Augusto has come, with his son Andrea to work on plastering our bedroom. Aside from being the most conscientious and skilled muratore I’ve seen or heard of, he‘s such a decent man and dear friend. After starting yesterday, having put up the scaffolding and laying the first coat of plaster, with his face and hair splattered with cement bits, I told him he probably needs a beer as the work day ended. I was blown away by how far they had gotten. He replied, with a certain aggravation in his voice, ”We didn’t do belin (Ligurian dialect for a certain male appendage). Tomorrow, though, things will start to take shape.”

It’s tomorrow, now, and things have indeed begun to take shape. While they worked, I took Rufino to the river, stopping in Badalucco to buy a couple lemons for him, and to say hi to Madelin, who was having a coffee outside of Colombo and Mandy’s bar. She was waiting for her husband Mimo to load their truck to do a plumbing job in Castellaro. Madelin is Swedish, from Gothenberg, and several years ago settled down with Mimmo, Ligure Ligure, who studied electrical engineering in University and, aside from being a trustworthy plumber, is an expert on solar energy. Also plays a mean guitar. The other night they were up at our house for dinner, and, afterwards, we played and sung for three or four more hours—me in English and the occasional song in Spanish, him in English, Spanish, Italian, Ligurian , Calabrian, and Sicilian dialect. At four in the morning they thought it time to head home. Madelin was charmed by Rufino’s lemon tricks, so today she laughed when I told her I needed to stop at the store before heading up to our spot on the river.

Rufino loves lemons. He chases them, plays catch with them, by himself and with others, and generally walks around with one in his mouth most of the time, like a pacifier. Today at the river, after an hour of swimming and exploring, he discovered that if he climbed up the steep rock slope he could roll it down to me, and also roll it down into the water, whereupon he dives in for it. He’s sleeping right now, at my feet, after the big workout, with a lemon an inch from his mouth.

Back to Augusto. He and his wife, Lina were the first to greet me some four years ago when I first began coming down on weekends from Piedmont. He invited me to their campagnia for a beer, and I paused for a half-second, and he said, ”You have to like beer, being German and all, right?” I told him that actually I prefer wine and have never been confused for being German before. Lina quickly went into their little shed and pulled out a botiglione of Augosto’s hand-made wine. We immediately became friends, and they invited me to have dinner with them the following day, at their house in Taggia. I had felt a bit nervous about the dinner the following day, especially since I had some troubles with my car. I had decided to explore some extremely narrow roads, one of which had no outlet to turn around, so I had to back up the car several hundred yards, being careful that on the right side the car didn’t scrape the stone terrace walls, and on the left side the wheels didn’t slip of the road. It was slow going, and after an hour or so I had almost made it off the narrow stretch, when part of the road gave way, causing one wheel to drop, and the axle to rest on the part of the road that remained. I crawled out of the car window on the opposite side, so as not to have the whole thing tumble down the mountainside, and, while grateful that I was still alive, was pretty much in a panic about how I was going to get the car back onto the road.

A Romanian laborer was harvesting pitosforino branches, and although he did is best to ignore me and pretend he wasn’t aware of my predicament, I finally cajoled him into trying to lend me a hand. Really, the car was pretty badly stuck, and due to the steep dropoff where the road had broken away, there wasn’t much chance of gaining leverage to lift the car back up, assuming the two of us had superhuman strength, which sadly we didn’t. After an hour or so, a group of cingiale hunters came down the road in two stout 4X4’s, and with the help of a rope tied to one, and the rest of us grunting, pushing and pulling, we managed to get the car back on four wheels.

After the ordeal, I was pretty shaken, humbled, and embarrassed, thinking maybe I had no business in this foreign land, and wasn’t at all in the mood to have to go over the whole thing with my new neighbors. However, when Augusto called me to confirm, and I tried to beg off, claiming car troubles, he wouldn’t hear of it, and wanted to know if the vehicle was still roadworthy, as he would come and pick me up if need be. So, I made my way down to the old part of Taggia, to have dinner and share my stupidity. Upon entering their house, the perfume of one of Augusto’s goats simmering in a tomato sauce greeted me, along with the hospitality of Augusto and Lina.

They were, to my amazement, graciously understanding of my mishap, and in fact I forgot all about my earthly troubles, being transported by their graciousness, as well as their food and wine, every item made by them, from the pasta and goat cheese to the picante peperette, which Augusto was highly amused that I liked a lot. After dinner, Augusto asked me how we were planning on using the house—as a summer place? I said no, we were planning on living there once we restored it some and sold our house in Piemonte. He asked what I planned to do for work, and I said I wasn’t sure, maybe teach English or something. He replied, very seriously, “the way I see it, you have two problems.” The way I saw it I had many more than just two, but I asked him to tell me what these two ones are. “Your first problem is you don’t speak Italian.” I thought that was a little unfair as we had been speaking Italian the whole evening, but I took his point that I was no where near fluent, even though I could understand and be understood most of the time. I nodded hesitantly, and asked what my second problem was. “Your second problem is that you don’t speak English.” I said, Augusto, I can understand your point about the first item. But regarding the second one, what do you mean I can’t speak English? It’s my mother language.” He remained adamant and said, “That’s where you’re wrong. English is not your mother language. American is.” I said, Augusto, OK, there are a few differences between the way Americans speak English and the way the British speak English, but I have to tell you, having lived a couple years in England, the languages are pretty much identical.” He wouldn’t budge. “If they are so identical, as you say they are, then tell me this. How do you greet someone in America?” I said, “Maybe ‘hi.’?” “Exactly”, he said. “And how do you greet someone in England?” “Maybe, ‘hello’?” “I think I’ve made my point, right? As I said, two problems.”