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That evening, we descended the hill into
the town center, and took our places at an outside table at a tavern on
the piazza. As we enjoyed some of the local vintage, we experienced
one of our favorite pastimes: watching the Italians as they promenade and
soak in the arrival of night. Children passed on bicycles.
Groups of lively teenagers greeted their friends, laughed together, and
departed arm in arm. Families paraded past, as did couples in
love. We had arrived, and the adventure was about to begin. We
were starting to feel the extraordinary warmth of Italy.
The dinner bell rang soon after our return to
the monastery. Guests began to gather near the dining hall.
The group of Italian men could have been itinerant workers. The
Japanese girl who ate alone could have been an art student. Some
appeared to be clergy in everyday garb. If there were time, we could learn
all of their stories, but sadly there was not. They would have to be
the people we pretended them to be.
It was time to eat, and we were directed into
the dining hall. Bare light bulbs illuminated the plain tables and
chairs, but also the magnificent paintings on the walls. A madonna
and child. St. Gregory pierced with arrows. Landscapes and
more saints, unidentified. Who knows who had painted them, or how
long they had been here?
We poured some of the local red wine from an
unlabeled bottle that was placed in front of us.
The cook arrived with the first cart. We were
served a prima course of penne pasta in a delicate tomato sauce, topped
with grated cheese. She smiled when I asked for a second helping,
and provided it generously.
The cart returned, this time with an arugula
salad and a simple bistecca di vitello (veal steak), along with a loaf of
rustic bread. The food was simple, authentic and also quite delicious.
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