The first day doesn't count. No matter how I try to manage or overcome jet lag, it's a "throw-away-day". I can't speak Italian, even though I was speeding through my Pimsleur lessons back in Oregon. I look like death. Awake at 3:45am. Nothing for it but to power through the day, and try to delay bedtime a couple of hours.
Just for the record. I abstained from drinking on the flight on this trip. All it did was insure that I would not sleep during the entire 16 hours en route. I may have been more hydrated, but it felt horrible. I intend to remedy that on the flight home:)
This morning (did I mention 3:45am???) I called my almost-teenagers, who had no interest whatsoever in talking to their mom, then finally talked myself into a morning walk. A resolution shared by the local wildlife. Rounding a corner on a steep uphill climb, I heard a roar that I swear sounded like a bear. There are no bears here. But there also aren't supposed to be wild llamas, and there are. At least one. So.
This not-so-little piggy just did not sound friendly. Cinghiale are prized for how they taste with fresh pasta, and this one preferred a long life. I ran. And thus became the joke of the village.
Gina: "How big was it?"
Me: "Really BIG."
Oriano: "Why didn't you kill it?"
Me: "Because I was running away."
Lina: "They aren't dangerous."
Me: "Tell the boar. Please."
Oriano: "He was just trying to speak English."
Me: "No comment."
This conversation took place while we were sitting in the brilliant spring sunshine, tasting the local priest's attempt at Limoncello. And a half hour discussion of its merits and shortcomings:
Lina: "It's too strong"
Oriano: "The taste of lemon is good"
Me: "It's not sweet enough"
Not even the priest can win in this crowd.
I love this place.
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