Beautiful Day with Sheep, Tantrums, and Arancini

I slept far too late this morning, which always leaves me feeling a bit behind the eight-ball. I’m still trying to knock out this cold, so I think my body went into a mini coma as a preservation mode. I was still in my pjs, so Joe went ahead without me for cappuccino and cornetto, which was fine. I wiped down the apartment, changed the sheets, and cleaned the bathroom. Get outta here, germs! It’s sunny and warm outside; I want to get out for a walk.

Joe returned while I was in the shower, and didn’t want to venture out again with me, so I took the opportunity to go to the “junk store,” as he calls it, to try to find entertainment for Rollercoaster Ettore, and to Vesti Bene, the discount clothing/shoe store, to find something to stretch my Easter wardrobe (which exists as one lone dress) since there are 5 days of festivities, evidently.

I got small wooden letters to trace, to spell out Ettore’s name, and a strip of watercolor cakes and some brushes. That should cover 15 minutes.

Vesti Bene had some nice things—one really has to dig for them—and I found a light colored blazer to dress up the cream colored skirt I brought, along with a layering long-sleeved shirt in my signature black.

Walking home, I spotted something new to me here. Sheep and goats. Right off Viale dei Fiori, across from Lidl. I wondered if they were brought in to clear the pasture.

I stopped at Lidl for butter and a few sundries, once again appreciating their parking lot view. I didn’t find ground pistachio there, so I went to CRAI. I was puzzled they didn’t have it—I looked in the section with the nuts, the baking section (since sometimes it’s called pistachio flour), and where small jars of nutty or pesto-y things are stocked, but—nothing. I asked the cashier, who led me in back to the butcher counter, where fresh little boxes of ground pistachio were lined up. I forgot how much it’s used on meat!

Another thing I appreciate is the Italian respect for espresso. At the Wednesday market, a small truck (half the size of a golf cart) drives up and down next to the vendor stalls, equipped with an espresso machine and a cooler of beer. At the local airport, there are, of course, caffe bars, but in the off chance you can’t make the 10-meter walk between them, there are espresso vending machines—and the caffe from them isn’t bad! Supermarkets, banks, McDonalds; every place seems to have an espresso bar. I was impressed that the newer hardware store in town has one near their front door.

I cut down a less-trafficked street to get home, and met with something else I love—the primitive version of Amazon delivery. Every day, there are Ape (Ah-pay) trucks hawking household products and the day’s best produce. Tuesdays and Fridays, the fish monger comes through. The scrap metal collector comes daily.

Now home, we ate a light lunch of assorted salumi, cheese, olives, bread, then waited for Ettore. We heard him screaming, but I’m letting him decide to come to me. Sometimes it’s adding fuel to the fire if too many people try to influence a 3-year-old’s decision. 2:30, 3:00, 3:30–no Ettore. It’s hard to tell what to do. Am I “on call”? Do I spend this beautiful day inside, just in case?

I decided to use the time to research and book the Puglia trip, before both flights and hotels either disappear or skyrocket (prices have already crept up a bit in my delay). My head is brain-foggy, so I hope I got all the dates right. Tomorrow, I hope the fog clears so I can nail down the wedding plans.

Aziza came upstairs with Ettore around 5 or 5:30. All was pleasant and peaceful, but it’s not as if a lot of English was happening. Then, just as a couple of days ago, Ettore got up, went to the door, and said “good-bye,” explaining that he and Aziza will go back to his house. Well then.

I finished a few more things on the Puglia trip; I left the car rental in Joe’s hands. Hopefully that will be taken care of soon, as things can quickly become unavailable. At that moment, the door opened (not a big deal, but it’s odd—knocking is unheard of?), and Aziza returned with Ettore, saying she had to go. It was about 7:00, so I knew we had about an hour with him, which was fine. He was back to his old self.

I was embarrassed at being mistaken for a German, but being an American is more humiliating these days. Actually, humiliating is far too gentle a word. Shame. I’m ashamed.

Elena came to get Ettore and talked with us a bit about festivities this weekend, including a performance on Sunday by her old theater troupe.

“You were in theater?” I asked.

“Yes; you didn’t know? My speciality was hip hop.”

This rang a bell; I remember a conversation with Maria Teresa a year ago last Christmas.

“Maria Teresa did it as well?”

“Yes. We had rival troupes. But of course mine was better.”

I have no doubt!

Joe and I walked to Stissi, since today is Thursday, and there was a conversation about returning on Thursday for something. I told Joe I didn’t fully understand what was said, so it could be a bust. Indeed, nothing special was happening, but I figured out that, since I raved about their ragù arancini being the only ragù arancini I’ll eat (it has big chunks of sauce-simmered beef in it), it is available every Thursday evening at Stissi! So, that was our supper.

And now I’m debating if I want to pull out my suitcase and dig around for TheraFlu, which sounds like a lot of work, but not sleeping sounds worse!