We decided to take to the road on Easter Sunday, picnic basket in tow, and head out to one of those picturesque, ancient Etruscan outposts that punctuate the Tuscan earth like somber stone carbuncles set into silvery-green filigrees of cypress, olive and macchia--that strong-willed, cliff-hugging Mediterranean shrub.
A bit of rain notwithstanding, it was a lovely day, with breezes off the sea washing over our city-dusted bodies and through our thirsty lungs in invigorating, salty blasts. We ate our lunch and cavorted on the beach at the Gulf of Baratti, under the watchful eye of Populonia's old, baleful tower.
"Mommy, you know yesterday when I went to Nonna's? Do you know what she told me?"
I inwardly cringed, imagining something along the lines of Tales of the Illustrious Exploits of Jesus, You're Growing Up a Heathen, or Why a 2-Pound Chocolate Egg is Good for You.
"No, what?" I said.
"She told me that her toenail fell off because it turned all brown and was marcia [rotten, putrid, decayed]."
"Thanks for sharing that, dear."
|Of tides and toenails|
One would hope the MIL spread the message of the Resurrected Christ with similar enthusiasm.
Yours from the Tuscan trenches,