October 2nd, 2016
I spent all of last week in Carlisle, PA, researching slaves in south-central Pennsylvania in the 18th and early 19th century. Young Master Max, the 14-year-old son of a nurse at work, is watching over my chickens. I got home Friday night then drove 3 hours to Montreal on Saturday to fly to Europe.
In the planning for years, this is a trip with my two best pals from high school, all spending a week together on the Italian Riviera. Mike and John met here Saturday, then picked me up in Nice yesterday.
I would advise against paying extra for an exit row seat on a 787 if that seat is against the side of the aircraft. Leg room forever, but you kinda have to crane your neck to one side because of the aircraft wall. It did not make for a restful red eye flight to London. And let me just say there was no way in hell I was going to spend $18 Canadian for a glass of wine at the airport in Montreal.
So we made our way to Seborga from Nice, where John had reserved an apartment, and stopped for comestibles along the way.
Beer, more beer, water, eggs, bread, cheese, salami, and crackers. What more could three guys need?
There was the not inconsequential issue of John failing to get a grocery bag, so we had to carry all the groceries by hand, but we’re trying to hard to put that behind us. Not very hard, but maybe a little.
And we have yet to solve the mystery of the yellow versus the blue uovas. The package labeling seems to be identical in every way except the color.
We stowed our provisions in the most pleasant apartment with a view of the Mediterranean…
And enjoyed an IPA (Italian Pale Ale!) while watching the sun set.
We walked down to the village and had a late dinner at the only place that was open. None of us know more than a few words in Italian but asked if there was a menu. Our friendly matronly server made it clear that she was the menu. Our conversation with her included bits and pieces of French, Italian, German, and pantomime when she mimicked floppy ears to say that rabbit was on the menu. When I said conejo, she said “Si! Spagnolo!” and Spanish was part of the mix.
After we declined desert, she brought is shots of limoncello.
Later we consumed a lot of beer sat up reminiscing until midnight, which is late for three old farts like us.
The highlight, so far, was Mike (whose driving is, well, interesting after a triple latte) spotting donkey dung on the road just below the apartment. Experienced world traveler that he is, he shared this with us by announcing “Look, poo!” And that, dear readers, is the kind of experience one can take to his grave with him.