Loretta Giacoletto

In America we expect our restaurant meals to be supersized with endless refills on coffee, iced tea, and fountain soda. Not so in Europe where restaurants don’t resort to one-price-all-you-can-eat buffets and consumers are conditioned to pay for their beverages by each cup or glass. Quality may play a part, or not. I once stayed at an elegant hotel in Lucerne, Switzerland where the Director of Hospitality treated me to the best cup of coffee I’ve ever tasted—so rich and full-bodied a mere six ounces called for a bit of cream, which I seldom use but that day added to the enjoyment and left me totally satisfied. Perhaps it was the porcelain cup and saucer, the tiny spoon I used to stir in my cream. Or maybe the plush ambiance of crystal chandeliers and damask upholstery … or the view of Lake Lucerne from a wide expanse of windows … in any case, if I close my eyes today I can still take in the aroma and delight of that unforgettable pleasure.

As for supersizing don’t get me started on American portions—those overpriced platters of pasta, big enough to feed a family of four, that restaurants insist their customers have come to expect and will either consume in one sitting or take home for tomorrow’s lunch. Throughout Europe a portion of pasta equals a standard four or five ounces, enough to satisfy but not feel stuffed and with just enough sauce to cover but not overwhelm. And that wonderful, irresistible European bread we Americans can’t get enough of is generally eaten at the beginning of the meal—not with the pasta, which comes later. In Italy as opposed to France, butter only on request—a quirky unnecessary necessity that usually identifies the American tourist.

Speaking of European breads, I’m reminded of a particular lunch I once shared with a dear friend and traveling companion in the heart of Vienna, a remarkable city known for its formality and tradition. We both ordered the wiener schnitzel, Austria’s version of cotoletta Milanese—flattened veal cutlets dipped in flour, eggs, and breadcrumbs and sautéed in olive oil and butter. Served with a sprinkle of quality cheese, or not, but always a wedge of lemon to spray on top. While G and I were waiting for our wiener schnitzel, we sipped German beer and sampled various breads tucked in a basket sitting on our table, admiring and munching on first one and then the other and the other—pumpernickel, dark rye, chewy Kaiser, and delicate cloverleaf rolls. What a delightful choice we’d made for our entree; the wiener schnitzel could’ve posed for the cover of bon appétit magazine. Cooked to golden brown perfection, our cutlets covered the entire luncheon-sized plate, every bite as good as the one before. And when it came time for the waitress to figure our bill, she asked how many breads we had eaten. Yikes! Little did we know our table service did not include the basket of bread, one that would be used and/or replenished for all those diners following us, those diners who knew the Viennese protocol better than G and I did.

Yes, indeed, they do things differently in Europe.

     If you’ve ever been to Disney World, you’re probably familiar with one of the park’s mottos: Half the Fun Is Getting There. Same goes for China too, at least when I was there some years ago.

     After spending time in Hong Kong, my traveling companions and I left via train from the Kowloon station, crossing by tunnel under Victoria Harbor and eventually reaching Mainland China. What a shock that was, leaving the teeming, cosmopolitan city of Hong Kong, where local businessmen and runway models walked around with cell phones attached to their ears before most Americans had discovered they couldn’t live without wireless devices, and shortly thereafter chugging through China’s rural countryside where farmers wore loose-fitting clothes and pointed straw hats, and balanced water buckets from a yoke straddling their shoulders while trudging through one rice field after the other.

     Our train came equipped with a female attendant who tended to the passenger needs. She wore a uniform similar to that of a flight attendant’s, and walked up and down the aisles, offering lukewarm tea from a battered aluminum teakettle. As we were nearing Guangzhou, formerly known as Canton, she changed hats—sort of—more like donned an apron and gloves, filled a bucket with soapy water, and started scrubbing the restroom located at the end of our train car.

     Our stay in Guangzhou was brief, just enough to sample the local Cantonese fare, an exotic array I no longer recall except for the crunchy little bones from snake or eel getting stuck between my teeth. Signs in Chinese and English posted around the restaurant ordered diners to turn off their cell phones. Huh? Who would’ve thought? Lots of signs throughout China, most with an English version that’s not quite accurate but nevertheless helpful to some travelers.

     From Guangzhou we flew south to Guangxi, a white-knuckle flight if ever there was. As soon as our plane left the ground, it started wobbling from side to side. My tray holder attached to the seat in front of me flew open and hung from one hinge while the plane groaned in its labored ascent. I closed my eyes, my life flashing before me. When I opened them again, my friend across the aisle giggled and said, “Did you see So-and-So moving her lips? I think she may’ve been praying.” So was I; so was I.

     Obviously, our prayers were answered since we did land in Guilin, a tourist mecca located on the River Li. The area defies description, surrounded by a dream-like landscape of karst hills and mountains, of wet, slippery caves filled with colorful stalagmites and stalactites unlike any I’d ever seen before. Our group even took a private riverboat cruise, passing little villages along the way as well as water buffalo enjoying the river’s cooling waters. Lunch was western-style, that is, China’s version of American fried chicken, served on china plates and with standard flatware instead of the usual chopsticks I’d finally mastered. After we’d eaten our food and drunk our tea, the crew piled all of the tableware into a large net and plunged everything up and down in the river, not too far from where the buffalo had relieved themselves. Pass the Tums, please. Hey, this is life and in China it’s not for the squeamish.

     Our main purpose for traveling to Guilin was a collaborative effort with the local medical school. The professors were gracious, also apologetic when we lost electrical power midway through an important lecture. “A daily occurrence,” one of our hosts explained during the spontaneous tea break we took while waiting for the lights to come on again. My warmest memory of that visit was meeting a physician I’d been communicating with for months via fax messages. She took me aside and presented me a keepsake I still treasure: a greeting-card size introduction to Cao Xueqin’s classic novel, A Dream of Red Mansions, an eighteenth-century tale about twelve beautiful women and their struggles with China’s ancient feudal system. I often wonder if she was trying to explain her own struggle, living and working under conditions in which fifteen per cent of the population belonged to the Communist Party that controlled the entire country.

     From Guilin, eight of our original group of twenty-five flew on to Xian (more about the Terracotta Warriors later) and from Xian to Beijing, We were accompanied on this leg of our trip by the official Minister of Transportation although I’m not sure why. Perhaps to make sure we didn’t stray off course. On the other hand, he did help us circumvent a crisis at Xian’s airport where a number of tourists had been camped out for several days due to a glitch with one or two in their flights. Not us, we sailed through the airport and onto the tarmac to board our next flight in which I sat next to the Minister of Transportation. No, we did not discuss politics. More tea, another battered kettle, fried chicken again, this time served cold from a paper container. But this plane didn’t wobble and my tray didn’t hang from one hinge. Nor did my life … well, you get the picture.

     Beijing then had more bicycles than buses, more buses than automobiles—and very few of those. About the SUVs or min-vans, I don’t recall, although the mini-van was our mode of transportation until the day we left for the airport and needed a bus to handle the ever-expanding luggage. Bumper to bumper traffic on the two-lane road turned what was supposed to be a two-hour drive into three while on the humble road adjacent to ours, the locals passed by us in their horse-drawn wagons loaded with supplies and passengers. Ah-h, yes, the China I remember.

     Fond memories that still make me appreciate my life in America.

       My husband D first met his paternal grandparents almost nineteen years ago in the Piedmont Region of Northern Italy, the foothills of the Italian Alps. It’s an area tourists rarely visit unless they’re searching out family connections, as was our case during the adult-kids family vacation I wrote about some blogs ago. That blog got so wordy I didn’t go into the details of the cemetery we visited then and every trip since. Located in the Sacre Valle’s village of Cintano, this compact cemetery dates back to the mid-nineteenth century, young by Italy’s centuries-old standards. Grave plots of the recently deceased are located in the mid-section surrounded by gravel walkways. Around the perimeter four walls contain the remains of deceased from decades before. Silk and fresh flower arrangements adorn the walls, as well as the ground plots. In Italy no one forgets the dead. That sunny day from long ago D’s cousin M directed us to the wall containing the Giacoletto family, among them D’s grandparents, their photographs preserved behind glass frames. D stood there quietly, a rarity for him, mesmerized by a moment never to be repeated. I didn’t ask what he was thinking then although to this day he still talks about the bittersweet experience of not having known them under different circumstances.

       Years later I created my own cemetery moment while writing an Italian/American saga entitled The Family Angel. I changed the location from Cintano to nearby Locano and my family’s cemetery—names I recognize by their American counterparts but no one I know through stories passed down from generation to generation. Although my grandmother’s arranged marriage did inspire me to create a character I named Louisa Valenza. You can read about her dilemma in this excerpt from The Family Angel:

       Forty-five minutes later and with her arms laden with wildflowers she’d picked along the way, Louisa arrived at the cemetery in Locana. She strolled through rows of concrete walls holding the bones of earlier generations, those precious remains that had been moved from the ground to make room for the newly deceased. At the end of one wall, she stopped and arranged a handful of flowers in an attached vase. She made the sign of the cross, kissed the fingertips of both hands, and held them to marble-encased photographs of the white-haired Fabiola and Massimo Valenza.

       “Buon giorno, Nonna … buon giorno, Nonno,” Louisa said to the photographs. “This is not my usual weekly visit but I could not pass by without stopping to say hello.”

       But this morning belonged to Anna Valenza, at peace in the ground next to her husband Vincenzo. New grass sprouted from the adjoining plot of dirt disturbed six weeks before. Louisa honored the graves with her remaining flowers. She crossed herself again, and applied finger kisses to images of a man and woman in their prime, before the ravages of old age and illness had changed their appearance.

       Louisa stepped back and took a deep breath.

       “Yesterday this letter came, Ma.” She waved the single page at her parents’ stone. “Massimo wrote it but he speaks for Vincenzo too. They want me in America, after all these years and all their promises. Of course, I never would have left you, even if you had insisted, which you never did nor did I expect you to, although it would’ve made my staying easier. Anyway, it seems a paesano has fallen in love with my picture—that horrible photograph I begged you not to send. I’m thinking maybe I should go. Matteo and Aldo, they have their own lives. They need the extra space your apartment would provide more than a sister who may never find a worthy husband. It’s not that I’m complaining, you understand. But the best ones got away while I was … never mind.

       “This paesano—his name is Carlo Baggio—comes from Pont Canavese. He has money, how much I don’t know, but enough to pay my passage and court me in a proper manner. If we do marry, I might give him one baby … maybe two, just in case the evil eye decides to put a curse on our meager family. About America, they say it’s the land of opportunity. I’m thinking about starting a business there—that is, if I go. Maybe a nice trattoria, because in America anything is possible, isn’t that what has kept Massimo and Vincenzo there?

       “So, I’m here for your approval, a sign telling me to accept this offer for a life. It’s not that I expect the earth to shake, or lightening to split a chestnut tree down the middle. I just need to know I’m making the right decision. Amen.”

       Louisa closed her eyes and waited. And waited some more.

       When nothing happened, she trudged back to the stone house in Monte Piano, a ninety-minute upward trek requiring twice the effort of her downward walk. During the next week she returned to the cemetery every other day, each time leaving without satisfaction. At the end of her fourth visit, she was closing the cemetery gate when a middle-aged woman came by in a mule-drawn cart and stopped across the road.

       “Louisa Valenza,” the woman called out, waving a crumpled letter similar to the way Massimo’s now looked. She climbed down from her cart and hobbled over, her face gripped with pain. “My daughter writes that you might go to America.”

       Louisa answered with a crooked smile.

       “Don’t you remember me, Vita Grasso from Salle? Your mama—God rest her soul, the woman was a saint—I will never forget her kindness.” Signora Grasso grabbed Louisa’s hand, covered it with kisses. She looked up, teary-eyed and lip quivering. “Ten years ago, my daughter got herself in the worse kind of trouble. Surely, you remember … the shame Tillie and that simpering padre brought our family.”

       “Yes … of course,” Louisa said, unable to recall the incident or either woman.

       “It was your mama who contacted her sons in America. They arranged for Tillie’s passage, helped her find a job, but not a husband … scandalous news travels the world, not that I blame your brothers. To this day she rents a nice apartment from them.”

       “Bene, bene. Ma would’ve expected no less from Massimo and Vincenzo.”

        “My Tillie works in a factory and sends me what little she can.”

       “So everything worked out for the best.”

       “At first, but now I am growing old.” She lifted her skirt to reveal thick legs, bruised and ulcerated. “When you get to America, tell my daughter I need her back home. You’ll do that, won’t you? To honor the memory of Anna Valenza, grazie, I can see the answer in your eyes.”

        Thank you, Ma. Louisa went straight to the post office, and mailed the letter she’d written to Massimo the week before.

       Here’s to a new year filled with good will, good health, and at least one good reason to laugh every day. 2012 has already brought some changes and updates to my website, including the newly posted “My Ave Museo,” one of twelve stories included in my eBook anthology, A Collection of Givers and Takers, available through Amazon Kindle, Barnes and Noble Nook, and iTunes/Apple among others.

       You can read “My Ave Museo” in its entirety under my website’s Short Stories section. This tale reveals one woman’s obsession over shoes and how she’d rather spend time with her ridiculously extensive collection than with her ridiculously dysfunctional family. Uh, no … “My Ave Museo” is not autobiographical, although I once went under the knife for a bunionectomy and there were those problems with my mother but my daughter’s perfectly normal and has never given me any grief, in fact she designed my website so if there’s anything you don’t like about the site, blame it on her.

       On the other hand, if you’ve ever read and enjoyed any of my novels or published stories, you can spread the word by posting a review on Amazon Kindle, or Nook or iTunes/Apple or your favorite eBook distribution or readers site. Don’t be shy, especially if you really liked what I wrote and want to let others know … do you have any idea how many people read these things?

       In another life I was fortunate to have visited Paris several times, once as a paying guest in the fabulous  George V, hotel to the rich and famous and where I spied a celebrity hanging out in the lobby—actress Cheryl Ladd, a few years after her stint on Charlie’s Angels but still looking terrific in a pair of tight-fitting jeans and, as I recall, a Western-style suede jacket. Seeing all-American Cheryl reminded me of the good ol’ U.S. of A., by then having been away for almost two weeks, most of that time spent on business in The Netherlands and Belgium. Although I’d enjoyed a daily dose or three of fine wines, many I’d not sampled before, my taste buds had been hankering for America’s Numero Uno beverage—Coca Cola. And not just any Coke, it had to be Diet Coke, which had yet to find its ways across the Atlantic drink. Or if it had, not to the George V which did offer regular Coke, the six-ounce classic in a glass bottle that a compassionate person from the kitchen staff produced for me one evening around 9 o’clock. Not quite what I wanted but nevertheless I took the plunge, one costing me the equivalent of six dollars in American cash—the equivalent of ten dollars in today’s inflated market. So, if we’re talking Euros to Dollars that comes to thirteen dollars. Yikes! Ah-h, but worth every … pen … er … dollar.

       And speaking of inflation, the George V’s continental breakfast I ate every morning—a small basket of mini muffins, orange juice, and coffee—cost twelve dollars then, which would make it twenty now, more likely twenty-six by today’s Euro equation. The George V’s American breakfast—add bacon and eggs to the continental juice, muffins, and coffee—would’ve cost the Japanese tourists sitting at the table next to me twenty-five dollars then. Forty-two dollars today—don’t ask about the Yen, I’m not that anal. But hey, it was the George V. If you can afford to stay there, you’re not supposed to quibble about a few hundred Francs here, a few hundred Francs there.

       As for the French wine, I knew enough to step away from the hotel and sample what the everyday Parisian takes for granted. A carafe of dry red in an inexpensive bistro that set me back about four dollars then would cost in the neighborhood of $6.65 now, considering the Euro, more like $8.65. Still a bargain for two glasses that went down oh so smoothly, the perfect accompaniment for an inexpensive mid-day meal.

       By the time I returned to Paris a few years later, I’d learned a few more things about the art of tourist frugality and located a whole six-pack of Diet Coke in a small convenience store on a street adjacent to Boulevard Saint-Germain. Six dollars then, you’ve thought I’d struck gold. I also discovered McDonald’s on the Champs Elysees—can’t beat the prices there, although I don’t recall anymore what they were, except they must’ve been affordable or I surely would’ve remembered. Not that I’m a McDonald’s aficionado, you understand, only when I’m traveling abroad and have an uncontrollable urge for Diet Coke. Confession: in addition to the McDonald’s on the Champs Elysees, I’ve indulged my thirst at the one near Rome’s Piazza di Spagna on two separate trips and once at Mont Blanc’s Chamonix. You can’t beat the fast-food giant’s air-conditioned comfort, especially where European hotels and dining establishments don’t cater to us Americans who can’t tolerate more than a single bead of perspiration.

       Enough about McDonald’s, or whatever name they go by in Europe, did I mention they even serve wine? Four years ago Husband and I were returning from Italy via British Airlines, our first stopover: Gatwick Airport. We immediately headed for the nearest bar where we each ordered … you got it, Diet Coke, one for him, one for me.

       “You folks must be heading back to the States,” our bartender said. “Diet Coke with plenty of ice, it’s what all the Americans order.” Not that Hubby stopped with one Diet, he just had to have another.

       Forget the math on those pricey necessities—the British Pound was, and still is, valued at more than twice that of our American Dollar.

       My favorite writer’s bible is Stephen King’s On Writing, which I first read about ten years ago and still reference on occasion, i.e., when I can’t think of a single thing to write about. The remarkable King is not only a prolific writer but also a prolific reader who makes sure he always has a book at his fingertips, whether standing in line or sitting in a waiting room, which accounts for his consuming about eighty books a year.

       Not that I ever expect to compete with King, nor do I need an excuse to enjoy a good book or short story, but I do think reading other authors makes me a better writer. In no particular order here’s what kept me entertained over the past fifteen or so months.

       An Eclectic Mix of Novels—Thrillers, Literary, Young Adult, Horror, Mystery, and Fantasy (some recently published, others not so recent)

       In a former life when I traveled on business, a polished appearance was as important as comfort, so wearing clothes that looked good around the clock became one of my many mantras. A red jacket, white shirt, black slacks and classic pumps took me from St. Louis to Chicago’s O’Hare Airport, where I joined a group of thirty travelers bound for Prague via a stopover in London. The British Airways flight we were about to board got cancelled, unfortunately, with all of our luggage already loaded onto the plane and no travel agent accompanying our group to sort out alternative options. Which left me … sort of, but not really … my companions were seasoned travelers and not easily rattled. Most, but not all of us, were rebooked on Sabena Airlines but I wanted to make sure the others were taken care of before boarding my flight. By the time I arrived at Sabena’s gate, the door had been closed and the agent was shaking her head.

       “But … but … my boarding pass,” I said, waving it in her face. “The plane hasn’t moved yet.

       “We can’t open the door,” she replied. “Besides, every passenger is accounted for and already on board.”

       “Not every passenger.” I pointed to the blackboard, a single name written in chalk. “That’s me.”

       “Oops, too late now.”

       With that, I hurried over to the Swiss Airlines counter where four of my colleagues had finished booking their flights and I was able to secure one of the last seats. We traveled in style, direct to Zurich, and arrived late forenoon the following day. Plenty of time to spare … our flight to Prague didn’t leave for another six hours. Someone, not me, came up with a brilliant idea.

        “Anyone for lunch in Zurich?” he said. “We can take the train from inside the airport.”

       And so we did, to enjoy a leisure view of Switzerland’s countryside charm, comfortable homes, and community gardens with pristine individual plots. I no longer recall what we ate for lunch or the wine we drank, but I do remember walking around the old section of Zurich, its stately three and four-story buildings displaying window boxes of colorful geraniums trailing down brick walls. We gathered to watch several mimes performing their magic. One of them glared at me when I started to take his picture, me unaware that protocol required an appropriate donation before capturing said image. Lesson learned and forever remembered.

       Mid-afternoon we returned by train to the airport, in plenty of time for our flight to Prague. We arrived around eight hours after the rest of the group but quickly assimilated ourselves into a cocktail party already in progress—at which I still wore my red jacket, white shirt, and black pants—followed by a walk on the Charles Bridge spanning the Vitava River, where we marveled at the nearby castle aglow with thousands of lights.

       Fortunately, I had packed a change of underwear in my oversized handbag because my carry-on consisted of business-related materials. For the next two days I waited for my London-bound luggage to catch up with me, all the while wearing the classic red, white, and black to every meeting, meal, tour, and social activity that left me no time to shop for new attire. At the end of Day Three I finally received my luggage and changed into a fresh set of clothes and a new look, so different that several people didn’t recognize me without the signature combo.

       From Prague we traveled to Vienna and later to Budapest (more on those later). Through no fault of mine I became one of the last passengers to board the plane out of Budapest, another case of running to catch my flight. My checked luggage, however, could not run as fast as I did. It finally caught up with me—three weeks later via direct delivery to my home, along with an apology from the airlines.

       Is there a message in this? Yes, always wear comfortable shoes.

How high have you been? I’ve been to the top of Switzerland’s Jungfrau Mountain, a total of 11,388 feet.

Some years ago during the month of May I found myself in Switzerland with a group of meeting planners, we fortunate guests of the Swiss Government, along with its hospitable tourism bureau and efficient railway system. What better way to travel up the Jungfrau than via a train like none I’d ever ridden before, a cogwheel with cars of  polished wood once used by royalty and later for special occasions and special guests. As our train climbed higher and higher, the landscape shifted from fields of alpine wildflowers and chalets perched on the edge of sloping terrain to snow here and there to eventually snow everywhere. Along the way our cogwheel stopped several times, allowing us passengers to disembark and walk around in order to acclimate to the changing altitude known for instigating dizzy spells and debilitating headaches. Near the top of the Jungfrau we stopped again and toured The Ice Palace, a series of glacial rooms filled with elaborate ice sculptures—plants, animals, birds, and furniture—some created by a group of Japanese so impressed with a single ice display area, they were granted permission to add even more.

Back in the resort town of Interlaken, we returned to the Victoria Jungfrau Hotel, one of the grandest properties I’ve ever stayed in. As I recall, it had been built in the 19^th century to honor a visit by Queen Victoria, and during our visit the hotel was probably handing out those same original guest room keys. As with many European hotels of that time, and still today, the room keys were fashioned on the order of skeleton keys, the kind that needed to be locked in the hallway when leaving and on returning, inside the room. Oversized and decorated with tassels, the keys were meant for guests to leave at the front desk, whether they planned on staying away for a few hours or the entire day.

Exhausted from the long day I took the elevator to my super deluxe room and once inside, flopped into the nearest chair, one facing a magnificent stone-faced fireplace. I could’ve stayed there all evening but duty called: another wine and dine event sure to equal or exceed the previous four or five. The Swiss do know how to entertain. What better way to get me in the mood than an invigorating shower. The bathroom was large and well-appointed, with heated towel racks and a tub big enough to float Moby Dick. Fortunately for me, it was also equipped with a powerful shower head, my choice for scrub-a-rub-dub. The shower spray had been pelting me for a few minutes and I’d just finished lathering shampoo into my hair when I heard a noise no showering woman ever wants to hear: the unfamiliar voice of a man only a few feet away. My intruder was calling out a name that sounded nothing like mine. And even if it had, I was still in for trouble since I wasn’t sharing my accommodations with anyone. Did I forget to lock my door from the inside? Too late now.

Holy Psycho! No way was I going down like Janet Leigh’s character in that 1960 black and white horror film. Hitchcock splashed chocolate all over the bathtub enclosure, his way of imitating poor Janet’s bloody demise. Stay calm became my immediate mantra. I stuck my lathered head through one end of the shower curtain. There in the doorway stood an elderly gentleman, one I recognized from the meeting planner group. Doing what comes naturally, I addressed him in my most professional demeanor, one adapted from years of customer service. “Can I help you?”

Never have I seen such fear. The poor man’s face turned several shades of red before turning white. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry. I must be in the wrong room,” he muttered, backing over the threshold.

As soon as I heard the hallway door close, I stepped out of the tub and grabbed my towel. Forget the lathered hair, another surprise I didn’t need. Within seconds I located my key and locked the door.

Later that evening when I joined my group for dinner, Mr. Intruder was there with his wife. Neither he nor I spoke of the incident, which leads me to believe he was too shocked to realize the lady with the shampoo-lathered hair was none other than me.

What do you think: Did I ever forget to lock a hotel door again?

      Although Husband D and I have seen most of Italy’s major tourist attractions north of Rome, we keep putting off Southern Italy’s amazing Amalfi Coast, Sorrento, Naples, and Sicily. Instead we are drawn again and again to the Piemonte Region of our ancestors, those craggy foothills of the Italian Alps that offer relief from the usual stress involved in foreign travel, especially in urban areas where pedestrians and drivers have learned to outwit, outsmart, and outplay each other in the game of traffic survival. Of course, stress still plays a big part in D navigating our rented vehicle around those never-ending hairpin curves and steep drop-offs that lure us higher and higher, through centuries-old villages marked by stone houses and red-tiled roofs while I ride shotgun, one foot digging a hole through the rental’s floorboards.

     As with previous visits, this past June we park ourselves in Le Sacre Valle (The Sacred Valley) of Colleretto Castelnuovo.  Perched high overlooking the valley and eight villages below is La Cappella, otherwise known as The Chapel of San Elisabetta, which still boasts an active parish life as evidenced by the display of ribboned bows commemorating hundreds of infant baptisms.

       La Cappella is not so old, less than two hundred years,” cousin DB explains in English that keeps improving each time we visit. “Next to the chapel is the original San Elisabetta chapel,” DB tells us, “much older and now converted to a summer residence.”

       DB would know. He owns the business next door, a large two-and-a-half story building: its upper levels housing a pensione of ten or so rooms; the main level, Trattoria Minichin, where culinary-trained DB serves as head chef and his Ukrainian wife V, the delightful waitress with a smile no one can resist. As with DB’s parents who have since retired, he and V pamper and spoil us. And we who may never return for another bowl of three-cheese polenta make no effort to stop our charming hosts.

       “For breakfast, a little bread, a little cheese,” we tell V after sitting down to a table of crisp linens. “In the Italian way, but we can do without the grappa. Oh, and cappuccino, please, don’t forget the cappuccino. Maybe two, we’re in no hurry.”

       By the third morning we have graduated to paper-thin crepes and to fill them, a variety of soft cheeses, strawberry compote, fresh peaches, and bananas.  Soon after, DB adds prosciutto and thin slices of ham, just in case we’re still hungry. Basta! Enough, we must leave room for the mid-day meal and supper in the evening, just enough to tide us over to breakfast the next day.

       A few days after attending another cousin’s wedding, D and I find ourselves with a two-day window of nothing to do. Nothing to do in Italy, this cannot be, so we opt for a change of scenery.

       “How about taking a quick overnighter to the Mediterranean,” I say to our traveling companions: daughter-in-law A and D’s sister E. “Actually, Portofino where the rich play and Cinque Terre (Five Lands), five ancient fishing villages overlooking the Ligurian Sea. It’s only three and a half hours away.”

       Who could refuse such a suggestion? Other than A, the rest of us had been there before; but when it comes to the Italian Riviera, once, twice, or ten times more just isn’t enough.

       Some habits are hard to break, in particular, Husband D’s A.D.D. and my Type A Super Mom personality that occasionally resurfaces after years of squeezing two-week family vacations into a mere eight days. Okay, no passing the buck on this one. I take full responsibility for our whirlwind fiasco, our what-not-to-do-when-you-should-be-taking-life-easy. Below is our play-by-play, low-budget itinerary, minus the usual travelogue fluff about awesome yachts moored in Portofino’s harbor or picturesque villages painted in pastel colors.

Wednesday Morning, 8:30 a.m.  Depart by car, stopping along the way in Cintano to pick up E who’s staying with a cousin. Seventeen hairpin curves and multiple villages later we enter the Autostrada and head east. After two hours plus we take a wrong exit outside Genoa and must now figure out how to head south instead. Not a problem had we been in America. Or if D understood toll gate signage in ‘real Italian’ as well as the Piemonte dialect he speaks with ease. Or, if he’d paid attention when I kept pointing to a certain gate, all the while using my outside voice, “Biglietto! Biglietto! It means ticket!” (One of the first words I learned on my inaugural trip to Italy). But does he listen? No. Instead he backs up, makes a pass through here, a pass through there, and after a stream of unprintable profanities we find ourselves back on track. Smile everybody.

Wednesday Afternoon, 1:00 p.m. Arrive Rapallo, get lost before finding same hotel we stayed at four years before. Check in, park rental car where desk clerk told us to park, no charge in public lot across the street.

Walk half mile to harbor located on Ligurian Sea.

Ride boat to Portofino, a nostalgic visit. Been there before and loved the coastal views.

Eat mid-day 2-course meal overlooking the harbor. “This does not include gratuity,” our smarmy waiter tells us, smiling as he’s never smiled before when handing us the damage. ($6 per person cover charge plus 20 per cent entertainment tax—bye-bye $120 for two.) Okay, it’s Portofino, playground to the rich and famous, but mostly tourists who came to gawk at the rich and famous who must be taking their siestas.

Stroll around shopping district, check out pricey designer shops. Pass.

Take boat back to Rapallo.

Walk half mile to hotel. Freshen up. Leave E to relax at hotel.

D, A, and I walk one and a half mile to shops and restaurants. Have Pizza Margherita for half the cost of Portofino’s entertainment tax.

Walk back to hotel. Unwind. Go to bed.

Thursday Morning. After breakfast check-out of hotel, leave car parked in lot clerk reconfirmed as free.

Take taxi to train station, buy tickets, enjoy 45-minute train ride to Monterosso Al Mare, the first of Cinque Terre’s five villages.

Arrive Monterosso, walk half mile downhill to harbor, buy boat tickets.

Enjoy roundtrip boat ride to view five villages via the sea, all the while A snapping tons of photos. Not me, my camera didn’t make the trip—went missing weeks before, only to be found under the car seat on my return home.

Debark at Monterosso. Eat mid-day meal (for me, anchovies, local olive oil, and lemons) at an outside trattoria (half of what we paid in Portofino.) Walk around shops. Make notes for my WIP mystery, ITALY TO DIE FOR, part of which takes place in Cinque Terre. Suck up the ambiance.

Walk one mile back to train station.

Ride train back to Rapallo, take taxi to hotel, get car from public lot.

Depart Rapallo. Stop to remove parking ticket fine attached to windshield. “What’s this? The clerk told us parking would be free!”

8:10 p.m. Drop off E in Cintano, twenty more minutes before we can separate our rear ends from this car and relax..

8:30 p.m. Arrive back at Minichin. Say Buona Notte to A, who’s too tired to eat. 

       “A little bread, a little cheese, a glass or two of wine,” D and I tell V, our heads still spinning from those seventeen hairpin curves.

Friday Morning:  A sleeps in, but for D and me, it’s time to party, at a cousin’s house in Chiesanuova, a good fifteen hairpins away. But that’s another story for another blog since this one has worn me out just thinking about it.

P.S. So far, $160 in toll gate fines for the confusion outside Genoa. With rental cars and credit cards there’s no escaping the long arm of Italy’s collection policy.

After taking care of business at Hua Hin, co-worker C and I left the Gulf of Thailand and returned to the magic of Bangkok, otherwise known as Venice of the East because of its Chao Phraya River’s many klongs (canals) crisscrossing the city. When we weren’t exploring the amulet market Wat Rachanada (C bought a charm) and all things Buddha (temples, more temples, and a monastery), we would view the city via water, hopping aboard any number of Thai longboat taxis—a feat requiring a Hail Mary dock-to-boat leap, one of which would’ve landed me in the polluted water had it not been for the outstretched hand of a Thai gentleman.

Time for a change of scenery, I consulted our trusty guidebook even though the typical 100-degree-temperature promised to follow us wherever we went, and bring along its infamous humidity as well.

“It would be a shame to come all this way and not travel another three hours to Kanchanaburi,” I told C. “You know, the Bridge of the River Kwai, from the 1957 best Oscar movie starring William Holden at his best, Sessue Hayakawa (best supporting actor) and Alec Guinness (best actor).”

Traveling is all in the logistics, however near or far. The day before our planned departure, we walked the four blocks from our hotel to the Chao Phraya, waited for the next ferry to come along and when it slammed against the dock, we jumped on board, confident that the passengers blocking our way would allow us a few inches they didn’t have to spare. Several stops later we waited for the ferry to slam into another dock before we jumped off, knees knocking as we regained our footing. From the dock we walked another four blocks to the railroad station, all the while ignoring the perspiration dripping from our noses and clinging to the hair matting our foreheads.

“How much is a roundtrip ticket to Kanchanaburi, please?” I asked, carefully enunciating each word to the station’s ticket seller.

“Twenty-five baht,” he replied in passable English.

Only five dollars, that couldn’t be enough for a three-hour trip each way. Twice I asked him to repeat the amount; twice he gave me the same answer.

“Do we need to buy our tickets in advance,” I asked, still unsure about the price and if it actually included a seat. To which he shook his head without hiding the annoyance this stupid American had wrought upon him.

                                                                            *****

That evening over dinner at the hotel C and I discussed plans for our trip to Kanchanaburi. Sitting at the next table was a Thai/American lady we’d worked with in Hua Hin. She tuned into our conversation, and made an offer too tempting to ignore.

“Don’t bother with the train,” she said. “I’d like my teenagers to see the jungle and Kanchanaburi. You can ride with us.”

And so we did, joining two sleeping teens in a comfortable, air-conditioned van our hostess drove over miles and miles of well-maintained road, through the lush green jungles of western Thailand to the Khwae Yai River. Hollywood renamed the Khwae Yai the River Kwai for its movie about WWII, the Japanese military forcing British, Australian, and other prisoners of war working on the Thailand/Burma Railway to quickly construct a much-needed bridge across the river, only to have the bridge destroyed at the end. Which was not the case in real life: the bridge and another one survived two more years although thousands of POWs did not. On the banks of the river is a museum dedicated to these brave men, primitive yet for me, quite moving, especially the enlarged photographs of skeletal men suffering from malnutrition and simple infections that turned deadly in the jungle. As for the current bridge, we walked across its steel structure, stopping at the half-way extension for the train we’d planned on taking from Bangkok. No air conditioning as evidenced by passengers hanging out the open windows, their sorry faces showing the effects of a three-hour drive that must’ve been miserable.

Our generous hostess even arranged a private river cruise, another way to view the serene Khwae Yai and recall the horrors it once witnessed. C and I put our cameras to work, snapping photo after photo, that is, until she accidently dropped her camera (borrowed) into the river. Before C could expel a string of profanities, one of the crewmen dove into the murky water and soon surfaced, arm raised to display his trophy, the borrowed camera that would never click another photo.

After the bridge our hostess took us to the Don Rak War Cemetery where almost 7,000 POWs are buried, along with some empty graves acknowledging those who left no remains behind. Row upon row of perfectly aligned stone markers, many with epitaphs written by the grieving families of those who would never come home. Every epitaph I read brought me closer to the men who gave their lives for the Death Railway and its bridge on the Khwae Yai River, a scene I will never forget and far more poignant than any award-winning movie.

      A few blogs ago I wrote about Bangkok and the difficulty my friend C and I had communicating there, a situation I later realized was not unique to the city. Our business in Thailand extended to Hua Hin a resort area on the Gulf of Thailand. What a delightful change from the frenetic pace of Bangkok. Balmy breezes, swaying palm trees, white sand beaches, and tropical fruits like none I’d eaten in the heartland of America—business mixed with pleasure didn’t get any better than this.

       During our free time in Hua Hin, C and I managed High Tea with Canadian friends on the veranda of the Sofitel Railway Hotel, a magnificent rambling structure that once served as Cambodia’s Hotel Pnom Phen in the 1984 movie The Killing Fields. One of the ladies at tea discussed in great detail the lovely hand-tailored dress she’d ordered that morning—“The prices are ridiculously inexpensive.” And the appointment she’d made for a massage the next very day—“Don’t go home without one.” Such enthusiasm did not fall on deaf ears; in fact, it convinced C and me that we should do the same, even though we were returning to Bangkok in less than forty-eight hours. No problem, this would be a challenge in planning, to make every leisure hour count.

       Not far from our hotel we found a street lined with tailor shops. “Pick one, any one,” I told C. “Thai tailors are considered among the best.” Naturally, we wandered into the only shop manned by tailors from the Middle East. The place looked decent enough, filled to capacity with racks and bolts of materials suitable for the most discriminating. C selected rose-colored faux suede, the ideal choice for a comfortable business suit. I chose cranberry raw silk, confident it would take me anywhere. There we stood like proper store mannequins, allowing one of the tailors to measure our vital parts and note them in his little black notebook. He spoke no English but somehow made us understand we should return later that day for our first fitting.

       Plenty of time for those massages our hotel had been promoting. What’s more, there were two masseuses with immediate openings. C and I hurried down to the full-service spa, slipped into lightweight robes and positioned ourselves face down on side-by-side tables. Enter our masseuses: young, Thai, and female. Little women who climbed onto the tables and began inflicting such pleasurable pain I didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. So like a baby getting tickled, I giggled, as did the torturer straddling me, digging her elbows and knees deeper and deeper into every reluctant muscle and ligament in my back, shoulder, and neck demanding the release of tension that had been building far too long. After abusing both my arms, said torturer did the same to the thighs and calves. Still giggling, she was now chatting with the other abuser, no doubt about how many dollars American clients were willing to pay for the luxury of such pain. As I recall, about fifty for one horrific hour. The whole experience reminded me of the horrific Thousand Tortures author Gary Jennings describes in his epic novel The Journey.

       Later that day C and I returned to the tailor for our first and only fitting. Already I could see how smart C’s suit was going to look on her. Mine, I had some doubts but didn’t say anything. After all, I was dealing with a pro. When I told him what time we’d be leaving our hotel the next day, he communicated his assurance that our finished suits would be delivered by then. And they were, just as we were about to board the chartered coach for our return trip to Bangkok. So, we didn’t have a chance to try on the new suits until we checked into a new hotel in Bangkok. C stood before the mirror, happy with the rose-colored faux suede that fit her as a tailored suit should. As for my cranberry raw silk, it was two sizes too big and made me think three words: Russian postal carrier.

       The Hua Hin disaster hung in the back of my closet for several years before I challenged a Chinese tailor in St. Louis to perform some kind of silk magic on it. The man gave it his best effort, he really did but still I had my doubts, this nagging feeling that wouldn’t let go. What the hell, I finally wore the suit one day and had to shoo away the dogs snapping at my heels.

Last winter a charming cousin D and I met seven years before called from the Piemonte Region of Northern Italy, inviting us to his wedding scheduled for June of this year.

“Impossibile,” we told AG, citing the lousy economy and horrific rate of exchange between the Euro and our U.S. dollar. Still, the conversation ended with a promise that we’d think about attending.

Months later when Daughter was planning her own vacation to Italy, a first for Husband B and two daughters, she made a similar request to D and me. “I know you’ve already seen Rome and Florence a number of times, but how about meeting us in Piemonte for the last leg of our trip? I’d like B and the girls to meet the relatives. Plus there are those you’ve met that I haven’t. This may be our only chance … yada …yada … yada.”

Who could refuse such a request? Certainly not us, her pushover parents, that’s for sure.

After all, Only Daughter had traveled to Italy before either D or me, and later on the Adult Kids trip when she introduced us to relatives she already knew.

So in June while Daughter and family prepared to do their thing in Rome and the Tuscany Region, D and I flew into Milan, taking with us daughter-in-law A and D’s sister. With D behind the wheel of a stick-shift rented Peugeot, we four drove northwest to the Piemonte Region, eventually into the foothills of the Alps, circling seventeen hairpin curves of the Valle Sacre before reaching Santa Elisabetta where our pensione was located—Minichin, our home away from home for the next two weeks (more on that in an upcoming blog). But since I’ve already titled this one, “An Italian Wedding,” let’s fast-forward to the Saturday of AG’s marriage to his lovely bride, M.

“Come to our house at 2 o’clock,” E, the groom’s father, told us. He and D definitely share the same gene pool, however diluted it may have become through the generations. Think boisterous and competitive mixed with a certain bawdiness. Although the wedding wasn’t scheduled to start for another two and a half hours, relatives and special guests gathered under the family’s covered patio for a little something to tide us over: sausages, fruit, cheese, finger-size tidbits, trays of miniature dolce (sweets), wine—rosé, bianco, and sparkling. AG, the groom, wore black and white shoes to compliment his black suit, white shirt, and black vest. Since we last met, he’d added a trim mustache and beard to his movie-star face and couldn’t stop smiling. Neither could his mother, the delightful, fun-loving L who welcomed me with open arms and a series of three kisses to both cheeks, just as she does each time we meet.

Their village of Chiesanuova (new church) has about 200 inhabitants and what we Americans would consider an old church around the corner from the family home. However, the bride and groom raised the bar to a new level: they wanted their marriage performed in a distant church located high above Chiesanuova.

“Follow my brother R,” E told D. So we piled into the Peugeot and embarked on a new series of hairpin curves, climbing higher and higher, the air getting thinner and thinner with each circle until we reached an ancient chapel surrounded by more wedding guests than could ever fit inside the tiny structure. Nor did they expect to, I soon found out. We four Americans, however, were special guests, and took up one pew with little room to spare, while those in the know reveled outside, amidst the cool breezes of late afternoon. The bride could’ve stepped from the pages of Vogue; her attendants too. And most of the guests, when it comes to style, the Italians spare no expense. The wedding started twenty minutes late, without her mother and grandmother, who eventually arrived ten minutes later.

After the ceremony and Mass ended, we followed the party outside. That’s when E hurried over to the wedding car, a forty-year-old restored yellow Fiat now wrapped in toilet paper which he immediately ripped off and then popped the multiple balloons stuffed inside the car. Another hour consisted of photographs, videos, socializing, and taking in the breathtaking view below: a zigzag of medieval villages leading to the main village of Cuorgnè and Locana Valle, its Orco River flowing from the distant Gran Paradiso National Park

“Follow R,” E told us again, this time we thought to the reception in Cuorgnè. But when we’d gone as far as Chiesanuova, the caravan of cars slowed down to a road jam road of cheering people holding up glasses of wine or entire bottles of overflowing bubbly.

“There must be another wedding,” I told D. Nope, these were the guests of A and M, some I recognized from the church, others hadn’t bothered to make the upward journey. D parked the car, and we joined the celebration—more wine, canapés, prosciutto wrapped around a stick, fresh fruit, cheese, pizza—not one repeat from the earlier spread E and L had hosted.

“Don’t eat too much,” E told D an hour later. “We still have the dinner in Cuorgnè.” Er, right … more food, more wine.

Another hour passed before we traveled down the hill to La Primavera, a sit-down affair as elaborate as any I’d attended at the Ritz-Carlton in St. Louis. First stop, the bar—wine, sparkling wine, beer, and more canapés—don’t even think about refusing. No lists of table designations before entering the dining room, instead an array of wine bottles, magnums with the name of each guest listed on them. We found our names on the Barolo, matched it the Barolo sitting on a table we would soon share with the bride’s and groom’s parents. Yes, we continued to feel special. And yes, the menu exceeded our expectations. I won’t bother with the Italian names but here they are in English, each dish served as a separate course although the first three are considered the antipasti.

1. Veal crude (tartar) with balsamic vinegar. Delicious—ate half, passed the rest to D.

2. Cured meat with shredded lettuce.

3. Thin slices of veal, arugula, and arugula pesto—yum!

4. Risotto—rich and creamy but only took a bite or two.

5. Lobster ravioli—ate two, could’ve eaten more but was pacing myself.

6. Lamb with potatoes, zucchini, eggplant—help, can barely manage a bite or two.

7. Raspberry sorbet to clean the palate. Not mine, I don’t eat raspberries. But D does.

8. Dolce vino, cookies. Skipped the sweet wine, ate one cookie I didn’t need.

9. Fancy torte. Again, one bite—passed the rest.

10. Coffee or espresso—laced with grappa. Limoncello? genepe? For me, espresso and Limoncello.

Phew! Even with a bite of this and a bite of that, I was too pooped to pop. But that didn’t stop D from dancing to the DJ music—mostly American. Hello … YMCA with all the right moves. He finally wore down around 12:45 in the morning but still had enough energy to tackle those seventeen hairpin curves back to Minichin, arriving a mere eleven hours after we’d left to attend our first wedding in Italy, an unforgettable affair, if ever there was.

Final Chapter on the family vacation to Italy with husband D and me, four of our five adult kids, one spouse and one friend. We’d left Lake Como, our next destination: Venice.

       When I think of the family trip to Venice, it’s not our motorboat cutting through the waterways or St. Marco’s Piazza or the Doge’s Palace or the Bridge of Sighs that come to mind. No, I think of Padua, the nearby city where we stayed because the hotel rates were more affordable than those in Venice, and we were, after all, on a shoestring budget. There we were, the eight of us in two tiny cars circling Padua’s Basilica of St. Anthony in search of our pensione which was supposed to be located across the street. Of course, we stopped to ask directions several times, only to receive a shrug or misunderstood Italian in response since husband D’s Piemontese dialect did not extend to the Veneto region. Finally, son P said he would hail a taxi to the hotel and our two cars could follow. A-hah, the perfect solution, but before a taxi came by, S1 spied the hotel … more like its sign, a six-inch neon in the window of an otherwise dark bar. Success, at last—we circled around the basilica’s piazza and down a street so narrow the side mirror of our Fiats made friends with that of a parked car. The hotel itself was located on the third floor: comfortable, clean, and with the usual bath linens that resembled kitchen dishtowels—absorbent but not the terrycloth found in America. It’s all about adjusting, folks.

       In Florence we stayed at a pensione across the street from the River Arno and a short walk from the Old City where we inhaled its culture like hungry, unabashed tourists. But even today when the family starts reminiscing about Florence, what do we talk about? Not the Ufizzi Gallery or the Piazzi della Signoria, not David in all his glory at the Accademia, or the signature Basilica di Santa Maria del Fiore, also known as the Duomo. Nor the window-shopping on Ponte Vecchio, those side excursions to Siena, San Gimignano, and Vinci, home of Leonardo. No, our gang of eight talks about the elevator so small we sent nothing but our luggage up to the third floor and then raced up the stairs to be there when the elevator door opened. We complain about the silent mosquitoes that invaded our non-air conditioned rooms each night and the make-do laundry situation. Hand washed in the oversized bathroom hand bowls. That is, except for the two single guys, P and S2, whose laundry the pensione manager took upon herself to do for free. Meanwhile, In-law J hung her panties out the window to dry, only to spy them later perched on the rooftop of a nearby building—gone forever but never to be forgotten.

       Our 17-day trip ended with three or four days in glorious Rome. We’d returned the Fiats and were relying on taxies and later the luxury of a van and an Italian driver capable of navigating the city’s infamous traffic through a series of hand gesturing and screaming obscenities at drivers doing the same to him. But I’m getting ahead of myself. First, our Roman pensione—ideally located on La Dolce Vita’s Via Veneto, above a bar that came with uh … ladies of the night who availed themselves night or day. Those I ignored, instead steering everyone to the Coliseum and Forum, St. Peter’s Basilica, and the Vatican Museum where our personal guide explained Michelangelo’s extraordinary ceiling in the Sistine Chapel in simple language we neck-stretching gawkers could easily understand.

       Did I happen to mention earlier about late July and August being the worse time for tourists in Italy’s major cities? That’s because many of the entertainment venues and restaurants close for holiday (what Europeans call their vacations). The air conditioning goes on holiday too, if, indeed, it ever existed in many hotels and pensione. Not to be deterred, we Americans sniffed out a nearby MacDonald’s, complete with all things greasy and the coolest air-conditioning we’d experienced throughout Italy.

       Alas, all good vacations must come to an end, this one with D and me hoping we’d taught the others a thing or two, such as never ever go anywhere without a money source and the all important passport . 

       “Make sure you have everything,” I told my charges as we scrambled from our hired van parked outside the airport entrance. Once inside, we joined the long line of travelers waiting to enter the first secured area, a piece of cake compared to today’s standards since 9/ll.  We chatted and laughed, comfortable in the knowledge that we’d arrived in plenty of time since our flight wasn’t due to leave for hours. Then Son P started patting his pockets and checking his carry-on.

       “Uh … I might have a problem,” he said, causing my heart to pound as only a mother’s heart can.

       “Such as?” was all I could manage.

       “My passport, I had it with me when we checked out this morning and now it’s gone.”

       “Stay calm,” I replied. “We’ll talk to airport security.”

       “No problem,” said the security guard who escorted P and me to his supervisor’s office.

       “No problem,” said the Head of Security who told P he liked his Greg Norman hat while scribbling a note on some official stationery. “This will get you through Security.”

       It did, but when P handed that same note to an airline representative, the man read it and laughed before explaining that P wouldn’t be flying home with the rest of us. “Anybody staying with him?” the representative asked, to which P’s siblings all backed off as if informed he carried the bubonic plague.

       Indeed, no matter how great Italy may be, when the vacation is over it’s truly over.

       “Isn’t there something we can do?” I asked the representative.

       “Well, he might have time to catch the train into the city, go to the Embassy, and get a new passport. Whether he leaves today or tomorrow, he’ll need the passport.”

       Yes, that I already knew. In a moment of desperation I went to the nearest payphone, called our ground operator in Rome. While I was explaining P’s situation, husband D spotted the driver of our van standing outside the secured area and waving P’s passport, which he’d found laying on the vehicle’s floor. Ever so grateful, D rewarded the driver with all the lire in his pocket—about forty well-deserved dollars.

       A lesson well learned and one never to be forgotten, just like J’s panties, forever lost on a rooftop in Florence. Arrivederci, Italy.

Since this trip D and I have visited Italy a number of times, as has Son P and recently, Daughter D, who returned with us to our cousin’s home in Cintano—more on that trip and others in the future.

        More on the family vacation to Italy with husband D and me, four of our five adult kids, one spouse and one friend. We’d left the family villages in the Piemonte Region of the Italian Alps and we headed toward our next destination.

        We were now on our way to Lake Como. Two hours later during an Autostrada pit stop hushed whispers within our group began gathering momentum on the parking lot.

        “I’m not telling him.”

        “Well neither am I.”

        “Somebody has to.”

        “Don’t look at me.”

        Indeed this was a serious matter, one that could not be ignored. DK had forgotten her purse at Cousin M’s in Cintano. Someone would have to tell the paternal figure, but who?

        Naturally, the task fell to me.

        “Not a problem,” said her notoriously impatient father, much to the disappointment of her brothers who envisioned the tongue lashing they might’ve received in response to such egregious irresponsibility. “I’ll drive DK and the girls back in one car,” hubby said.

        To which I replied, “In that case the boys (I use the term loosely) and I will drive back to the airport and exchange the other car for one for air conditioning that actually works. We’ll meet later at the Miralago in Cernobbia.”

       D and the girls took off in one direction; the boys and I in another, on a secondary road that according to our map would get us back to the airport, at that time an older, simpler version of Milan Malpensa’s ultra-modern facility.

        “Turn here,” I said at the first sighting of a sign that read, Aeroporto, never considering there could be more than one airport located on the outskirts of Milan. Thirty minutes later found us at a military compound where not one airman understood the hand gestures we’d perfected in Cintano.

        “Try that building,” I told Son P. “Surely someone will speak English or what little Italian you’ve picked up.”

        Uh, that would’ve been something like, “Bene visitare,” P’s fractured attempt at, “Good to visit.”

        Fearless P entered the building and after a long while he came out with a smile on his face.

        “Well, did you find someone who gave you directions?” I asked when he slid into the car.

        “Yeah, but I have no idea what the man said.”

       And so we kept driving and driving until we eventually entered Malpensa through an obscure route used for deliveries. Exchanging the car was not the problem I’d anticipated. That afternoon the sun was starting to shine on us.

        Yes, we were headed for Cernobbia and Lake Como. Follow the signs—that’s all we had to do which didn’t seem too difficult until we wound up in a traffic crunch like none I’d ever seen in Europe or elsewhere.

        “Find out what the problem is,” I told S1 the Attorney who in turned passed the order on to S2 the Youngest and at that time somewhat malleable.

        S2 got out of the car, walked along a row of trucks until he found a driver who understood English. When S2 came back, it was with a sort-of smile on his face. He got into the car, and said what we weren’t prepared to hear, “This is the border crossing. Unless we can figure out a way to turn around, we’re on our way to Switzerland.”

        Switzerland, no way—not today, not this trip, even though I’d spent a delightful week there a few years before. But that was business and our family vacation was all about Italy. Somehow the English-speaking truck driver took pity on our car of wheel-slamming, teeth-gnashing Americans. He alerted other drivers and after a few adjustments, the line eventually parted and allowed us a last-minute reprieve. Once again, we were on our way to Lake Como.

       After a few more wrong turns we arrived at our hotel minutes before D and his party of three females, two of which were shell-shocked from their ordeal on the Autostrada. Rather than drive to the next exit and turn around, D crossed the median (yes, he knew better but this was Italy and Italian drivers do crazy things.) and headed North again. At the toll gate he handed his ticket to the attendant and was told he owed 90,000 lire, at that time the equivalent to $75.

        “What! Impossible,” he said to the gate keeper and to the girls he said, “That’s it. We’re heading for jail.”

        Such drama did not phase Daughter DK; however In-law, J, and Friend, B, started pulling out lire from the handbags, whatever it took to pay an outrageous toll that would’ve started somewhere in Italy’s far south. After much hand gesturing, Piemonte dialect, and head shaking a supervisor was called in to resolve the matter. D wound up paying the appropriate toll and they were on their way to retrieve Daughter’s purse. On the way back who should they run into at the toll gate but the same attendant from the first go-around—more madonna-mias and heels of the palm to furrowed foreheads.

        It was late afternoon and all of us were red-faced and frazzled. We needed a drink, something besides vino or birra to calm our jittery nerves. Feeling extravagant, I ordered everyone into the hotel bar.

        “Coke over ice for everybody,” I told the hotel bartender, to which he dropped one tiny cube into eight small glasses.

        “More ice,” I gestured.

        Reluctantly, he added one more cube to each glass. Those cokes cost more than wine or beer but well worth the price of connecting us to America.

    I'd already made three business-related trips to Italy, including one with husband D, when we decided to visit a part of the country neither of us had seen before—the Piemonte region, in particular those villages located in the foothills of the Alps where his parents once lived as did my mother's parents. The kids should go too, on that D and I both agreed, and we'd have to spend some time visiting the triangle of Italian tourism—Venice, Florence, and Rome. Our offspring weren't exactly kids anymore, more like independent-minded adults and all gainfully employed except for the youngest, a recent college graduate. Only Daughter DK was no stranger to Piemonte or to some of our relatives, having spent several months visiting there on two separate occasions. She was a 'definite yes' from the gitgo. Three of her four brothers required some arm-twisting but ultimately agreed. Fighting forest fires out West prevented the eldest from joining us. Where oh where were his priorities?

       So, those of us with Frequent Flier Miles pooled and divided them among those less fortunate and after chipping in some cash, we came up with an equalization of airfares that satisfied two parental figures, four adult kids, one spouse and one friend. After flying into Milan, our gang of eight squeezed into two rented Fiats and during our drive to the alpine region we stayed in touch via walkie-talkies. That's right, walkie-talkies, in the pre-historic era of communications before everyone over the age of eight relied on texting and cell phones.

       One of our first stops was the tiny village of Cresti, where Husband D’s mother and her two sisters had been born in the second of four attached homes, forerunners to condo living. So dilapidated now that all four were deemed unsafe to enter, as were the stables underneath, each with a hole cut in the ceiling to permit the heat of the cows to rise into the house and provide much needed warmth.

       The slightly larger village of Cintano (population 500) presented a picturesque setting of stone or stucco houses with roofs of red tile or gray slate. The local mailman directed us to the house of M.I., Husband D’s cousin. M.I., who'd already met Daughter DK during her first visit, welcomed her and the rest of us with the usual Italian greeting—a light kiss to both cheeks, to the right first and then to the left. She showed us the ancestral home two buildings away, where Husband D’s deceased father had lived with his family and often returned as an adult.

       To this day D and I talk about M.I. slipping her arms through ours, and with the rest of our gang in tow walking us Americani through every street in the village blessed with hydrangeas bigger and bluer than I'd ever seen in the Midwest and fragrant rosemary cascading from centuries-old stone walls. Along the way M.I. stopped and introduced us to villagers tending their gardens or visiting with their neighbors. Eventually we wound up at the local cemetery where D met his father's parents for the first time, via their framed photographs on a seven-foot concrete and marble wall that held their remains.

       When we returned to M.I.'s house, her husband G was waiting with a bottle of vino he’d made. We sat around their dining room table listening to my husband regale them with stories of America, all told in the Piemonte dialect only he and the cousins understood. The rest of us communicated in the universal language of hand gesturing.

       Of course we had to visit the ancestral homes of my mother’s parents too. Not as easy as my husband’s side since mine had left Italy a generation before his. Still, we had an eye-witness account. Daughter DK had seen my grandfather’s home years before during her first trip with my mother. With DB, a distant cousin as well as good friend of DK, acting as our guide and go-between, we set forth in two cars for Faiallo, which required driving up an obscure winding road located between Cuorgnè and Pont Canavese. When we on the verge of nosebleeds from the high altitude, DK finally pointed out the house—a stand-alone ruin as compared to most other ruins that were connected to three or more others. But like the others, the stables below were always a part of the structure.

        For my grandmother’s home we started in the village of Locano and from there a road that circled around and around, higher and higher. Along the way our accommodating cousin would occasionally stop and inquire about Monte Piano. The response was always the same, “Go to the top of the mountain.” along with a hand gesture indicating upward. When the road narrowed and became bumpier, DP stopped again. But when he asked about the family name, three old mustachios sitting on a porch simply shrugged.

       “Tell them we’re from Benld,” I told DB, even though none of us were. But it had been my mother’s hometown, a coal mining community of immigrants, many of whom had originated from Piemonte.

       “Ah-h, Benld,” one of the mustachios said. “Up, up.”

       We continued our journey and when the road turned to gravel we circled the hill another time or two and finally stopped at a cluster of five or so adjoining homes. It was there we met my cousin, PP, and through Husband D established a common bond that started with tracing the family connection and from there to the stable under PP’s house where from behind a barrel he pulled out a bottle of homemade vino . A single very dusty drinking glass served the ten of us through constant refills. To refuse would’ve been unthinkable. And on learning one of our sons was an attorney, PP even managed to relay a lawyer joke. As with hand gesturing, certain humor knows no boundaries.

       Two days later we returned to Cintano for a final goodbye with M.I. and her husband G, but not before another sit around the table, this time for grappa and genepe, with or without cups of thick espresso. After an arrivederci round of Italian kisses that started in the dining room, carried into the courtyard, and finished on the road beside our cars, we left, this time with a magnum of G's homemade vino he insisted on giving to D.

       We were now on our way to Lake Como. Two hours later during an Autostrada pit stop hushed whispers within our group began gathering momentum on the parking lot.

       “I’m not telling him.”

       “Well neither am I.”

       “Somebody has to.”

       “Don’t look at me.”

       Indeed this was a serious matter, one that could not be ignored. DK had forgotten her purse at Cousin M’s in Cintano. Someone would have to tell the paternal figure, but who?

       For the answer to this and more Italian adventures with the Gang of Eight, check back in two weeks for my continuing blog on The Best Vacation I Ever Took.

       “When are you going to write about Bangkok?” my friend C asked. Her question sparked a flood of fading memories and since C has been blessed with a better memory than mine, she helped me piece together some of our adventures, too many for a single read so I decided to start with one about the art of communicating, or lack thereof.

       Way back when, C and I had the pleasure of sharing a work-mixed-with-pleasure assignment in Thailand that included the balmy Gulf of Siam, Kanchanaburi's Bridge on the River Kwai, and Bangkok, otherwise known as the Venice of the East because of its Chao Phraya River waterways. Due to a family event my departure started out a day later than the rest of our group, not a problem I figured for one accustomed to traveling alone. Nineteen long hours after leaving home, I arrived at the Bangkok International Airport around midnight and other than the passengers from my flight, the place was practically deserted. After passing through customs, I was immediately greeted by a young man who spoke broken English, a nice touch the weary traveler in me hadn’t expected. He took my luggage and asked if he could assist with the transportation to my hotel.

       What a nice welcome to Bangkok, I thought, following him through the nearest exit and across a quiet airport street to the first in a convenient line of taxis. After handing off my luggage to one of the cabbies, he helped me into the back seat. Before I had a chance to show my gratitude, he stuck out his hand and in English I had no problem understanding, he said, “Excuse me, madam, I expect to be paid for my services.”

       “Of course,” I said, fumbling in my wallet before bringing out a ten dollar bill, “is this enough?” More than enough I later found out when learning how far ten dollars would go in Thailand. Hey, give me a break. By now it was midnight and I hadn’t slept for … well, over twenty-four hours.

       When I arrived at the hotel, C was waiting, wide awake and still on St. Louis time: twelve hours the day before. C, a virgin to traveling abroad, had survived her own induction to Bangkok, having been left behind by traveling companions who thought she’d settled into one of the other vans. C being C didn’t panic. She remembered the hotel’s name and arranged her own transportation—without the aid of a greeter such as the one I later encountered.

        The first leg of our duties took us out of Bangkok, to a marvelous seaside resort—another story for a later date. Days later when C and I returned to the city, we decided what free time we had there would not be wasted. We wanted to experience the Thai culture, rub shoulders with the locals even we didn't speak their language. Nor could we understand the signage and directions since Thai script doesn't translate into the Latin alphabet. So how did we start our shoulder rub? With a scenic boat ride via the clay-colored Chao Phraya River that would take us to the end of the line, a chance to view the city from the comfort of our cushiony seats. Not quite the comfort I'd expected but did I complain, no, especially since C and I were the only Westerners on board. Dusk soon descended into evening and evening evolved into the darkness of night. Our boat cut through the water with more determination than pleasure, kicking up murky foam in the aftermath of its wake. Whatever points of interest we might've seen along the route were destined to remain a mystery of dimly lit shadows and silhouettes. As for the end of the line, it turned out to be desolate area twenty minutes out of the city, with C and me the only passengers left on the boat.

       There we sat, wondering what to do next when our river pilot made the decision for us. The somber woman didn’t speak English but was quite proficient in the international language of gesturing. “Out,” she indicated with a forefinger pointed to the rear exit. What followed was a failure to communicate: our inability to make her understand we needed to buy a return ticket. “Out,” her forefinger repeated with an emphasis not easily misunderstood. Okay, okay, she didn’t have to tell us a third time; we disembarked. Where to next: right, left, or those steps leading up to that grassy knoll. We chose the stairs, and on reaching the top, halleluiah, we found a sales booth and bought another ticket back to the city, the final boat trip for that day.

       Several days later after long hours of sightseeing in unforgiving hundred-degree weather, we boarded a Chao Phraya ferry boat, expecting it to carry us across the river and eventually to a dock within walking distance of our hotel. But when the ferry zipped past our stop as well as several others, it occurred to us we had created another problem for ourselves. How could this have happened … to C perhaps, but to me, a seasoned traveler? Sure, there was Hong Kong, not once but twice … and Amsterdam … perhaps London. A sympathetic passenger overheard our conversation and must've read the panic on our faces. Speaking in the one language all three of us understood—the Queen’s English—he explained we were aboard an express ferry that only made a few essential stops before arriving at the end of the line—the opposite of where we'd wound up on our evening tour days before. Not only did this Thai gentleman escort us off the ferry, he walked us to the bus stop, waited until the bus we needed finally arrived, and told the bus driver where to let us off. The traffic-congested bus route introduced us to a series of neighborhoods with pedestrians crowding the sidewalks, shops displaying signage we couldn't read, and vendors serving street food we’d been advised to eat with caution, but for C and me it was the perfect way to end our day, a view of everyday life in Bangkok from the comfort of a bus packed with local commuters.

        The other day when someone asked what genres I wrote, my response was, “Sagas, mysteries, crime, and subtle horror.”

       “You mean sophisticated horror,” he said.

       Well, I’m not sure what constitutes sophisticated horror but I lean more toward Alfred Hitchcock or The Twilight Zone. Please … no slicing and dicing, no bloody stubs or ripped-out hearts.  I want to leave some details to the reader’s imagination.

       My inspiration for a story will often start out in one place only to have me eventually relocate it elsewhere. Such was the case several years ago when my husband D and I were visiting The South of France, more to the point Saint Paul de Vence, where the great Matisse had spent his most creative years painting and we spent a few precious hours covering every inch of the museum dedicated to his work. Enough of paying our respects to Matisse, we broke for lunch—a fine white wine and omelets oozing with cheese, both served under a canvass roof, outdoor dining at its finest. Next: following the lead of all good Europeans, we walked.

       D was already complaining about the heat and sore feet when we ventured into the medieval area, its narrow cobblestoned streets luring us deeper and deeper into the danger zone of quaint shops and more quaint shops … come on … I only made one purchase—a bright red and yellow handbag reflecting the prominent colors of the area. Okay, two purchases, the second a small yellow and green bowl—perfect to accommodate a salad for two when we got home.

       And then I spied this wonderful shop filled with prints like nothing I’d seen before, created by an artist who owned the place. Slight in stature, he was wiry and moved with a certain panache from one customer to the other, ever the gentle salesman as he explained the origins of his work. Naturally, I had to check out every print and wound up buying one that featured two women marveling over a stack of shiny cooking vessels. Better yet, the rate of exchange was so unfavorable the proprietor even gave me a break on the price. Oh happy day, no need to shop any further.

       After we returned from our trip, I had the print framed and D hung it over the fireplace in our combination kitchen/great room. The two women and their stack of pots have never inspired me to create a great meal but the memory of that afternoon in Vence did inspire me to write a short story entitled “Youthanasia.” 

       In “Youthanasia” Lidia Drago and her husband Simon are trying to enjoy their last hoorah—an extended European vacation that has brought them from Paris to Florence, via the Palatino overnighter where they’d dined with a stranger named Boswell. Here is an excerpt that takes place days later:

       On our fourth day in Florence we explored the shops lining Ponte Vecchio. Simon shook his head over a gold money clip, a bargain at four hundred Euros according to our demure sales clerk. She weighed a gold chain that caught my eye, and after hearing the price, I showed my palm and backed out the door.

       “It’s only money,” Simon said, favoring his leg as we walked along the bridge of tourists, their hands clutching heavy shopping bags. “If you want the necklace, get it.”

       “Patience is the name of the game,” I told him. “The further we shop from Ponte Vecchio, the lower their prices.”

       Simon limping again and giving his blessing for expensive mementos could only mean one thing—his feet were growing restless. By now we’d crossed the Arno and more shops paved our cobblestoned way. “You were right about the prices,” he said. “They’re dropping faster than Dow Jones on a Friday gone sour.”

        “Wouldn’t you know, I’ve lost my urge to shop.”

       “Me too. But since we’re this far, we might as well check out the Pitti Palace.”

       “You feel up to more walking?”

       “Andiamo, Sweetheart,” he said, pushing my elbow forward. “Let’s go—before I change my mind.”

       Minutes later we stood in front of the Palace, with Simon stretching one leg to the side, and then his other. “It’s too early for lunch, too late for cappuccino, and I don’t feel like tackling acres of Boboli Gardens until I ingest some nourishment.”

       Oh yes. He was working me but not hard enough. I dug into my purse and pulled out Boswell’s business card. “Remember that man on the train, our dinner companion? I believe he suggested a pensione not far from here. We could check it out before the trattorias open for lunch.”

       Simon sighed. “How far?”

       I flipped open our laminated map, traced the winding route with my fingernail. “A couple of blocks.”

       Long blocks that made my feet bulge in cushioned shoes. Ten grueling minutes passed before we turned onto a narrow street of stores showcasing local wines, luscious chocolates, embroidered linens, and Florentine papers. Our map led us into an alley no wider than Simon’s arm spread, to which he again asked, “How much further?”

       “At the far end, I think. There’s an intriguing little shop.”

       “You mean the only place not deserted,” he muttered in my accelerated wake.

       Tempo Principale said the sign in the gallery window. Simon glanced at his watch again before following me inside. We were greeted by a haphazard array of easels displaying visual renderings, the subjects so lifelike I wanted to run my fingers across their faces. The first, a young mother nursing her sleeping child, brought tears to my eyes. An ageless woman sitting in a lotus position reminded me of the yoga I gave up years before. A hunter kneeling with his gun and dog seemed to mesmerize Simon, as did the muscular athlete suspended in mid-air while kicking a soccer ball.

       My shoulder rubbed against Simon’s; I felt his muscle twitch. “Forget the Ponte Vecchio gold,” I said. “These paintings are absolutely incredible.”

       He responded with an I-couldn’t-care-less shrug. Then I remembered: we didn’t have a wall on which to hang pictures anymore. Damn the fire that freed us of responsibilities but took away our home. Damn the fire that allowed us the trip of a lifetime but no place to relive our memories. Still, we shouldn’t deny ourselves some vicarious enjoyment. Simon thought otherwise.

       “I need some air.” He made a break for the door, stopped when a cough erupted from the maze of artwork.

       Between two easels emerged a mop of jet-black hair, followed by a small, wiry man, his skin free of wrinkles and dark eyes probing. He wore a roomy shirt, tight trousers, and ankle-length boots. “Please Signora, Signore. May I show you more?” He bowed from the waist, the shoulder-length mop flopping over his face until it fell back in place when he straightened up. “I am the proprietor, Peppe Valenti.”

       “And the artist?” I asked.

       “Alas, we are one in the same. Welcome to Tempo Principale.”

       He motioned us to follow him. Simon rolled his eyes but didn’t disappoint me. As with the illustrations we’d already seen, each one Peppe showed us told a personal story. I can still picture the returning soldier embracing his wife while two toddlers wait their turn, a septuagenarian blowing out birthday candles to the amusement of her daughter and granddaughter, an older man sitting in a rowboat, beaming as he pulled his catch from the water. I slipped my hand into Simon’s. His felt clammy in the warmth of mine.

       Peppe smiled. “As you can see, I have captured my subjects in what they considered their prime. Perhaps the Signore and Signora would sit for me?”

       Simon dropped my hand. He stepped back, showed both palms as if warding off an evil spirit. “Thanks for the offer, but we won’t be staying in Florence long enough to pose.”

       “Actually, we’re looking for this place.” I showed Peppe the business card.

       “A-ah, then fate has brought you to me. The pensione is footsteps away, two floors above my studio.”

       “Then you must know Boswell,” Simon said.

       “Si, he represents me occasionally.” Peppe waved his hand toward the door. “Please, the stairs are located outside, to the right of the gallery entrance. Just tell my nonna that Peppe sent you.”

       “Then you are—”

       He swept into another bow. “Si, I am also the landlord.”

###

     "Youthanasia” first appeared in the 2006 November/December issue of  Futures Mystery Anthology Magazine and later in Volume 15/42 of Allegory Ezine. If you'd like to read "Youthanasia" in its entirety, check out the available e-formats at Amazon.com or Smashwords.

Make-believe gypsies have always fascinated me, starting with the 1947 movie Golden Earrings in which the exotic Marlene Dietrich plays a not-so-exotic gypsy in pre-WWII Germany. And who could forget hunky Eric Roberts making his film debut in King of the Gypsies. Or that horrible gypsy who cursed the man responsible for his wife’s death in Thinner, Stephen King’s book and movie.

Real-life gypsies, now they’re another story. Take Italy, a mecca for tourists wanting to unload their money and clusters of gypsies only too happy to help. I managed to outsmart my fair share, young and old, male and female—at a rest stop on the Autostrada, under an arcade in Bologna, in a jewelry shop near Florence’s Pitti Palace, and a block away from the Leaning Tower of Pisa. And what about Spain, that rainy day on a cobblestoned piazza in Granada when this gypsy flashed a cheap, crocheted tablecloth before my eyes. “Too small, and too expensive,” I told her through a series of gestures. Not to be deterred, she went over to her huddled friends and from there showed me a much larger cloth, quite nice for the same price. Six dollars, a bargain I couldn’t pass up so I bought it. Later, when I looked into the bag what did I find—the crappy cloth I didn’t want. Damn!

While writing my latest novel FAMILY DECEPTIONS, I created my own gypsies, a caravan of them descending on the Italian village of Pont Canavese in 1929. Naturally, the gypsies leave with more than they brought, in a scandalous scene that shocked the locals, intrigued Isabella Rocca’s seven-year-old twins, and gave Isabella more grief than she ever imagined. You can read about it here:

       By eleven-thirty, Isabella had sold most of her products and was pacing the aisle with Allegra. After a twenty-minute cry for her mama’s milk, Maria fell asleep with her new stuffed bear and the twins discovered the toys Serina bought earlier. Then Editta Sasso came strolling down the aisle with her basket overflowing and Lucca carrying three hammered pots.

       “I didn’t expect to see you again this morning,” Isabella said, patting Allegra’s bottom.

       “We couldn’t resist the gypsy carts.” Signora Sasso held out her arms. “Ah-h, this must be Serina’s little bambino. Let me hold her.”

       “If you don’t mind her rooting on your shoulder,” Isabella said while giving up the baby. “She needs her mama.”

       “Serina’s still haggling with the gypsies,” Lucca said. He handed two of the pots to Isabella. “She asked me to give these to you."

       “But I … I … grazie, Lucca.” Isabella climbed in the cart, shoved the pots next to Serina’s other purchases, and discovered a temporary solution to Allegra’s hunger—the baby bottles. She smiled down on Lucca, showed him the bottles. “Would you mind going to livestock area to have these filled.”

       “Wa-a-a-h.”

       “Cow’s milk or goat’s?”

        “Either one,” Lucca’s mother said. “Serina’s baby can’t hold out much longer.”

       “Ma-a-m-a-a.”

       “Oh-oh. Now Maria’s awake.”

       “I think she’s hungry, Mama. What should we do?”

       “What’s keeping that damn woman?” Signora Sasso asked, returning the baby to Isabella.

       “Look, Mama. Here comes a parade.”

       From a side street not far from Isabella’s cart the first sturdy wagon appeared—the biggest Isabella had ever seen—painted red and drawn by four large black and white horses, with ribbons woven into their abundant manes and tails. In the front of the wagon sat an older couple, the swarthy man decked out in a yellow shirt and red vest. His plump wife wore a dress of many colors that clashed with those in the long scarf covering her hair. The caravan passed by with younger men driving more wagons, their horses equally magnificent with thick coats in solid colors splashed with white. Their women, some with babies in slings, walked in leather boots and gaudy clothes. Earrings dangled from under their bright headscarves. Necklaces heavy with gold and silver coins hung against their embroidered blouses. Bangles and more bangles jingled and jangled on their wrists. What jewelry they didn’t wear, they carried in their hands, and continued to make sales along the route. Their daughters had long braided hair; their swaggering sons needed haircuts. Pots and pans hanging from the sides of the wagons banged and scraped to titillate the barking dogs. One of the men strummed his mandolin; a woman shook her tambourine. The church bells of Santa Maria started their noonday peal.

       And Allegra chimed in. “Wa-a-a-a-h.”

       “Hush, little one.”

       “Ma-a-m-a-a.”

       “Thank God, here’s Lucca with the milk,” Editta said. “I’ll just stand here and feed Allegra. Sit, Isabella, you look exhausted.”

       “Mama, Maria threw her bottle away. What should we do?”

       “Lucca, quick. Some music.”

        He pulled out his ocarina. His blue eyes danced as he played a little tune that enticed Maria to climb onto Isabella’s lap and then close her eyes.

       “Mama, Mama. I see Cato. I think he’s coming over here.”

        “Look, he’s turning a somersault in midair.”

        “Maybe he’ll stay with us.”

        “Isabella, not that little urchin too, don’t you already have enough?”

        Cato arrived out of breath and with a letter. “For you, Signora.”

        She tore open the seal, read the inside with shaking hands.

        Dearest Isabella,

        The pots Cato delivered to you are my way of saying grazie. Be sure to look in Allegra’s basket. I left one bundle for her and one for Maria. Kiss them for me, but don’t let them believe that their mama will ever return. As for Giovanni—I leave his fate in your gifted hands.

        Serina

Only one of the gypsies will ever return—Cato, as a dashing young man determined to fight with the partisans during WWII. You can learn more about him by reading Family Deceptions.

Family Deceptions is available through Amazon.com/kindle, Amazon.co.uk, Smashwords, other e-reader distributors, or as a convenient download onto your personal computer.

      Although Hong Kong was under British rule for 156 years many its natives do not speak English, nor should they. Or, perhaps they can speak English but prefer one of the Chinese dialects, most likely Mandarin or Putonghua, the mainland’s official language. After all, Hong Kong had its beginnings in China and was eventually returned to China in 1997. Over the years Hong Kong has earned its place as a cosmopolitan city of contemporary skyscrapers and historical colonial buildings, of business men in a hurry, of stylish women thin enough to grace the pages of high fashion magazines, and of ordinary people doing the ordinary work that makes any city efficient.

       My first trip there was business related but that didn’t stop me from savoring every minute of it.

       “Don’t wait for me this evening,” I told my traveling companions who were planning to meet around seven in the hotel lobby. “I’ll catch up with you at the restaurant.”

       I didn’t bother explaining that I’d be attending Mass before dinner. Having seen St. Mary’s earlier that day from the window of our touring bus, I figured it an easy walk from the Mandarin Oriental where we were staying.

       “No, no, Madame,” the hotel concierge advised me when I requested exact directions by foot. “You should take a taxi. It is much more convenient.”

       And so I did. But instead of a slow trip through the city streets with landmarks I surely would remember, this cabbie chose a perimeter highway route and within minutes, pulled into the parking lot behind the church. Ninety minutes later I exited with the crowd of worshippers, first to the car lot where there were no waiting taxis, then back through the main entrance and into the dark of a quiet night instead of the bright lights defining Hong Kong’s business and entertainment district. No problem, I thought. I’ll leave the same way I came—in the comfortable safety of a taxi. Not one in sight. No problem, one was bound to appear at any moment. After all, this was Hong Kong, a city that thrives on taxis. Meanwhile, I decided to walk, but to where? Uh, I guess in the same direction everyone else was heading, unlike me, people who seemed to know where they were going. Taxi, oh Taxi! More than one sped by without stopping and then I remembered the warning about cabbies favoring their dinner hour over any money earned from a desperate fare. Not one business was open, not one taxi stand. The longer I walked into the night the fewer the pedestrians I followed, most having turned to the right or to the left until only three remained, about twenty feet ahead of me.

       “Excuse me,” I called out, hoping they understood English. “Would you mind if I walked with you?”

       “But, of course,” said a man who spoke perfect English but a tad different from mine. “Where are you headed?”

       “To the Mandarin Oriental, but I have no idea where that is.”

       “Not too far from our hotel,” he said, pointing left toward Hong Kong’s Harbor and the Mandarin lighted sign high atop the building for all to see. If only I’d have known where to look instead being worried about where I was going. The remainder of my walk turned out much better than it had started—a delightful exchange of pleasantries with three Canadians who immediately commented on my mid-American accent.

       Thirty minutes later I joined my associates for dinner—Peking duck, its roasted skin paper-thin and crisp, its juicy meat wrapped in thin pancakes served with the traditional black bean sauce and the Cantonese-style plum sauce I preferred. A glass or two of pinot noir calmed my rattled nerves and I enjoyed a delighted evening in which no one commented on my being late. Nor did I volunteer an explanation.

       A day or two later my friend G invited me to join her for shopping at an outdoor market known for its terrific buys on designer clothes and unusual jewelry. “We’ll go by cab,” she said, which turned out to be a fifty-minute drive across Hong Kong to the outskirts of the city and a not-so-crowded complex of assorted shops. We tried, we really did try to find bargains but if there were any, they were not to our liking. After an unforgettable lunch in a so-so restaurant we hailed a convenient taxi, expecting the driver to deliver us to the Mandarin. But after driving for nearly an hour the cabbie, who spoke no English, suddenly stopped in the middle of a busy non-tourist street and motioned us to get out.

       That’s right, out. We’d been dumped and with no clue as to where we were. No problem, I told G. When in doubt ask the nearest policeman. We did, but he didn’t speak English. Damn! If only I’d remembered to carry a book of matches from the hotel, something every tourist should do when venturing out. So we walked. And we walked some more, for maybe another hour. Fortunately, G had a better sense of direction than I because we finally turned the right corner that brought us back to the Mandarin Oriental, safe, sound, and with blisters on top of our blistered heels.

       Three years later I returned to Hong Kong, another business trip but this one with several days totally on my own. I stayed at a different hotel, comfortable and nice but not as luxurious as the Mandarin. Wanting to recapture something of my first visit, I asked the concierge about a Kowloon market I’d seen on my first visit, along with a guide and thirty other travelers. “An easy walk,” the concierge said before giving detailed directions in the Queen’s English I sort of understood. Something about a walk downward and through a covered shopping mall that stretched on and on, a ride on the Star Ferry across the Victoria Harbor to Kowloon and from there a bus ride of nine of ten blocks, after passing the mosque get off at the next stop, cross the street, walk another block or two, and voila!

       “Am I going to be okay with this?” I asked, hoping he’d say no.

       “But of course. I take this route to work every day.”

       And so I did exactly as he told me, ever mindful to my earlier experiences of losing my way. The bus ride concerned me the most but with help from the driver I managed to get off at the right stop. As I walked toward my destination I breathed in the pungent air of unfamiliar aromas before arriving at the market that had not changed since my last visit. Shoppers were busy making their purchases, a daily routine since they prefer fresh ingredients and have limited storage in their apartments. I strolled up and down every aisle, checking out the various fruits and vegetables considered exotic in America’s Midwest. Along the perimeter stalls, dried poultry hung from the rafters, fat puppies slept curled up in tight cages, and clumps of colorful snakes wiggled and crawled in shallow bins. Mesmerized by the whole experience, I finally looked up to see a number of locals looking at me, the only tourist and Round Eyes (the Asian term for Caucasians) in the entire market.

        That day I found my way back, following the same route I’d taken shortly before. And should I ever return to Hong Kong, I will visit the market in Kowloon again.

This place at Lake of the Ozarks we call Casalago can sleep our immediate family, as in twenty-four assorted ages under one roof, with maybe a few of the hardier spilling out onto the deck overlooking the cove or onto a boat moored at the dock. During the day we brave souls tolerate each other’s petty annoyances and anal idiosyncrasies until casual discussions evolve into name-calling and decades-old accusations. After that, it’s time to scatter which explains why God created Outlet Malls. Friends are a different story—a mix of twenty-four-plus friends and family—doable, I’ve been told though not personally experienced. More often, less is better: a few days, a few families.

Or, one set of owners entertaining the choicest of friends, which S2 and H planned on doing recently. Ever the concerned host and hostess, they arrived with two kids in tow a day in advance of their friends to make sure everything was in order. Hel-l-o-o, as soon as they stepped inside the house, they caught a distinctive, unwelcoming odor, followed by the discovery of animal feces and urine decorating the bare floors and all four bathtubs and showers. S2 did what any Casalago owner hates, hates, hates, having to do: he called the maintenance man and housekeeper… uh, that would be husband D and me… process-of-elimination positions foisted on us due to time restraints of the other owners who actually work for a living.

Fortunately for everyone else, D was the last person to leave Casalago, twenty-six days before S2 et al arrived. A raccoon, we thought, has invaded our domain. The immediate reaction was to check the outside vents which may’ve allowed its entry. Nothing, which could only mean one thing, the critter was still hiding in the house. Room by room S2 and H checked every possible area, having no luck until the last bedroom when S2 jumped on the bed. Out scurried a scrawny black cat that ran up the winding staircase and hid behind the sofa until S2 and H coaxed it outside. As we later recalled, Cat had been a big and exceptionally furry creature that roamed the neighbourhood and occasionally peered through the glass of our front door.

The only way Cat could’ve entered Casalago was during D’s last trip, when he kept the front door open while loading the car before leaving. Twenty-six days without food, the only water from the toilet bowls. Impossible to survive, I think not for this cat. But perhaps it used up one of its nine lives.

What about you, any cat stories you’d like to share? Click on the comment button and tell us your story.

Our family has this place at Missouri’s Lake of the Ozarks that we christened Casalago, which in Italian means Lake House. Unlike some regions of the country, people in the Ozarks generally don’t name their property, preferring instead to display the family names on small signs near the road’s edge. We Casalago owners, however, went against local tradition, advertising the name of our property instead, which may explain why we occasionally receive mail addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Casalago.

Modest yet comfortable, our weekend/anytime retreat sits on a quiet cove leading to the lake’s busy thoroughfare known as the main channel.  In the summer the channel zips and zings with anything from cigar boats, bass boats, and personal watercrafts to pontoons, houseboats, and the occasional johnboat. During those other nine months the entire lake drifts into a laid-back mode of dedicated fisherman trolling landmark points and docks rich with crappie beds nesting in sunken brush such as ours, although where the fish are hiding I sometimes wonder. But not my husband. No matter how many hours it takes, D always manages to catch one or two keepers, most of which he returns to the water for another day and another catch. It’s about the sport, he tells me, not our next meal.

D used to have an amazing bass boat, one he maintained with absolute dedication and enthusiasm. But then he practically gave the damn thing away, in a bet there’s no way he could’ve won. Now the boat belongs to me, and will for all eternity. In fact, I plan on having my boat carry me into the next world, perhaps a fiery Viking burial at sea, in this case the lake’s main channel and preferably during the quiet season. In the meantime I lease the boat to D, at no cost as long as he continues to maintain it and doesn’t hound me about trading up to a bigger and better model. I really should christen my boat, if only I had a clever name reflecting how I acquired it—any suggestions? Come up with one that really excites me and receive a free Smashwords copy of my eBook "Lethal Play".

http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/30064

Most of the fiction I write is based on Italians, Italian/Americans, and the culture that brings my characters to life. Some of these characters evolved from real people I’ve known personally or through the eyes and fading memories of others, gifted story tellers who captivated me with hushed secrets from the past. Family and friends occasionally recognize the more obvious renderings but do they see themselves in my work? No way, not with the addition of a few obnoxious traits; or worse yet, an extra fifty pounds.

I strive for realistic characters, which means The Good can only be so good or what’s the point of telling their story. Take Isabella Rocca, the betrayed wife in "Family Deceptions."  The woman is practically a saint in Italy but pride prevents Isabella from forgiving her husband Pietro’s scandalous infidelity so she sends him away. Pride works for The Bad too, especially when fueled by the escalating ambition Pietro encounters when gambling, extortion, bootlegging, and bigamy seduce him to stay in America instead of returning to his wife and children. What follows is the inevitable blend of good and bad, a shattered family embroiled in a thirty-year bittersweet saga spanning two continents and three generations.

Ah-h, the satisfaction derived from being a writer, of mixing the good with the bad, and sometimes winding up with an odd blend of non-Italian teetering on the edge of ambiguous transgressional. For example, this short story I wrote several years ago, based on characters unlike any I’d created before. Not one of them comes from an Italian background or relishes Italian food or drinks hardy Italian wine. My non-Italian story revolves around eleven-year-old Free Danner, a soda-chugging city boy whose mom Lark sends him to live with her dinosaur parents on an isolated farm in Southern Illinois. What starts out as an amusing generational gap quickly deteriorates into a tragedy of irreversible proportions that no one in the family could’ve predicted—perfect ingredients for acceptance in the 2009 horror anthology, Hell in the Heartland.

Free Danner turned out to be a kid not easily dismissed so I expanded his story into a full-length novel and kept the same title, “Free Danner.” After spending ten years in Juvey—years Danner should’ve spent growing up in St. Louis—he’s determined to find the dad who doesn’t know he exists. And most likely wouldn’t care, according to Lark, who can’t recall the possible sperm provider until Danner forces her to come up with three names. This is not the who’s-got-matching-DNA Maury Povitch Show, folks, it’s Danner’s. Okay, Lark’s too. They’re both a little off-kilter, Danner more so than Lark as evidenced in his cross-country quest which soon dominoes into that of a reluctant grim reaper.

Below is a scene that takes place at the VA Hospital in St. Louis. Twenty-two-year-old Danner has allowed himself to be coerced into delivering a book to a man not long for this world, a Vietnam vet who latched onto Danner at Bed and Bread, the city’s premier homeless shelter.

      Jeez. I shoved the damn book inside my shirt, got out of the damn vehicle, and didn’t bother telling the damn Bish goodbye. Nor did I stop at the damn reception desk where the clerk had her nose in the computer. Instead I hopped the nearest elevator, exited at Jonesy’s floor and again without being noticed, followed the number signs, as if I’d made this route ten times before.

     The room was a two-bed deal, one unoccupied and the other with an old guy propped up, an I.V. attached to his arm and wires monitoring his vitals. I dropped the book on the empty bed and said, “Delivery for Jones Alexander the Fourth.”

     “Not there, dimwit, over here.”

     “Jonesy?”

     “Hell, yes. Who’d you think?”

     I walked over and handed off the book to this guy I no longer recognized—clean-shaven and, well … clean. His head was wrapped in a plastic cap, the kind surgeons wear, in Jonesy’s case maybe to contain any critters that hadn’t bitten the dust. His eyes were roadmap bloodshot, as if he’d been on an all-night binge and his skin was casting an odd color I hadn’t noticed during our short time together.

     “Looking good,” I told him.

     “Lying bad,” he told me. He flipped to the back of the book, scratched his fingers on the inside cover for a minute or so but couldn’t release the packet. Disgusted, he half-tossed the book in my direction.

     “Make it snappy,” he said, “afore one of those nosy nurses comes a-strutting in.”

     I pulled the packet away from the cover, only then realizing what Grumbler had described as pills were two single-edged razor blades, which made more sense than Jonesy trying to O.D. while hooked up to a hospital monitor.

     Wiped out from the minor exertion, he leaned back on the tilted mattress. “Wrap ‘em in that paper napkin. Then pour me some water.”

     I did as he said, placed the package in his bedside table, and tapped the drawer. “One hand away whenever you want a close shave.”

     “Which won’t be much longer, god willing. They scheduled me for surgery within the next day or so. Soon as the paperwork’s in order, but with the red tape you just never know.”

     “Are you sure about this?” I asked. “It’s not like they’re holding you prisoner. Just check yourself out.”

     “And go where. Bed and Bread won’t take me back with this damn gangrene chewing up what’s left of my toes. All’s I got are my friends there.”

     “And Mandy, she’s your wife.”

     “Get real. She can’t take care of me no more’n I can myself.” He turned his head, stared at the wall. “The book’s yours to keep. I already read it.”

     As if I could, with this day stuck in my memory. “You don’t have to do this, Jonesy, you being a soldier who’s probably seen worse than … than this.”

     “What do you know about life and death? You’re nothing but a snot-nosed kid. Now pour the water and hit the road afore the nurse sees you.”

     I filled the plastic glass but let it sit on the rolling table pulled up to his bed. “Maybe there’s somebody you want me to call?” I asked.

     The look on his face told me the question was stupid but he answered it anyway. “Not a living soul. I got my goodbyes in order, my will too. Did you see the flowers?”

     They were sitting on the bedside table; I checked out the card. “Nice, from Bed and Bread. Preacher Dave led some prayers for your recovery.”

     “Ain’t gonna happen, no way no how, he knows, they all know. Now remove yourself from my room. And don’t forget the book.”

     He didn’t have to tell me twice. I headed for the door but didn’t get there quick enough.

     “No, wait a minute,” he said. “Hand me the blades. I want ‘em close by.”

     “They’re right next to you.”

     “Dammit, don’t make me ask again.”

     I went back, opened the drawer, and showed him the folded napkin. “See, whenever you’re ready.”

     “I don’t want the napkin. Get rid of it.”

     “You want the blades loose in the drawer?”

     “Afraid I might cut myself?”

     “Okay, okay.” I let the blades fall into the drawer and stuffed the napkin in my back pocket.

     “I’m ready,” he said. “Give ‘em to me now.”

     “No, and don’t ask me to help either. This is all wrong.”

     “It ain’t for you to decide.”

     Just hear me out. Slicing your wrists will never work, not with you hooked up to the monitor. It sends news flashes to the nurses down the hall, and once they see your vitals acting up, all hell will break out. Nurse Betty to the rescue before you have a chance to bleed out.”

     “Give me some credit. I’m going straight for the jugular. It’ll be over afore Bossy Betty runs her sweet ass down here. Now gimme the blades—on second thought, blade. One’s all I need.”

     “Plus a strong and steady hand, which you don’t have and I’m not lending mine. You’re going to blow this, make things worse for yourself.” I had to think fast and came up with what I thought would be convincing. “The same thing happened to this guy I once knew. The razor didn’t cut deep enough so all he got for his effort was a trip to the loony bin and a thin scar nobody noticed after the first week. Going for the jugular requires absolute determination.”

     “Which I have.”

     “And a sharp, strong tool, which again you don’t.”

     He pressed two fingers to each temple and thought a minute. “Wait, don’t go yet. I feel a thirst coming on.”

     I handed him the water. He drank half, emptied the rest on the floor, and pitched the plastic ware into the wastebasket.

     “Not bad for an old guy, huh? Now, pass me the daisies.” I handed the vase to him. He sniffed, made a face. “I can’t smell them.”

     “Neither can I. There’s nothing wrong with your nose.”

     “Watch this.” He took out the flowers, scattered them over his bed, and emptied the water onto the floor. The vase he slammed against the rolling table, shattering the glass into pointed shards. “See, I don’t need you or the damn blades after all.”

     Right, Jonesy. My hand shook when I pulled the napkin out of my pocket. “What about this?”

     “Good idea, so’s not to deter my determined fingers. You’re free to go, Free, and thanks for stopping by.”

     This time there was no turning back but I did hesitate at the door. “So long, Jonesy.”

     “Yeah, kid. See you in the next life.”

     “Nah, I don’t think so.

If you’d like to read more, “Free Danner” is available as an eBook at Amazon Kindle, Amazon Kindle U.K., Barnes and Noble NOOKbook,  and Smashwords, where it can also be downloaded onto your personal computer for convenient reading.   

Although it’s been almost twenty years since I visited Mainland China, I still consider it the most fascinating culture I’ve been privileged to experience during my travels. At that time the older Chinese, both men and women, still wore the traditional working-class polyester jackets and trousers while the younger Chinese had adapted the Western garb of jeans, tee shirts, and Nike shoes. Buses outnumbered automobiles, and bicycles outnumbered buses. During morning and evening rush hour a typical Beijing scene included hundreds of bicycles with toddlers strapped onto rear-end carriers—one child, one parent on their way to the local daycare center.

“In accordance with the government policy, one child per family,” Y, our Chinese guide explained, “and before that child is conceived the husband and wife must apply for permission to do so with their local Communist leader, just as they applied for permission to marry and permission to rent the appropriate apartment.” Y spoke the Queen’s English but could easily slip into American slang. Naturally, he pronounced Beijing the proper way: Bay Jing, which means northern capitol. He was waiting for a ping-pong scholarship to study in America. Once he got there, there’d be no problem with his returning since his wife and one child would not be granted permission to accompany him to America

I was one of eight tourists, perfect for the ten-passenger van that also included Y plus a driver who spoke no English. Nor did we Americans speak any Chinese, which made venturing out alone too challenging for us to attempt. Still, we wined and dined our way through a Chinese opera. We visited Beijing’s many attractions: its Forbidden City and Summer Palace, the zoo where black and white Pandas looked after their endangered cubs. But after all these years the day that stays with me most is the one I spent at Chángchéng, China’s long wall or what we know as the Great Wall. More than a wall, it’s an elevated road winding through 3,800 plus miles of northern China, a one-time stone fortress dating back to the Seventh Century BC. Yes, I bought a sweatshirt to prove I walked part of the wall, a broad thoroughfare that extended far in the distant landscape combined with up and down narrow passages containing uneven stair treads and missing handrails. Most of the tourists were Asian, which may have explained the group of teen-age girls who gathered around me, giggling as one of them took their picture with me, one of the few blondes on The Wall that day.

It occurred to me I was an oddity to the teenagers just as the elderly Chinese man I’d encountered days before in Xian had been an oddity to me. I’d been wandering around a popular tourist site and soon forgot my manners, stopping to stare in awe at this elderly gentleman until he stared back, willing me to finally turn away in embarrassment. No way would I have taken his picture without asking and had I, it’s doubtful he would’ve consented. But I’ll never forget what the man looked like so I put him in my novel, “Family Deceptions.”

His name is Moon Lin, and you can read a brief description introducing him in the excerpt below. The year is 1930, the place Butte, Montana. Pete Rocca has reluctantly agreed to an evening on the town with his landlady’s daughter, Glory Bea. 

        “It’s too quiet around here,” Glory Bea shouted over the din of unruly patrons. “Let’s mosey over to Chinatown.”

        “Chinatown at night is no place for a lady.”

        “You sound like my mother.”

        Pete let the insult pass. “There’s nothing worth seeing. Most of the Chinese got pushed outta town after the Tong War. Some wound up in prison.”

        “You’ve been there?”

        “Not me, I’ve never been in trouble with the law.”

        “Not prison, silly, Chinatown. Have you ever been to Chinatown?”

        “Who hasn’t.”

        “Then you haven’t seen the real Chinatown, or you’d want to go back.”It was almost midnight when they left the Tin Cup. They crossed Galena and turned left onto Mercury. Those once lively streets, rarely disturbed by a police force now, were as empty as Glory’s pretty head. “Well, I see they still have the noodle parlors,” she said.

        “You like that food?”

        “Silly! My taste runs to the continental.”

        Near China Alley they stopped to look through the cloudy windows of a remedy shop where the preserved remains of exotic animal parts, colorfully patterned snakes, and other reptiles filled an assorted collection of glass jars. Pete made a face. 

        “I don’t see how they believe such crap will cure their ills.”

        “No worse than Italians wrapping garlic around their necks.”

        “That’s for colds, and it works.”

        “Well, the Chinese have their ways too. Come on, I’ll show you.” 

        They walked along the shop’s narrow passageway to a bleak warehouse where Glory knocked twice on the metal door. When the peephole cover slid open, she said, “Tell Annalee that Glory is here with a gentleman friend.” 

        The door creaked open. A wizened old man with a white beard approaching his waist peered at them through little round spectacles. A black skullcap covered the top of his head, and over loose-fitting black pants he wore a long, black mandarin coat with ornamental loops fastening the buttons. Clasping his hands under the wide sleeves, he bowed. They followed him down the hall and through a doorway decorated with long strands of garish beads.

“Family Deceptions” is available through Amazon.com/kindle, Amazon.co.uk, Smashwords, other e-reader distributors, and as a convenient download to personal computers.

I started out life as Loretta Mary Kay, a simple name that flowed nicely and for a child, easy enough to remember. Nevertheless, it confused some people, mostly adults who thought me a bit dense. “No, honey, what’s your last name, the one that comes after Kay.” The name goes back to Wisconsin a good 140 years or so, and before that to Germany.  Considering the brevity, Kay might’ve been shortened from one more complicated but this I don’t know for sure. As for me, I don’t feel the least bit German because I grew up around my mother’s side of the family who came from Northern Italy and eventually I married my high school sweetheart whose parents also emigrated from Italy. In fact, his family and mine lived near each other in the Piemonte region of the Italian Alps, their homes no further apart than thirty minutes.

Now I feel as though I’ve been Loretta Giacoletto forever. It’s not the simplest of names but it does flow nicely even though the pronunciation occasionally confuses some people. For those of you among the challenged this is an easy way to remember Giacoletto:

Gee-ah-co-let-to

Now say it aloud, in the Italian way, quickly with the accent on the third syllable and be sure to pronounce both ts:

Gee-ah-co-let′-to        

Beautiful, yes? I still can hear a young man paging my name at the picturesque Hotel Lucchesi located on the River Arno in Florence, Italy:

Signora Giacoletto, Signora Giacoletto

Italy never stops calling to me—the wonderful sights and smells, the mouth-watering food and earthy people. I’ve been there a number of times but still haven’t had my fill. So, in the meantime I write about an Italy and its people that only exist in my mind although to me they seem so real I want to share them with my readers. Here is excerpt from my recently published generational saga, “Family Deceptions”. The year is 1928; the location, Cuorgnè, an Italian alpine village. After selling their produce at the farmers market, Pietro and Isabella Rocca take their six-year-old twins to the local photographer for a traditional family portrait.

         While church bells pealed the noonday Angelus, Pietro piled empty containers into the cart and Isabella carried a round of cheese across the piazza to a shop bearing the bold lettering: Tommaso Mino, Fotografia. 

         “Maso can take us at twelve-thirty, before he sits down to eat,” she said on her return. “What’s more, he has a room where we can change.” 

         In less than thirty minutes the Rocca family underwent a striking transformation: Pietro in his three-year-old suit, tailor-made but inexpensive; Isabella in pale green georgette with contrasting embroidered collar; Riccardo, a belted jacket with dark socks stretching to his knickers; and Gina, rose taffeta and patent leather buckle shoes. Surrounded by a setting of velvet backdrops and ivy-covered pedestals, they allowed themselves to be readied for posterity as Tommaso Mino tilted heads, positioned hands and pinched cheeks. 

         At last he stepped back and surveyed the Rocca mannequins. With cupped fingers to his lips, he smacked approval, and then centered his head under the camera cloth. Clutching the shutter bulb in one hand, he spoke with reverence. “Perfetto. Nobody move. Nobody move. Nobody—”

         Gina giggled. 

         “All right, everybody, again.” 

         Riccardo turned to chastise his sister. 

         “Once more.” 

         Pietro delayed another three minutes while he walked off a debilitating cramp. Then Riccardo put one finger up his nose. Gina giggled again. Pietro coughed. Gina shoved Riccardo. Riccardo shoved Gina.

         The fifteen minutes Tommaso had allotted as a favor to Isabella extended to thirty. Then, forty-five. Through the curtained doorway of his living quarters drifted the aroma of garlic and anchovies simmering in olive oil. Twice, his wife called out that dinner was almost ready.

         “Everybody, look at the camera.”

         “Wait,” Pietro said, reaching in his pocket. “I almost forgot.” He leaned over Isabella and pinned Zia Theresa’s brooch to her shoulder. He’d brought the earrings too but decided they could wait for another occasion. The children gave up their poses to ooh and aah over the new treasure. As for Isabella, she snatched a glimpse that produced a smile worthy of the Blessed Virgin.

         Using the rumpled camera cloth, Tommaso gathered mounting perspiration from his forehead. “For the last time, p-lease,” he implored through a mouth no longer smiling. “I am running out of film.”

         “And patience,” Pietro mumbled. 

         Isabella, regal and unflinching, raised her voice for the first time. “Nobody move. My stomach’s growling louder than Maso’s.”

         Her words restored order. The mannequins froze, and the photographer squeezed his shutter control.

         “Bella, bella,” he whispered.

         Seconds later the Rocca family gathered their possessions and hurried to the anteroom where Tommaso waited, his sweaty hand clasping the doorknob. 

         “I do not waste time or money developing inferior negatives,” he said, motioning the Roccas onto the cobblestone walkway. “Experience tells me that only the last shot will meet the high standards I set.” He bowed as Isabella passed by. “Signora Rocca, I will have your order ready next week.”

“Family Deceptions” is available through Amazon.com/kindle, Amazon.co.uk, Smashwords, other e-reader distributors, and as a convenient download to personal computers.