The Italian Summer

The piazza is the center of all excitement in the village of Mercallo. I am joined by the same older gentlemen each morning. We sit on the deck watching a few cars pass. I keep watch for anyone my age. Time has stopped. It is warm, comforting, and welcoming, and even in their stillness, everyone exudes a sense of belonging.

On my walk home I pass by a nonna praying on a street corners dedicated to a saint, she turns and says “buongiorno.” Something about her praying in this openness, its vulnerability.

By the sea, Italy comes alive with its own unique rhythm. The spiaggia is peaceful. By the grass the children play football. An old man joins them tanned and in a bright green neon underwear suit. I cheer them on “Forza ragazzi! Dai, dai, dai!”

After lunch gelato takes center stage: CUCCIOLONE. In the ports of Sardinia, the air hums with the sounds of musica italiana— the boys and I sing “ITALODISCO” by The Kolors.

The Cruciverba: a daily staple for the beach.

The garden's bounty was an abundance of tomatoes, the heart of the Mediterranean diet. We savored them with fresh mozzarella, prosciutto, and a drizzle of Nonna Elisabetta’s olive oil.

Fresh pasta delivered from the neighboring Nonna in the village.

Family together, sempre.