Trapped in an Olive Garden

 

Lifelong living in an area of glacial lakes has fostered appreciation for summers near the shores.  Sometimes out drifting under sail, others just wistful shoreside reading , often looking  up, diverted by the moving tableau of color, light and motion, all my senses piqued in enjoyment. I took that joy with me in my travels far to far away places presenting new treasures-  none so enjoyable as Italy by the water.

Today I sit land locked in Olive Garden. I entered into a courtyard paved with faux brick, every fourth molded with the same fissure, maybe copied from the Antica Osteria in Bari. Glaring bare bulbs above  emulating  strings of lights glimmering romance into  every evening in San Remo, where masted notes of fishing boats bob to a concertina melody carried on winds  brushing through rustling palms along the sea on Via Roccasterone.

 I  lament my  table with its scalloped mats, scant reminder of those delicate little paper doilies under the sweating metal chalices mounding pistachio gelato at La Bonita in Lucca. Here,  furniture is  regimented  in disconcerting homogeny, eschewing charms of a quaint “misela dispari “ (odd mismatched  mixture) as in Trattoria al Aubergo Olivedo shoreside on Lago Como,  where even the dishes have patterned personalities.

 I look  to louvered windows awninged with faded red canvas sheltering dusty bushes fronting an asphalt sea vista, thwarting  thoughts of alluring viewscapes at Castel dell'Ovo, clustered behind café’s goose-gaggled with red umbrellas along a promenade closed to traffic, giving all panoramas of the real volcano looming across Napoli’s  bejeweled bay, ominous reminder of the  fragile transience of life .

Now, choosing one from a column A and column B menu  loaded with limitless breadsticks , chewy and floury. I select pieces of naked chicken ladled over with thick white congealation  so berift of seasoning. it tries to seep and hide in its pasta nest, leaving only waning  memory of  real-life Alfredo with his gold forks serving up steaming noodles blessed with bechmal sauce orchestrated with a symphony of tastes to the palate as intricate as the hodgepodge of the streets of Rome itself.

In spite of this all, my mind wanders as I relive those precious days spent in all too brief tastes of the real Italian way.  Would I, could I,  fades as I am pulled from my reverie with a tug at my shirtsleeve. An Italian apparition chides “Meglio per i suini,” “best for the pigs”, they would say of this place.

I reflect with a pensive wistful smile.  If only for a day, I yearn. Maybe a road trip up to Lake Geneva Wisconsin could rekindle my spirit beyond just memories of halcyon  days spent by Italian shores.



 Cernobbio, Lake Como



Napoli- promenade overlooking Vesuvius

Villa D'Este dinnerware

Lake Como- Villa d-Este Veranda

Sunset Lakeside on Lake Como at Villa d-Este

Seaside, San Remo on the Italian Riviera

Lake Como- Villa D-Este and the town of Cernobbio beyond

 

RACING

My mind is racing blind,

yet seeing world thru echo location.

Synapses perceive reality from experience.

There is wonder in how being and living are related.

The question intrudes:  Is sleep a death of being

or a temporal suspension of life ?

I ponder waking up as a revival or resurrection.        

I churn thinking about the corporal

because I can’t imagine this race ending.

Even in finite laps, I postulate

my uniqueness, willing to wheel on,

 silly hopes trumping reality.

 Very learned people say matter is never destroyed, only mutated.

So, will  I become part of a greater?

I don’t remember being for my first four years of life.

I weigh this between  memory loss or just life before being.

I am vested in the intrigue, 

But my race suspends in a pit stop.

Even the eternal will pause for a warm tuna melt and iced tea.

-Jerry Wendt 2014