Yesterday’s rains have cleared the air of Verona and our view of the rooftops and the bell towers from the Columbare hill is sharp, full of color and contrast. All the trees are in leaf or blossoming cheerfully, the spring air is perfumed, the grass is thick and wet. No Charlie or Charlie’s dad, sadly. Been a long time since we’ve seen them. Mary has fun anyway, sniffing around the thousand tree trunks. We have an awesome palestra visit, running and maxing on all routines, then roasting like lobsters in the sauna. After pranzo, a pleasant nap in the sunny bedroom, with the long white curtains billowing in the breeze.

This is labor day weekend in Italy, and they are staging a Festivo per Bambini in Verona. In Centro, it’s baby carriage gridlock. Lots of balloons and clowns and storytellers. With Pasqua two weekends ago, celebrations for the end of WWII last weekend, and Labor Day tomorrow, the Italians have had three long weekends in a row.

P. is back in Italy. He called us yesterday from Venice where he claims to be staying for the summer. At first he plays one of those P. jokes on me, acting like a guy from the questura. Gives me near heart failure before I realize who it is. The plan of going to Brazil he shrugs off with the brief statement that he couldn’t get the visa. P. claims to have no intention of hanging out in Verona, but I am guessing he will be in the mix soon enough.

It’s been two weeks since our last English lesson with Rosa. We pay a visit with laundry, but Rosa is not there. Her very sweet daughter, Caterina, obligingly sets us up so our washing and drying is free. We are working on the itinerary for our Sicilian vacation. Must finish the Porter commission before we go.

Took L. to the Calcografia Artisitica today. This is the place with the hand-cranked presses Mariella and I visited a few weeks back. The company is called G. Cristini. The simpatico fellow from my previous visit kindly shows us around. L. is suitably impressed by the old-world stillness of the place. There is no radio blaring, no clatter of metal, no air of frenzied labor. This is art going down. The old guy who works the press lays out a soaked piece of paper with copper plate and a sheet of thick felt, cranks the roller with a smooth, easy motion and the print is done, looking crisp and elegant.

We discuss printing some of my drawings. The plate costs 150 Euro to produce and then it’s mine for life. Each print runs around 3-7 Euro, depending on the quantity. I will do a series of quick “walking” sketches in that automatic style I used, drawing out the train window on my way to Paris. L. was hoping to get some work done here as well, but it’s the wrong kind of press. She will need a tipografica shop.

Tonight, I jam with Charlie and the cool cat with the 12-string from Lunedi Pasqueta whose name is Ugo. The jam spot is in Centro, a little enoteca just down the street from the side entrance to the Duomo. L. and I have noticed it many times in passing (L. has even heard singing coming from there). To call the gig low-key would be an overstatement. I wouldn’t even really call it a gig. We sit at a long table, have a little food, and then break out the guitars. There is no stage. We are just sitting there, playing songs to the few people in attendance. Hugo is fun to play with, Charlie sings along in his husky baritone and we get off a few decent numbers. L., as usual, makes astute suggestions. These guys are so unjaded about rock-n-roll. We even play a cover of “Comfortably Numb.” It’s really just good clean fun and we wrap it up by midnight, each going our respective ways, L. and I to our little dog, Charlie to his hilltop, Hugo to who knows where (we do not know what he does other than strum a 12-string, but he’s a great guy).

L. Note: I ask Charlie and Hugo for driving tips to Sicily. MapQuest makes the 13-hour drive seem simple, but I wonder if there is any G. W. Bridge-type congestion we have to expect. Hugo tells us to drive the whole way down the boot and cross the Strait of Messina [10 Euro]. Charlie advises us to take the overnight ferry from Napoli [180 Euro]. “You get on the ferry at night and you are there in the morning.” It’s probably an astrological difference of opinion. Steve, the American, is sure he will be able to power through Calabria … after all, Italy is a small country.

I finish my last portrait of Peg which is softer and more gently rendered than the first ones. I had to work and rework it a good deal to mold the likeness into place. Sadly, I must tear up one of my Pat Porter drawings, the graphite picture of her with Harriet. It is very hard to draw someone with a full smile. Sargent never had to do it.

L. has the excellent idea of finally using our patio for a romantic cena. We have candles on the wide concrete ledge, sit at the little metal table. We have delicious pork chop with sauce, cauliflower and polenta. The sky is that deep blue of a warm weather evening, when the light seems to hang on. Against this dusky hue are the glowing street lights and the blossoming trees. Cars whisper past on Nino Bixio and someone shouts “Dopo! Dopo!” [later, later].

After dinner, we check out the final night of “Tra Musica e Parole” in Piazza Dante. Tonight the place is packed and the band is pretty good, though they have a dorky name [Bikini the Cat]. Another bad choice, they are all dressed in matching striped shirts. I guess it worked for Urge Overkill, but it’s not L.’s and my thing. Nonetheless, they are a tight band and clearly have big eyes to make it. It’s a power trio, with a skinny young chick as the singer/guitarist. She’s pretty damn good, can really play her instrument. The drummer is excellent as well, sings backup vocal and the bassist can execute all the emphasis leaps. Their songs are sung in English with a heavy accent. Are they from Verona?

I have finished my Don pics and close to being done with this final pass at Peg. In the evening, we check out “Tra Musica e Parole.” Three guys from the Lunedi Pasqueta party are in the crowd, but we are hiding out with Mary under the arcade. Apparently it’s “tra daytime and prime time” for the bands so the acts we see are throwaways, playing to a nearly deserted Piazza.

The first band is very serious, a lot of hollered harmonies, exploding choruses, minor keys, and rock waltz times. The singer wears a black cloth over his eyes and they are all sitting down [ L note: an indication that we are not supposed to have fun].

The second band is even slower than the first and half again as self-serious. They weren’t standing either. Every song starts tortuously quiet and slow, building to a squalling climax. They are good enough players, but I want to shoot them after about 10 minutes. L. and I are having fun, nonetheless, drinking beers and talking about the “old days” of our rock lives [the early 90's]. The second band’s final number is a long screaming rant, clearly against Bush and the USA, from certain lyrics we pick up.

Next up is a poetry reading, with one of the cats from Lunedi Pasqueta playing percussion. He was a funny guy, in fact, had a goofy overbite, wore the “Adam and Fig Leaf” apron while he served the cafè normale. We can only watch a little, though. We’re hungry, it’s late, plus we both have to pee desperately.

We do a pile of grocery shopping right off the bat, buy incredible-looking steaks and pork chops at the Macelleria next to Migross and stock the fridge with formaggio, verdure, milk and savories. We have decided to take a trip to Sicilia in mid-May, so we need to be careful with our cash. This means little or no eating out and we must make our larder stretch.

We take a long walk in Centro. The weather is perfect, mid-70’s and breezy with a clear, bright sun. We visit the “Modern Art Museum of Verona” where there are about a dozen really good paintings [L. note: including two great illustrations by Jim Shaw]. There is a rock and poetry festival in the Piazza Dante this weekend called “Tra Musica e Parole” [Between Music & Words]. They are setting up the beer tent and the stage as we pass through. Must check it out later.

After wandering around Centro, we circle past Castelvecchio and San Zeno and stop by By Vittorio. By Vittorio is a place we’ve been observing since February, a food stand on the corner of Parco della Mura, painted gold, and serving patatine fritte [french fries], bibite [little drinks] and panini.

We are worried they are having a rough early Spring. For one thing, the weather has been crappy, but also, city workers have been tearing up the street right where Vittorio sets his little red tables. Seems like they are never going to finish the job, they’ve been at it for weeks! L. even notices a giant cobweb on the backhoe. We order the patatine fritte and a couple of fizzy waters, sit by the long ditch and watch the kids playing in the park.

The trees on Bixio are full of pink blossoms. We open all windows to a high city breeze that smells of warm air and concrete, something cooking, and cut grass. Across the Ponte Garibaldi, our friends at Pampanin, the best gelateria in Verona, have installed a huge green awning. On Piazza Erbe, the tables are packed with grateful Veronese. The business of leisure kicks into high gear.