At Porto Garabaldi looking North Blair Pessemier Acrylic/canvas 18 x 12" 45 x 30cm
At the beach looking South Laurie Fox Pessemier Acrylic/canvas 20 x 12" 50 x 30cm
Last Roses of Summer Blair Pessemier Acrylic/canvas 12 x 12 30 x 30cm
Another Chicken Laurie Fox Pessemier Acrylic/canvas 12 x 12 30 x 30cm
Men enjoying Seafood Laurie Fox Pessemier Acrylic/canvas 9 x 14" 23 x 36cm
Today was the perfect day. We decided yesterday to make bacon and eggs for breakfast today. We did, with square toast (loaf bread) and coffee. It was good, for a change, from our sweet pastry and macchiato at the cafe. Their coffee is way better, though.
We followed up our American breakfast with a trip to the Italian beach. We drove by Bologna and out to Porto Garibaldi. It’s just about the closest from here, a toss-up with Rimini, but we both like the Porto Garabaldi approach along the canal, and out to the open beach. Of course, it’s the Adriatic, no waves, but I love the atmosphere there with tones of pink and turquoise and yellow.
Harika slept the entire way and we actually had to persuade her to leave the car. But then, she saw the error of her ways and plunged (well, walked) into the sea. Me, too, but it was colder than I anticipated and I only waded, despite wearing my blue and white polka dot swimsuit. The beach was divine: high water, a light sea smell and breeze. We painted amongst the flies on the beach, and I got a mosquito bite, just to remind me summer isn’t over until tomorrow, 22 September.
The sand was clean and there were interesting little tufts of sea foliage growing at the edge of the water. Iridescent mussel shells and deep maroon seaweed were the demarcation between sea and sand. We spent an hour in the full sun. Harika dashed back and forth from sand to sea, and I had to move around a bit to keep the bugs at bay.
We went to a wonderful fish place, along the canal, to eat lunch. Across the street was a fishing boat, “stella polare” and I wondered if they read the book by Martin Cruz Smith. Seagulls careened through the sky. Harika guarded the car. The food came in a giant flat reed basket, lined with gold paper. There were calamari, shrimp, a scallop, monkfish and sardines; also French fries. It was divine, all washed down with slightly more white wine than we ought to have drunk. But that’s what life is about, isn’t it?
I guess it depends on where you come from. I am always trying to “do something”; my roots as an achiever from New England never completely recede. A plan. The Italians, on the other hand, seem to enjoy every minute of life. Older men, families... Leonardo da Vinci, for example; he'd be here if he could.
The temperature drops as we leave the beach and follow the route home. By the time we get into the house it’s 35F degrees cooler than it was on the beach. We think about our winter plans and buttoning things up here in Rocca Malatina. Rome on the horizon when the snow flies.