing” around the luscious, overgrown garden of fig, pear, leon, and other fruit trees, rosemary bushes, bougainvillea, oleander, likes, ginger, and more.

His work ethic is ingrained, as his attitude toward women. Solid, old-fashioned, and unchangeable.  Most of his “people” started with nothing, some making themselves small fortunes by pure blood, sweat, and tears, while others reaped the benefit of “post-War gifts” from the United States, allowing the to open businesses, build farms, and set a foundation of success for generations to come.

Carolina spends less time in the garden than years past, having done her share of picking and pruning since they bought this property over fifty years ago.  She managed to pick a colorful bouquet, however, for Giovanni to place at the graves of his loved ones.  His brother and wife arrived a few days ago, bearing a St. John the Baptist Day gift - a lovely wild berry torte, which we gobbled down, along with an ice cream bar from Mario’s family’s factory.

Carolina would prefer a gallon of scoop-able ice cream, as she has difficulty masticating due to an illness that affected her face and mouth a few years back.  For this reason, though she manages to gnaw on pizza and bread and cheese and prosciutto, she also makes herself a daily smoothie of crushed fruits mixed with a protein shake and some nutrient-rich powder.  She has been doing this by hand, because she forgot to bring her mini juicer.

We had hoped our trip to the Mercatone, a large retail store resembling Two Guys or Walmart, would produce a small juicer, but our efforts were in vain.  After waiting an hour in the blazing sun for the next bus in the direction of Pescara, we boarded, only to be informed by the bus driver, that the large business was selling out completely, only to be re-stocking in about two weeks.

Regardless, Carolina insisted on taking the trip.  She bought ten pairs of sports underwear, and I found some jazz slippers for the granddaughters.  Everything (which amounted to nothing), was 80% off.

With time to kill, we ate an ice cream cone while waiting for the next bus back to Roseto.  I had inhaled mine,  and informed Carolina that we had better start walking across the highway to the alleged bus stop.  She was still working on her cone when I escorted her directly across the busy highway to the bus sign, where there was fresh- cut brush, dirt, and some strewn garbage in place of what Carolina claims was once an actual bus stop.  A “precarious” place to wait, indeed.  Thirty minutes later, our ride rescued us from our hot, dangerous post.

Once I had Carolina settled at home, I took off on my bike, finally catching a photo, poor though it is, of the dangerous practice of riding on bike racks that I have witnessed here.  The “boardwalk” is busy with people walking, lots of children and baby carriages, elderly folk with canes and wheel chairs, and bikes.  Every time I see somebody standing on the back of a bike, helmet-less, no less, I cringe.  I wonder what their head injury statistics are.

Diving, scooping, rolling, and jumping with "butt floss" swimsuits is beyond me.  Nonetheless, lovely, flawless young girls play wildly, as they compete in volleyball on the sand.

My "Cruiser"- Circus Miranda
on far right

Every Shape and Size - Enjoying the Sun

Alive with people now, after a tranquil June, I get a thrill riding the beach cruiser along the boardwalk, people-watching, sunset-watching, and exploring.  I even got to see a beautiful white lioness in a circus cage, which made me cry.  

 But everything else about this magical, quaint place makes me very happy.  Grateful for a high school friend's openness to a "voice," I count this time as blessing, even as I hold the hands of her parents, being their ears and their eyes.

Me (in my dreams)

My private Accordion Concert!

Thursday Boardwalk Flea Market

A War Memorial