All day yesterday we were hung over and feeling low. We did a massive palestra session to purge the bad water, sought out Mariella in San Giorgio to discuss the car mess but she was not there. This morning I still feel cranky somehow and unwilling to face the day. I know a festa at Charlie’s will be hours long and will involve, inevitably, a good deal of wine; not so sure I’m up to it.

Charlie arrives a little late, just as I’m sitting down with my coffee to read some bad news on NY Times.com. Unbelievably, Israel is re-invading Lebanon on the trumped-up pretext of liberating two soldiers taken captive by Hezbollah. Our noble leaders have already spun this into their rhetorical War on Terror, were clearly complicit in this act of Israeli aggression, and are giving their sanction to the indiscriminate destruction of Lebanese infrastructure along with the inevitable, “regrettable”, civilian casualties. Naturally, no one digs the Hezbollah tactic of lobbing rockets but, as someone in the region said, these are pin-pricks, the actions of a frustrated and out-classed militia which has recourse to little else in terms of tactical leverage. The Israelis, by contrast, have total air superiority and first-class US bombs. Though I comprehend their embattled and frustrated position, this response is grossly disproportionate and, if not checked, will devolve into global atrocity.

Charlie says he too is still ragged from Friday, but he’s in good spirits. Hey, the sun is out and the breeze is up – it’s another day. La vita va! Julio and Pietro, i due bambini, are rolling around on the back seat, totally unbuckled of course, hollering kid songs in chorus and flipping out over Mary, who is just being an angel. Up and up the rocky driveway we go.We all hang out on the patio. I do some cowboy drawings which the boys color, play alittle guitar. L. had the idea to bring a fruit salad and the makings for her famous lentil soup. (The key is to “sweat” the lentils!) We fill the plastic kid pool and I climb in with the boys for some splashing and spraying. Everyone joins in, including the dogs Black, Pippo, and our little Mary. A pretty sweet day after all.

Julio’s Mom Louisa arrives just past pranzo to collect the boys. We chill a bit with her, ask after her sister Rosanna who has not called us in forever. After a couple of hours, we re-heat the soup and fix up some more grub for cena. Louisa and the boys pack up and split after and the darkness falls, leaving L., Charlie, and I at the long table in the lamp-light, hashing over the weighty subjects in our particular mix of English and Italian. We are still talking as midnight rolls around- we gotta go! We try to give Charlie the out if he doesn’t feel up to driving back to Bixio but he insists. As we pull up, the radio is playing a cover of The Band’s “The Weight” translated into Italian. Charlie leans into the speakers to listen. Clearly, he does not approve of this rendition. Indeed, with my little bit of Italian, I can find no trace of the original lyric and they’ve cheesed it up pretty badly.

Ciao bello, Charlie!

Steve made some cowboy drawings for the boys to color.
Spirit is the name of Pietro’s horse. Sam is the name of Julio’s horse.

Julio and Pietro.
They chanted “tu lo sai qualcuno devi farlo” all day. (it’s supposed to be “tu lo sai qualcosa devi farlo”, but we didn’t correct them (joke). “You know what you have to do.”

The boys (and Mary).

Charlie and me.

A good work and palestra day but there is bad news in the early evening. L. takes Mary to San Giorgio where she runs into Mariella. Apparently her car required some expensive repair on the undercarriage and I’m just sure it was my fault, that I bonked it when we were driving with the girls up that hill in Soave. I immediately call Mariella and insist that L. and I will pay for the work. I try to tell her it was my fault, but it’s like she refuses to listen. She will not hear of it. Instead, she suggests, maybe I can do a portrait of her daughter Erica, then I won’t “have to feel bad.” I will still feel bad, but of course I will do this for her, if for no other reason than to steady our karmic canoe before we lose favor with the donne. I wish she would just let us pay!

As L. and I are agonizing over this development, Charlie calls. There’s an event in centro involving his buddy Sbibu, the droll percussionist with the overbite we first met Lunedi Pasqueta. Of course we’ll go! Maybe we can drown our worries with the gruff boys of Charlie’s posse. We join up with “The Calcio Fan” whose name is Giamba, Charlie’s brother who is called Chi-Chi though his proper name is Giovanni, the bearded cat who started up the jam Lunedi Pasqueta and whose name is Ottavio, and the bald fellow (not Sten) who came back to Bixio the night of our last gig at Al Duomo, whose name is Lorenzo. A fun crowd.

Charlie is the king of Centro. All the Veronese know him and he gets love on every corner, seemingly.We stop in a couple of places for wine and prosecco before heading over to the performance, which is taking place in the piazza with the old Pescheria, near Via Sottoriva. The performance, a re-telling of Romeo and Giulieta in Veronese verse, is kind of artsy-fartsy. We are very late arriving, of course, and our crew is snickering through the last little bit we see. During the applause at the end of the show, Chi-Chi loudly exclaims, “non ho capito niente!”(I understood nothing!).

Later, in a nearby bar, we have a round of beers and discuss the best way to drive to Pistoia where Bob Dylan is doing a show. Giamba, Charlie, and Ottavio argue this point for upwards of fifteen minutes. We all end up loudly toasting Toscana with our birre medie. Next it’s on to Piazza Erbe where we run into a pair of very nice ladies who strike me as a little too smooth and well-dressed for our gnarly gang. They seem happy to sit with us and chat, however. The piazza is rocking tonight. One of them, Giovanna, takes my number. A friend of hers runs a gallery near San Zeno and is looking for new talent. Possible art show in Verona?

Charlie is keeping his son Julio and the young son of another of his women (this one not his) over the weekend. He invites us for a day in the country Sunday.

Today I put the finishing touches on Zara, my third muso in Verona so far. I also spoke with Elvira, the padrona of the two big dogs down at the end of Bixio. She had mentioned a few weeks ago that she would like me to draw her dogs. I was proud of myself today in fact; went right up to her in the park and reiterated my interest in doing a portrait for her, even set up a way for me to meet her at her house and take some photos, all in Italian. Could we be rounding another corner with this deceptively complex language? It’s a good sign if I feel bold enough to act as agent for my artwork in Italian when it’s a job I find so odious in my own language. Of course, I really want to draw these particular dogs. The older one, the boy Athos, I remember admiring back when L. and I first visited Italy. At the time, I was desperately missing my big boy Otis. We had boarded the old fellow at Georgetown Vets. and I had this terrible fear that he would die while we were gone, wondering the whole time why we left him behind. I’ll never forget how happy it made me to see Athos’s big, floppy face as we took our first walks across Ponte Garibaldi. Gives me one of those full-circle feelings to make a portrait of him five years later.

On the human portrait front, I finally truly finished my Don MacGlashen picture. Don had wanted me to revise the ear, which I was able to do. We “drawers” are a cranky bunch, to be sure, but at bottom it’s our primary desire simply to please. Don was apologetic about requesting changes, but everything he suggested improved the final piece so I’m glad the whole thing played out like it did. Now Peg and Don have a new Ingham which they can truly use. Also got confirmation a little while back that my Pat and Phil portraits arrived at Sunapee in good condition. I hope there’s enough for all the daughters to get a set they like.

We meet Josh at his favorite Sicilian caffè on Via Garibaldi. What a great guy! He and Audrey are going to the States, Montana to be exact, where an old friend of Josh’s is getting married. Right after, they’re going to France for a four day weekend so we won’t see them ’til around mid-August.

L. and I are doing circuit training at la palestra. The idea is to alternate short fast bursts of running with lifting routines. I am trying to melt away the last of my love handles and L. says this is a “fat burner” workout. Really tears me up, frankly. I am sure it will be vale la pena [worth the pain].

The Arena shows its colors.

The full moon in Bra.

Autoritratto.

Still hard to get used to a different flag.

Una partita brutta, ma Italia vince!

All traffic was stopped for hours.

This week was spent stretching out in our once-again empty apartment, doing laundry and trying to get the working gears to grind. Tonight Italy plays France for Il Mondiale, the World Cup. We have vague plans with Josh and Audrey, but at the last minute they choose to watch the game at a friend’s house. We want to see the match on a big screen in a piazza, so at about 8:30, we head over to Erbe.

It’s actually pretty easy to find a place to watch [L. had heard reports that Piazza San Zeno was filled to capacity, but we were running late and Erbe is closer]. There’s a tipsy French gutter punk sitting near us with a group of friends. They are passing a bottle. Every once and a while, the punk taunts the Italians. At the moment we walk up, Zidane scores the first goal on a penalty kick. It’s like the wind got knocked out of the whole piazza. The punk calls out “Allez!” and all heads turn. In any case, it’s too early for despair, so the Italiani re-up on their Campari spritzes and settle in for the long haul.

L. and I move down the piazza to another satellite feed. The one at our place lags a second behind the other feeds in the vicinity, so we hear the crowd response before we are able to see the action. This is too disconcerting. We choose a pizzeria near the sunken Roman market and order some food. Italy ties the game, a sharp header on a beautiful corner cross, and we are all knotted up. The game wears on; L. and I still prefer the segmented action of American football. Soccer is so pastoral; the arc of the game is longer and spikes less. PLUS this particular partita is un po brutta.

Towards the end, the momentum is on the French side, although Italia’s goalie, Buffon, makes a great save and a goal by the Azzuri is called back for a close offsides. Suddenly, there’s a commotion on the field. Buffon is calling the referee’s attention to a foul. It’s the “head butt heard around the world.” Zidane, the legendary French player, following a verbal taunt by Italia’s Mazaratti, turns and delivers a vicious head butt right in the middle of the field. It was all caught on tape. The red card is delivered and Zizou is gone. An electrifying moment to witness in a partisan crowd. Still, there is no score to break the tie on either side. Extra minutes gone, we must proceed to free kicks. Italy makes all five, but France misses one. Game over.

L. and I proceed to Piazza Bra and join the reveling. At first the piazza is only sparsely populated and we start to leave. On our way down Via Mazzini, however, we see hordes of Italiani heading towards the piazza. We decide to go back and see what happens. So glad we did! In thirty minutes, the piazza is full. There are more than 200 people in the fountain. Everyone is chanting the notes of a White Stripes guitar riff, a theme that has been clearly adopted for Il Mondiale. Everyone is drinking, but no one is too drunk. It’s like the rush of victory sobered them up. We feel lucky and honored to be here for such an auspicious event. It may not have been the prettiest match, but a win is a win.

I make us a nice, U.S. style breakfast of eggs, toast, and fruit salad; no sugary, jelly-stuffed brioches for us! While the family does some packing, I get a few licks in on my old guitar. It’s nice being “on vacation” but I need to get back with my Muse, really need to be creative or my juices back up in me and cause frustration.

We do a final giro in Verona centro, view The Duomo and St. Anastasia. Mary comes along too so I must stay outside to hold her while L. and family do the tour. I cannot put my Murakami book down so I’m perfectly content to wait on the sunny steps of The Duomo, reading away with Mary at my side. There is some new excavation work at The Duomo showing “paleo-Christian” foundations and remnants of the previous Roman site. I’ll have to come back and see it for myself soon. The family does a quick trip through St. Anastasia with its creepy figures of painted wood. We have a couple of last-minute shopping imperatives so we spin back through Piazza Erbe. Our last stop is L. and my favorite shoe store off Piazza Bra where I bought my killer Borgo Trento loafers and my black leather sandals. I had wanted to take us to the top of the Teatro Romano hill with it’s wide view of Verona but we are running late, must ready ourselves for the ultima cena at a place in Centro, also recommended by Charlie, called Greppia.

The meal is good but not great, though we have a fun time sitting outside and chatting. Italy is in the semi-finals of The World Cup, having easily dispatched with Australia, and is playing Germany tonight. We are listening for the cheers all through the meal but the Veronese are silent as the match wears on in a tie. We pay the tab and head back home through Piazza Erbe where big-screen TV’s are set up at all the bars. It’s a rocking scene, but tense. The match is nearly over and still no one has scored. Back at Bixio, we turn on the TV for the final minutes. We have just sat down to watch when Italy scores a beautiful goal, right in the middle of the box with all Hell breaking loose, a pass and kick move that’s like a ballet in a whirlwind. The entire city of Verona erupts! Then, for insurance, Italy scores a second goal on the shell-shocked Germans, who have gone down like dogs on their home turf. L. and I walk Mary in San Giorgio later. The Veronese have not stopped honking horns for nearly an hour. Italy will play France for The World Cup!

The CA Inghams leave early tomorrow. I hope we have been able to show them why we dig this place so much. I know Leslie enjoyed herself, having dipped into the language and the cultural flavors of Italy with real gusto. Jim was his usual observant and thoughtful self. His responses to Italy were not necessarily rapturous, but he clearly absorbed a lot and of course, he and I had some good laughs in the manner of “The Brothers Ingham.” I couldn’t help but feel, at times, that the earthiness, the age and disorder of Italy was a hard sell with Rose and Emmy. We had fun times talking in the evening and it was great to catch up on their lives but I wasn’t sure they were always interested in the places we showed them. Granted, the heat was pretty bad. Anybody would struggle in those conditions to summon gushing enthusiasm. One can’t expect everyone to love the things one loves. Togetherness is the key, and it was great to be able to meet as a family in this far-flung place, showed a real determination on all our parts.

We have returned to Venice!

Peschiera [fish market].

Waiting for the traghetto.

Il Redentore.

On the way back to the stazione.

Today we are up early to catch the train for Venice. I make a sack of sandwiches for the ride, slam a coffee, and we’re off. I finished “Moby Dick” last night. Guess I should have figured everybody dies but Ishmael. Poor Starbuck! He never got to see his baby boy again; he should have killed Ahab when he had the chance! It saddened me that Queequeg didn’t get a final flourish in the narrative after his near fatal sickness, when they built his coffin. Melville never gave us enough of that guy once the Pequod set sail from Nantucket.

I have started for my next read “The Wind-Up Bird Chronicles” by Murakami at Jim’s urging. The CA Inghams brought us a tall stack of books in English to shore up our library, along with the peanut butter and green tea we requested. Also, as a special present, they gave us a CD Rom with every page of every New Yorker since the beginning, over 4,000 issues. I must check out the Seymour Hersch articles leading up to this last Gulf War, I hear they were some doozies. Also, think of all those great illustrations!

We arrive at the Venice stazione by 10 A.M. The weather is breezy, sunny, and clear. Thank goodness the heat wave broke. Because it’s Monday, the city should not be impossibly mobbed. Each place in Italy L. and I revisit from our first trip here five years ago strengthens our sense that it’s possible to exert one’s will in this life. We vowed we’d come back to Italy and we struggled to get here so it’s with a certain triumph we view again the spires of Venice.

What a crazy place Venice is! As I’ve said before, it strikes me as so much more foreign and fantastic than the ancient streets of Pompeii or Morgantina, where the layout is like a town in Connecticut. Venice twists every which way, with no discernible logic. There are alleys too narrow to carry a couch in, tiny campos opening without warning, bits of canal with light-dappled bridges stretching across, flights of stone stairs disappearing into the green water, everything so fanciful and really impractical somehow.

We stop first in the heavily-trafficked Piazza San Marco where we view the Palazzo Ducale. I remember in 2001 being somewhat appalled by the relentless paintings, the gilt wood carvings, the imposing dark halls, the ornate trappings of martial power. The place is overwhelming, as was it’s builders’ intention. There are works by the giants of the Renaissance, Veronese, Tintoretto, Titian, Tiepolo, but they were clearly “workin’ for the man” here. Not that the painting isn’t great, it’s just all so overblown. On the other hand, the Venetians could boast of a thousand year Republic which, in the political environment they had to weather, was no small feat. For all their noble ways, the Florentines repeatedly got their asses kicked from within and without (Machiavelli was just disgusted with them, but of course he had his own grievances) while Venice held on tight, hunkered down in their fortress lagoon.

We have lunch at a restaurant L. found out about called Mascaron, an excellent seafood place. They have framed sketches covering the walls, all drawn on the brown place mat paper the restaurant provides. Some of them are pretty awesome and I decide to try one of my own. The waiter is a little salty, marking us as tourist rabble perhaps. He has that gruff, offhand manner one often meets with in a funky city place like this. Be that as it may, he digs my drawing which shows admirable taste. He even trades L. and my lunch for it, a thirty Euro value. I drew my usual cartoon of Otis the Great Dane, some fishes, a floating gondola, some Japanese tourists, and the St. Mark’s tower.

After lunch, we mostly just wander. We cross The Rialto, take a traghetto to the other side of the Grand Canal, view an intimate and lovely chiesa called Santa Maria dei Miracoli with incredible marble panelling and oil paintings on the ceiling. Another ride on the vaporetto and we are back on Campo St. Margherita where L. and I stayed before. By this point, everyone’s getting tired. Though she’s been a trooper, Leslie has a bug she picked up at the end of the Florence leg and the girls are walked out. All this beauty can be exhausting, as I remember from L. and my first trip to Venice.

We stop off in a nearby campo for “cicchetti” which is the Venetian version of tapas at a place Ben and Anna recommended to us back in January. Night is falling as we ride the vaporetto down the Grand Canal to the stazione. The reflected lights, the restaurants and hotels bustling on this cool and breezy evening, the salt air and the murmuring of the water- what a magical city! L. and I are in love and will return again ASAP.

At the stazione, we have a hang-up. The autopay machine tells us there are only four tickets left for the last train to Porta Nuova, Verona. Will L. and I have to get a hotel for the night and catch the train next AM? Doesn’t sound like such a terrible idea, actually. We could do some more wandering in this beautiful night-time city. Of course, there’s poor little Mary to think of, and I’d hate for my brother to have to pick up her poo-poo. Rosemary, upset by the whole snafu, vows with touching sincerity that she’ll walk Mary if need be. A good kid. When the train pulls in, I tell the conductor our dilemma. Apparently, it’s a normal occurrence to just board now and buy your ticket later so we’re all set, disaster averted. For my part, I’m thrilled to sleep in my own bed and see my little dog, also so happy to have renewed my acquaintance with Venice.