Rome wasn’t built in a day, probably due to shitty appliances

I would complain about every meal for the last seven days being just cheese and bread, but all my hair is growing back! This makes me very happy.

LEAVING THE COAST

Our last day on the coast consisted of a walk along the clifftop highway between Minori and Maiori, and two hours chatting in a beachfront cafe waiting for a rainstorm to subside. We ate, then we ate gelato, then we climbed hundreds more stone steps back to our funny retreat among the citrus stands.

The highlight had actually been earlier in the day, when Salvatore toured us through his organic lemon grove and discussed his soil management, his climate woes, and his victories in negotiation with the “big guy” produce wholesalers. Pride of place went to his “secret technique” of placing glass bottles over the budding branches, which allows whole lemons to develop in the glass, which then give his limoncello that extra something which of course none of the other nine hundred limoncello producers on the hillside can figure out, because apparently none of them have heard of calvados. Or maybe he thinks Americans haven’t. But it’s a good life, and there had been mortadella at breakfast, and the eggs were less ruined this time, and the granules of salt finally adhered to them.

I’ll rewind a little more here to observe another curious thing about the Italians. I had walked into the dining cottage at breakfast that mizzly morning, to find Salvatore presiding over a full house of slightly effervescent guests — a distinct warmth had formed around them, like a song everybody knew but did not sing. He mumbled something charmingly conspiratorial to me, which I did not understand, then asked if I liked “chamomile…medicine against the rain.” I smiled and said I loved chamomile (I genuinely do, especially in a blend I make with pineapple, coconut, and chrysanthemum, which comes over like a crisp, fresh-pressed autumn harvest cider) at which the room had a good laugh. He said he was glad to give me a little medicine, and soon it was clear he had given everyone a shot of his limoncello with their trampoline egg and roll. I smiled and offered a gentle protestation, which he interpreted to mean I wanted a double. Nilde, the actual English teacher, even did not seem to believe me when I finally said I didn’t drink alcohol…so much for the protecting mother. I let it sit and gave it to Lauren, who can do that kind of thing but doesn’t prefer it.

A similar experience had occurred at a restaurant two nights before, when a cock waiter kept pushing me to order wine, bragging about his own consumption, until he could tell I wasn’t caving and wandered off to fuck up our order.

In the US a waiter typically demonstrates sensitivity around a non-drinking guest; here it was aggressively the opposite. It didn’t upset me — both because I am highly disagreeable, and functionally misanthropic — but rather just got me contemplating how much more the individual must be self-assured and self-reliant to maintain himself here: society wouldn’t coddle you, it would constantly test you. In a two-thousand year-old culture there’s undoubtedly more to it, but my wheels are still turning on the subject.

The next morning we bought six jars of lemon marmalade, accepted a split of limoncello which we’ll sample at our upcoming Oktuberhonk party, and said goodbye to Spot, who did not care.

Five hours later we were in an immaculate apartment in the Trastevere district of Rome, marveling at the pleasant chaos and acres of pizza al taglio. More on that next time…if I can sleep tonight. We seem to have traded hillsides full of inconsolate dogs for a room above the garage from which all of Rome’s ambulances are dispatched. I guess we’ll just keep the window closed.

ROME

2:30am - the fucking black turtleneck cockroach who designed the user interface for this thermostat should lie on a toast in sticky dog’s blood for the train to roll over his eyes

More later