We visited Jesi last evening as the clouds turned black to the east and the sun cast long dark shadows from the west, the air itself tinged with yellow and a rainbow pointing the way we travelled. A sharp breeze and some bicycles and a grey tabby cat ran across the narrow street that has ditches instead of sidewalks. Great puddles lurked in gravel patches covered with the detritus of the gigantic fir tree in her front yard.
She lives in a small building on the backside of the garage behind her mom's house; her rental is built a little like a hay loft, narrow stairs and a wide doorway. She was in bed when we arrived, blinking and stretching, I had awakened her ten minutes before with a phone call and I think she had fallen back asleep until we thumped up the hollow stairs. Potted plants, posters of rock bands, a life-size grainy black and white picture of Jimi Hendrix at the bottom of the stairs, piles of cloth on the floor and tossed casually on shelves, colorful veils and scraps of African batiq hanging from drawers, belts and chains arranged over the top of the mirror in the corner, steep-angled walls and a big window at either end made for a comfortable space.
She's usually quiet and reserved in the sweetest possible manner, but at five in the afternoon after napping four hours between two of her three part-time jobs she was talkative as the fluffy black cat that chirped and squaked and mewed as it followed us through the yard and up into her big room.
We joked and laughed and visited with her but she needed to go to work in less than an hour, so we headed for home. S cooked sausage with mushrooms and olives and tomatoes over pasta and two kinds of cheese. We had discovered some fine dry red Italian wine marked from $9 to $3 and delighted in our savvy purchase from the grocery store.
After dinner I played music and stretched in preparation to practice my dancing. Stretching my legs and torso often involves rolling around on the floor, and invariably leaves me at the mercy of two sweet loving dogs who require attention; and I think sometimes they're laughing at me.
I've been requested to dance at a big party at our Costa Rican friend's house this Saturday at ten o'clock. At his last party there were about 30 people. This year's party will be bigger, catered by a swank downtown restaurant, and a keg of microbrew lined up for our drinking pleasure. I joked with S about bellydancing at a keg party and he said it will be no such thing as a keg party. In fact, he said, our most ernest honest heavily-accented handsome and genuine host would be most offended if I were to suggest it's anything other than a fiesta. Very well then. I'm performing at a fiesta on the night of the full moon.
She lives in a small building on the backside of the garage behind her mom's house; her rental is built a little like a hay loft, narrow stairs and a wide doorway. She was in bed when we arrived, blinking and stretching, I had awakened her ten minutes before with a phone call and I think she had fallen back asleep until we thumped up the hollow stairs. Potted plants, posters of rock bands, a life-size grainy black and white picture of Jimi Hendrix at the bottom of the stairs, piles of cloth on the floor and tossed casually on shelves, colorful veils and scraps of African batiq hanging from drawers, belts and chains arranged over the top of the mirror in the corner, steep-angled walls and a big window at either end made for a comfortable space.
She's usually quiet and reserved in the sweetest possible manner, but at five in the afternoon after napping four hours between two of her three part-time jobs she was talkative as the fluffy black cat that chirped and squaked and mewed as it followed us through the yard and up into her big room.
We joked and laughed and visited with her but she needed to go to work in less than an hour, so we headed for home. S cooked sausage with mushrooms and olives and tomatoes over pasta and two kinds of cheese. We had discovered some fine dry red Italian wine marked from $9 to $3 and delighted in our savvy purchase from the grocery store.
After dinner I played music and stretched in preparation to practice my dancing. Stretching my legs and torso often involves rolling around on the floor, and invariably leaves me at the mercy of two sweet loving dogs who require attention; and I think sometimes they're laughing at me.
I've been requested to dance at a big party at our Costa Rican friend's house this Saturday at ten o'clock. At his last party there were about 30 people. This year's party will be bigger, catered by a swank downtown restaurant, and a keg of microbrew lined up for our drinking pleasure. I joked with S about bellydancing at a keg party and he said it will be no such thing as a keg party. In fact, he said, our most ernest honest heavily-accented handsome and genuine host would be most offended if I were to suggest it's anything other than a fiesta. Very well then. I'm performing at a fiesta on the night of the full moon.
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