THIS POST WAS WRITTEN BY ROBIN: I have been around Italian women - actually they were sisters - whose fights were as fierce as the gladiators. You never quite saw the fireworks coming; you could never predict how long the radioactive fallout would seep under the door. The feuds would go on for years, until the memory of the transgression that started it all had lost its sting. Along about then a new transgression would take its place. For many years I foolishly tried to reconcile the warring factions, to no avail. Finally I came to understand something that may sound unfair: some aspects of the Italian psyche are just plain nuts.
But none of that was observed on my long walk on the beach this morning. What I saw were good friends, old friends walking arm in arm, deep in conversation. These women weren’t young. If they had ever fought over a boyfriend or told one another’s secrets, that was all in the long ago. They strolled over the sand with the confidence and contentment that comes from not having to suck your belly in any more. They were precious. They are, however, Italian, so they could be sworn enemies as early as next week.
We say goodbye to our sleepy Cattolica tomorrow and make our way to Venice by car. With any luck we’ll get lost for weeks and weeks.
PHOTO NOTE: Taken by Robin.
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