Exploring

I started out the day in the best way possible: by sleeping in obscenely late. After I tried to eat a peach that seemed to explode more with each bite, we put on our tennis shoes and bounded out the door. (Or as close as I ever get to bounding.) Nani, our fearless leader, charged ahead, eventually leading us to the large grove adjacent to the house. She carried a red basket for collecting any choice berries or lush apples we could find. Jaclyn and I lagged behind, trying to permanently remember the light dancing in the olive trees and the soft breeze ruffling the golden grass. Eventually, we came across a long expanse of blackberries which Jaclyn and I eagerly devoured while I was vaguely reminded of a certain poem I had read in high school. Nani thought we were being silly and quickly picked a bunch of berries for us, indicating that we should pick up the pace. Jaclyn and I took many pictures, experimenting with light and color. Meanwhile, Nani (who had tired of us taking pictures of her) made a wreath of olive leaves and placed it upon my head. Finally it was time to head back to the house. Nani pointed out an expired bird and suggested I take a picture of its bright yellow feather. I thought the bird deserved some sort of burial rights simply on account of its beauty. I arranged the body with a stick and said a few words until Nani started pelting me with blackberries and shouting at me to stop being weird (I think she needs to meet my sisters.)

Mr. Meinken then drove us into town where we visited a small, strange-smelling fruit and vegetable shop (come to think of it, the entire town had a plethora of strange smells) and then went off in search of an elusive sculptor. While Jaclyn and I were waiting, we visited the Italian equivalents of Claire's and Victoria's Secret. Then we stopped at a bakery to nab some powdered confections. Most seemed to be filled with a creamy, Nutella-like substance.

After driving home (the usual blind- corners- whizzing- vespas- narrow- like- Star- Wars- trash- compactor- death- trap ride) we got ready for dinner. Mr. Meinken was the head chef and we, his eager assistants. He assigned me the task of grating the cheese (something for which I was well qualified, thanks grandma!) Next came time to cut the bread. The softest bread to be gotten from the grocery was the hardest bread I had ever encountered. It was not until I had little beads of sweat on my forehead that I had wrestled the bread into submission. Finally, we carried our food onto the candlelit back patio and thanked God for all his blessings. After "amen" everyone else starting recapping a conversation I had missed (while I was asleep) about the intricacies of making cheese. Then Mr. Meinken started asking random questions. The first question was, "Who was your first love?" I asked Mr. Meinken whose his was and he said that in second grade he liked a girl named Laura, though all he could remember about her was her excellent posture. (This story was eerily familiar.) I said that my first love was Vinnie Santilino in third grade. I thought he was so cute because he wore a leather jacket and gelled his hair. (I've come to believe that the sale of hair gel is vastly importantly to Italy's economic development.) Then Mr. Meinken asked us what the greatest lesson we had learned from our father was. I was the first to answer, "Everything is negotiable." Mr. Meinken went on to talk about being a father and how at some point you just have to trust that you've done the best you could and leave it up to your kids. He then told us that few will change the world by building large factories, becoming famous politicians, or dying for a great cause. For most of us, our children will be the only legacy we leave...

After we sat in silence for a few moments, contemplating, we started clearing the dishes. When clean up was finally complete, we piled back into the car and headed back into town for a concert. As earlier concerts had included jazz, classical music, and bad Beatles covers, I approached this event with some trepidation. Fortunately for us (meaning Jaclyn and I, not Mr. Meinken and Nani) it was an Italian Rock band called Reset. While we discussed the possibility of a two-person mosh pit, I got my first impressions of the performers. The lead singer was standard issue, although he got bonus points for playing the harmonica. The guitarist on the right wore an expression of alternating mischief and pleading, giving me the impression that he had apologized to many women. The guitarist on the left seemed to be trying a little too hard, as though he had spent his formative years playing video games and latched on to the guitar with the strength of a desperate barnacle. The drummer was mostly inscrutable (that one's for you, Christin) though it seemed he would eat a rabbit raw, possibly while it was still moving, and yet love babies. I thought the band was very talented. I can't imagine how much better it would have been had I actually known what they were saying. Although coolness needs no translation.