P. is back from Venice, is postponing his departure for Brazil, it seems. We fear we have made the Nino Bixio a little too comfortable. Unfortunately, our friend is a bit down and we shelve any impatience with him to help pull him out of his funk. We buy three gigantic steaks from our sympathetic and good-looking butcher. L. has a crush on him.

Nice cena with P., a la Carega for nightcap.

Ah, the joys of laboring remotely. I have a pastel commission and L. is creating a logo. Nino Bixio is a wonderful place to work in, all day long the rooms are full of sunlight. We can feel the days lengthening, Spring comes early to the Veneto.

Verona is abuzz today with preparations for Carnivale. They are electing Papa Gnoco. The tradition dates back to a famine in the Veneto in 1535. The wealthy citizens fed the starving Veronese with these bite-sized doughy dumplings which were distributed by a functionary who came to be called "Papa Gnoco." Now this job goes to, as P. describes it, "the biggest drunk in Verona." The election party is to be held in front of San Zeno.

L. and I cruise over around 10am with the digital camera. What a scene! There are two candidates for Papa Gnoco, referred to by their respective backers as simply Uno and Due. Bellowing forth from a score of cruddy amps, drunken Italians loudly proclaim "Vota Uno!" or "Vota Doooooo-ay!" These cats are well into the mulled wine long before the noontime bells.

L. and I stick to the food offerings, fresh gnocchi of course, patatine fritte, brioche, and one of those awesome frankfurter sandwiches [*L: no hotdog sandwich for me!]. A live four-piece band, backers of candidate Uno, offers sluggish versions of classic American rock standards and there are no less than three karaoke machines going full blast. Tweakers are everywhere, definately a rougher, more patchwork crowd than one sees in Borgo Trento.

We bump into Rosanna's sister Louisa who attended our welcome to Italy dinner in December with her son Julio, a cute kid of four or five. Julio's father, Charlie, is an ageing musician type who loves Bob Dylan. P. and Rosanna keep telling me we should get together and jam or something. Charlie is ensconced at the headquarters bar of Due just down the road from the raucous piazza of San Zeno. He's a nice cat, looks like David Crosby. Louisa seems to be over whatever the two of them had, they are not even a couple, according to P.. Charlie tells us a story about Dylan's concert at the Verona Arena back in the 80's which he attended. Apparently, the drummer was too drunk to play and Dylan kinda cussed him out onstage. I have read about that show in one of those exhaustive Dylanology books. It was supposed to have been a fiasco, with people leaving early in protest. Poor L., this is not exactly her favorite topic of conversation! Turns out today is Charlie's 54th birthday. He and his posse are off to Piazza Erbe to continue the party. Louisa is none to pleased to be recruited as chauffer but off they go to find her macchina.

Ashamed to admit it, but I requested that L. download us Season 1 of D.Housewives on our new iPod [*L: we have already watched EVERY episode of The Office]. In my defense, there are not that many shows available to us [*L: we could have gotten Monk]. Guess I may be a little bit homesick.

P. and I drive out to ugly, tangled industrial section of Verona, called Borgo Roma, to pick up a box from the States. DON'T EVER SEND A BOX HERE REGULAR MAIL. They charge a 53 Euro dogana [customs] fee, even for a small box. Mom sends X-mas presents – oil paint brushes, books and for me a poignant 2006 Packers calendar, put together before the miserable results of 2005/2006 were in- there it is printed on the back page, the soon to be miserable season…now begins the long twilight?

That night, L. and I drive to a town called Colà, just a little ways down the Corso Milano, where they have an awesome 8-acre hot springs park called the Parco Termale del Garda. Reminds L. of childhood experiences in Germany, indeed the changing room signs are written in Italian and German only. Steam and lights are moody and beautiful, cypresses rise in silhouette all around us. The warmest areas of the springs have been sectioned off like hot tubs and couples are smooching in the dark corners. There is a grotto, not so large as it appears in the pamphlet but fun to explore. It's like the coolest night-time pool party ever. The giant bathing area has a floor of tiny, clean white pebbles. The swim makes us ravenous and we have delicious pizza at a trattoria across the street from the park.

Good meeting with P.'s lawyer friend, a sharp lady with low smoker's voice … L., P. and I meet in her funky office which is filled with cool paintings. Her dad is in the next room, working the phones. He's wearing an amazing yellow and red plaid coat. Everything is tranquillo. P. is in the right about his contract and our position at Nino Bixio is secure.

P. and I attend a meeting with Amadio, actually the son of Amadio. P. and the father are no longer on speaking terms. Sticking point is P.'s old contract and the terms thereof. The son claims to have lost the contract, P. does not reveal that he still retains the contract. This was more than 20 years ago. A cat and mouse game in the Italian style, but we will get it all resolved.

Today L. and I took a trip to the town of Soave for the "Rufioi" festival [also a festival for the town's patron saint whose name I forget...) Rufioi are sweet ravioli shaped to resemble a monk's hood. We have noticed Italians find ways to congregate, eat, and, of course, drink as often as possible, all through the year and for all kinds of reasons.

We struggle with the Verona bus schedule. Soave is only 30min. away, but the buses are running on "festivo" time. We end up having to kill a couple of hours on the Piazza Bra so we have pranzo at Brek, the Italian cafeteria. We are on the bus too late to make all the events L. read about online, but we want to see this cool-sounding, walled medieval town anyway.

So happens we reach the Soave castle, another military gesture by the Scaligeri [Cangrande della Scala] family, right at the tail end of pranzo time, when everyone's still napping. We are able to tour the grounds alone, just one docent in the residence section. Whole thing makes me think of D&D. The walls are brick, tall and snaking all the way around the town. There is the ruin of a chapel, a great tower, archers' walks from which we see a broad view of the misty Veneto hills [*L: and Italy's largest wine-producing region]. The residence rooms are cold and damp, the artifacts look a bit damaged but this lends the place a cool, haunted house quality. We especially love the narrow stone window seats, perfect for a maiden's meditation on her questing knight.

After the castle, we check out Soave proper. We have missed all the events. No matter. Fun beer in a soccer bar while waiting for the bus. Here the local team congregates, standing around in their maroon workout suits, smoking and swilling wine. Later, back in Verona, we see highlights of their match that day, their sad little pitch. Soave lost.

The Soave Castle.

On the way up.

The Tower.

The Chapel Ruins.

Cangrande della Scala [big dog of the ladder].

Before boarding the bus.

Started a new series of graphite drawings, am using digital photos of our trip to Milano as source material. Working title: half naked narcissist in Milano changing room…catchy?