It was a quick jaunt, crazy really to fly to Italy via New York for a few days. I took my older daughter, dropping her off with her grandmother in Southern Italy. Just a few days along the coast of seaside towns off the tourist grid, places in the south in a region called Puglia. The moments that made the mad trek worth it were poignant and deep. Falling asleep in the middle of the days due to intense heat, listening to cicadas, feeling the wind as it whispered through old green shutters, jumping into the tranquil blue sea. One night I walked barefoot along the rows and rows of ancient olive trees while the Aquarius moon bathed me in her light. Barefoot taking in the great mothers flowing energy from the soles of my feet while the moon flowed through my crown chakra. The land reminding me of why we need to connect, even if for a few lost days. Little villages empty under the hot, glaring sun, altars of saints in nooks and archways, bright blue doors beckoning us, making us wonder about the life that exists behind them.
My flight to return was at 7 am an hour away and so the woman who owned the house I was at organized someone to drive me at 5am. Tired, sleepy and melancholy I got into Giuseppe’s beaten up car and tried to get bits of information from him. What I gathered from my smattering of Italian was that he is a car mechanic and father to three girls. Basic mumbles from an otherwise grumpy man who was just making some extra money on the side. After a half hour on a dark road that was beginning to lighten up with the sunrise, I saw what looked like a crash up ahead on the highway. I assumed he saw it but it was shrouded in mist and he was sleepy. Suddenly I realized we were seconds away from impact with the wreck. I said something and he must have seen it for he swerved violently and at the same time wrapped his big hairy man arm around me and pulled me to him. It was a quick gesture instinctual and protective. He held me to his side in a paternal embrace and I could smell car grease, cigarettes and beer off his skin. We miraculously escaped a serious crash and he was shaken up, swearing and thanking various saints simultaneously. I began to tear up but not from fear. It was from the intimate act of kindness, which had changed the molecules between myself and this man whom I would never see again, after a lift to the airport . . .
There are posts on Farmer’s Market Recipes by amazing Brooke, the beginning stages of bee keeping, visits with the fabulous Irene Neuwirth, and the heavenly Leilani Bishop.
Summer is already half over. Let’s squeeze every bit of it . . . shall we??
