L. has been feeling bad for the last several days. She has swollen glands in her neck and cheek and a splitting headache of unique dimensions. Coming off a week of intense computer work, she feels sure she’s made herself sick. Also, she was using a depilatory called Veet. Apparently, she rubbed the stuff off on a towel, which she left on top of the washing machine. Later on in the day, she mistakenly used this same towel to dry her face, causing a burn to rise near her left eye. We decide to visit the Pronto Soccorso [the Italian ER] to see what’s up. The whole scene is depressing, of course, with people in neck braces, shuffling old ladies, worried faces, and the occasional prostrate form wheeled in on a gurney by workers of the Croce Verde, but they get to us quickly and the cost is only 36 Euro. The doctor says it’s no big deal. His theory is that L. bites down in her sleep and that this causes the headache. She doesn’t even go into the Veet incident and somehow the doctor never gets around to feeling her glands.

We are sent to the Farmacia for extra-strength Ibuprofen and that’s that. The whole thing kind of wears us out. We come back home and lie down. The brutally hot weather is finally breaking and there is a cool breeze with a hint of rain.

Tonight we are taking Charlie out for a dinner in Centro. We want to try a place owned by one of Charlie’s friends, a very sweet blonde lady we spoke with on our giro three Fridays ago. Her name is Manu, short for Manuella.

During the day today, L. began to suss out ways of updating my website using these template methods. At first I sit and watch her work, but this just makes me crazy. In my ignorance, I am way too impatient and end up just being quarrelsome. A snappy gym visit makes us both feel better.

Charlie arrives at 8pm just as a cooling rain has blown up and passed, leaving torn clouds, blue sky and the streets shiny with water. Charlie has sad news. He has been today at the funeral of a thirty-year friend who died of cancer. We have an aperitivo at the Palone bar near San Zeno where we first met Charlie. Glasses are raised in remembrance and the bartender, who knows Charlie well, treats us to a round.

We move on to a pleasant, if not smashing meal, at Manu’s place near Piazza dei Signori. We talk about the big subjects. Charlie is pretty drunk but he is not foolish or loathsome like so many drunks are. We love this guy! He is off to another festa in honor of his departed friend. We decline the invite, are happy to turn in at a reasonable hour.

Yesterday I made up a sweet presentation matte for my portrait of Mariella’s adopted daughter (did I mention this?) Erica. It’s a “glamour shot” perhaps, but the graphite work in it is pretty fine. I am nervous because Mariella must love it – if she thinks there’s something wrong I will have to re-try it.

We are at San Giorgio by nine when Mariella and Theo walk up. The “battle-axe” from Milan is there along with one or two of the other Donne. I am unable to make my presentation as everyone’s chatting and running after their dogs, plus I’m dreading the moment somewhat. Finally L. tells Mariella I have something to show her. Thank goodness, Mariella loves my portrait, exclaims that it is propria lei (really her) and assures me that Renato will have it beautifully framed. She mentions how Erica was adopted, asserting that other children might just come from “a night of love” but Erica she was able to kind of save.

Mariella seems genuinely moved, shows the picture to everyone at the park. Perhaps I have helped to finally right our karmic canoe. Renato and Mariella will be gone all of August for their vacation, but we will get together after for dinner and I can inscribe the back of the drawing for them.

Always nice to get a workout done first thing in the day. We must stop by the hateful Pam off Piazza Bra with its straggle of slow-moving lines and wine-drunk customers. Since we only come here in emergencies, always on a Sunday when the other grocery stores in Verona are closed, we seem to catch a festa crowd. Today the family in line next to us is speaking a Slavic language with round, rolling “r’s”. At first, I cannot place the sound; the “r’s” give a Latin flavor but there are these jagged consonants and a clipped rhythm. Of course it’s not Germanic, not with those rich “r’s”. Could this be some crazy Italian dialect? L. leans in to listen and makes the call. Just brings home how far out we have swum in this ocean of difference.

We are having Roberta and Michael for dinner tonight. L. spends a chunk of the late afternoon cooking while I continue to work on my Erica portrait. This is a tough one. The girl has a decidedly crooked face, something I’ve noticed talking with her. The whole right side kind of slants south and her mouth tilts with it. It’s not necessarily unbecoming, just strange. In the photo I have, which is very flattering, there is still a noticeable unevenness of the eyes and I must gently render the planes so it’s not too jarring.

Roberta and Michael show up around le otto with wine, both seemingly in good moods. Roberta is delighted to eat on the patio where the air is cooler. Everyone enjoys a balcony, but with Italians it’s a way of life. Somehow, L. and I never much used our porch areas back in C’Ville; of course, they were a hike from the kitchen area, as is the case with Nino Bixio. If it was more convenient to hang al fresca, we’d probably do it more.

We have a nice hang and meal, talk life, art, and politics, in that order as the wine goes down. Later, we do a San Giorgio dog walk. Just as we’re wrapping up, an incredible, cold wind comes tearing through the trees. Rain begins to fall in giant drops, slapping the sidewalk and flooding our sandals as we scamper home with Mary yanking the leash. The ratty couch which we pulled out on the balcony during dinner is soaked as are we. Mary loves being towel-dried, it’s her favorite little game.

A little hung and late-slept this AM, did not meet le Donne. I want to get this Erica portrait done before I next see Mariella anyway. Takes us a while to creak into motion. Both L. and I are hangover wimps since we don’t really overdrink that much these days. I remember when the blazed-out, residually addled sensation of the day after was almost fun; now I just can’t wait to get 24 hours between me and that feeling.

Finally am able to do some work, finish the Erica portrait for Mariella. I am pleased with how it came out. I eschewed my usual black line and dots, have rendered the face with soft edges in graphite, rubbing and erasing, bringing in tone, then rubbing and erasing again for what I think is a glowing sort of effect. Showed the almost-finished pic. to Roberta and Michael last night; Roberta loved it but Michael pointed out that her eyes looked a little uneven….damn! I mean, her eyes are uneven! I even gridded out all the proportions, so I have to hope the effect will carry through overall and that my style will please.

That last week with the CA Inghams, Roberta had urged us to hook up with her and Michael for a hang-out of some sort, but we were wrapped up in doing family stuff and never got around to it. Of course, we are worried that Roberta will be hurt by this lack of contact, even though for some of that time she was in Sardinia with a cousin so we couldn’t have seen her anyway. L. and I are hung up on trying to please, not because we want to be powerful or popular, but because we feel we can do some good in the lives of those around us and it tortures us that we always seem to fall short of our duty.

L. and I have to remember that whatever is going on in the lives of our friends, it so often has nothing to do with us and there’s no point in our feeling responsible all the time. We intend to help when we can, but it’s important to step back and avoid useless worry. Nonetheless, we feel “out of the loop” with our Italian friends after the detour of the family visit and we need to get back up to speed. Verona really is a small town.

To that end, I have a long chat with Roberta over the phone and arrange to have her and Michael over Sunday night. Another nice AM with the Dog Donne and I feel like we are back in good graces. The portrait of Erica is coming along well. One thing, Charlie calls tonight to take us to some festa in Centro but, for the first time, I must decline. L. and I want to take it easy tonight. Now I feel like we owe Charlie one!

It’s never easy, drawing someone smiling. I know I sound like a broken record, but it’s true. This portrait of Mariella’s daughter, Erica, is going to sweat me because of the big smile. Erica has an off-center face as well. I create a grid to get my proportions correct and still I feel the eyes don’t line up properly. I can’t insist that Erica come to Bixio and sit for me, this is an apology gig. No, I must use the little photo Mariella gave me and get the most from it.

Anyway, there’s something cool about the “snapshot” portrait. I will take an image which has already been stamped, use my skills with line and volume and render it anew. It’s just that the pressure’s on and this must be perfect!

Today I ship off Don MacGlashen’s portrait and a little sketch I packed up as a gift for Luigi Mazzola, the artista matta with the B & B in Sant’Agnello. I finally finished my pastel of Ponte Pietra after twenty hours’ work. Yesterday, got an email from Patrizia, Zara’s mom, who says she dug my portrait. Also, I have some nice shots of Atto and Ollie, the two big floppy dogs down Bixio so I can get started on those musi ASAP. L. is slammed with graphics gigs and is at the computer for long stretches while I draw in the next room. A working vacation, for sure.

In another positive development, Mariella brings a flattering and clear photo of Erica to the park this AM so now I will be able to start the portrait. For the last time, I demand that she allow us to pay at least half the repair amount in cash but I am silenced by Mariella’s most charming smile and a grasping of my arm. I’m trepidatious, actually; this picture must be sweet. In the photo, Erica has a big smile and that’s never easy to draw!

Had a rough encounter with the Dog Donne in San Giorgio last night. Mariella is not there, in fact we have barely seen her since the departure of the CA Inghams. With the over-hanging guilt issue of the car, this lack of contact is taking on grotesque proportions. Tonight, her daughter Erica is in the park with Teo the dog and I receive a noticeably cold reception. Great, now Erica’s mad at us too! Maybe she caught some deflected flak from the whole screw-up somehow. L. wonders if she was accused of being the damager. In any case, I am really rattled and must struggle to stay cool through my discomfort while conjugating verbs in the conditional tense. I tell Erica I feel terribly about what happened and implore her to remind her mama to bring a photo tomorrow morning. Must try to make this thing right!

Today, in the AM, I am finally able to have a long chat with Mariella. Things are better. Still, though, I am being tested. An older lady we met back in February or March, who lives in Milano but visits her son here in Verona from time to time, announces that I don’t speak Italian any better now than I did when we first met. You donne are killing me! I insist, “Non è vero! Ho bisogno di bere un caffè! Doppo saro piu’ intelligente!” (It’s not true! I need to drink a coffee! I will be more intelligent after). This starts us off and we actually have a good chat, but man it’s tough staying slick in a new language!

This is the kind of thing that can burn you out, living in a foreign country. L. reminds me that the lady is one of those battle-axes anyway, tough on the outside but really a softie if you just show her some kindness and consideration. In any case, I will not be daunted by the donne! We’ve come too far, L. and I.

The Living in Italy book we read before coming here warns against the half-year burnout, when those things we found so quaint at first would start to grate, when the honeymoon of fresh discovery might wane and a yearning for things familiar set in. We would become annoyed at the stores being closed for three hours in the middle of the day, begin to pall at the disorder, and our advantage as interesting and at least somewhat monied American visitors would wear thin. Well, we are not at that point seven months into this by any means. In fact we have more social outlets than we had expected, too many really, we still thrill at speaking the language, and we grow to love this country more each day. Every time I cross Ponte Garibaldi I shake my head with wonder that I actually get to live here.

On the other hand, there is a shadow in the corner of every sun-filled glade. The longer one remains, the more one sees and what one sees can’t be all good- it’s just a mathematical reality. We are saddened to hear our beloved Veronese express racist sentiment for example, though you might say we should feel right at home to hear such sentiment. Following the Zidane head-butt in the final game of The World Cup, some of the ladies in the dog park wanted to know if anyone on the French team was actually French. The friendly grocer at our fruit stand, talking about the partita, describes Zidane knowingly as un Islamico Matto (a crazy Islamic). Even sweet little Signora Brunelli warns us about the neri (blacks) who rob apartments when the Veronese leave town for their August vacations.

Meanwhile, a new war is going on just around the way. Our leaders purposely stoke the flames, safe on their distant continent. We may be a ways off ourselves here in Italy, but I swear I feel a slight rumble deep in the ground as the bombs continue to fall. This is a bit too close for comfort, maybe. In any case, it’s too close to do as the Americans do, just turn up the TV and drown all doubts in my sealed, air-conditioned, self-satisfied culture bunker, chalk it all up to the War on Terror. No, we’re pretty pissed over here. Mi fa male (It makes me sick).