Oh, never mind, it's gone again. We here in the depths of Wisconsin are not used to it being hot and muggy day after day. We're whining now. I want to ride my bike but (insert whiny voice) it's too hot and humid out there. Plus my knee hurts. And my toes because they get shoved forward in my shoes. I think I'll stay in the a/c and pout.
July 5--Filicudi, Italy. Lipari and Salina lay tantalizing on the horizon just waiting to be explored. Gina grew up hearing stories of her grandparents' childhoods on this little cluster of islands. She heard about the farming and fishing, about the war years and how hungry everyone was, and yet they were nostalgic about the place, The yearning in their voices was plain to her even when she was small. She always meant to come, and she meant to bring them all along. Of course her grandparents were long dead, her parents too. Her Aunt Lucia was still alive but Gina would rather cut off a hand than spend a month exploring Italian islands with Aunt Lucia who was a professional complainer. Uncle Vito had died about fifteen years ago, probably just for the silence, and Aunt Lucia still acted as if it were yesterday.
Eh. Stay cool.
--Barbara
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