I tend to think of Peralta as a constant, stamped in my memory at our first visit. Fiore and Diego have died since then, Ron and Gitte left.
… Things change
— we’ll always have that.
From “Five Poems” by Dean Young in The Paris Review N°179
A tricky corner for drivers on the road down from Peralta
The new pizzeria and bar in Pieve doesn’t have the relationship with Peralta that Kate thinks it has. Owner and cook Marco is reputed to love speaking English and to drive diners from Peralta back up the mountain. Stuffed with his delicious pizza, we chose not to ask for the ride. I thought I had already provided enough entertainment attempting to explain in Italian how to make Campari-soda. (A drink you can buy in cans in the Coop. Which part of Campari and soda is hard to understand?) Any more laughter and the regular patrons might hurt themselves, and justifiably resent us for it. So we plodded, pizzas and all, up through the firefly-garlanded woods. Good for us.
The mosquitoes have switched their allegiances from me to Miki, who reacts badly to this attention. Now we have left we hope to see the bites subside, and the girl reappear.
We were spared the watercolourists, who have jibbed at Peralta’s new prices. We drank and talked with Aussies Peter, Emily & Vanessa, and started to know new residents Justin & Naomi. Then off. Last night we made it to Milan and found Magda’s home, without my actually driving right into the Duomo.