No, extra-terrestrials have not landed in Rapallo. Instead it is time to mow the river. The Torrente San Francesco is fed by all the little streams and rivulets that start in the folds of our high mountain and head towards the sea. By the time they arrive on the plain of Rapallo they have become the Torrente. For most of the year that is a misnomer, as you can see in the photo below. Not only is it not a torrent, you can see hardly any water at all in some places. What you can see is a lot of greenery, including the dreaded bamboo on the right in the picture above. To give you an idea of how much water there can be after heavy rains, in 2002 I saw the top of the river almost breach the high retaining walls that you see below. The mowers tackle not only the river bed itself, but also the walls which sprout quantities of viney, clingy weeds in all seasons.
Why the haz-mat suits? I’m not sure. Just to be safe, I guess. I can tell you what they wear under them. Not much. Sometimes a wife-beater tee-shirt, sometimes no shirt at all, and, I suppose, trousers, although I didn’t verify that. The river is home to many, many ducks and geese as well as the occasional cat.
I asked mower Luis how often they have to mow the river. They last did it two months ago, he said. How long does it take to finish the river? A week or more, it’s hard work after two months of heavy growth. When I asked him what was the most interesting or amusing thing they found in the river his face clouded for a minute. “We find a lot of dead animals,” he said. But then he smiled sweetly and continued, “but we also find the birds’ nests, and we always mow around them.”
Everybody’s happy when the river has been mowed. Something minty grows down there, and the perfume fills Via Bette from the Autostrada Bridge all the way down to Giorgio’s bakery, where the mouth-watering smell of freshly baked bread prevails. Also you can see what’s going on so much better after the mowing. Something delicious must be hiding in that hole; this cat was so intent that even loud shouts of ‘hey, kitty!’ didn’t get his attention.
Uh oh! Looks like Luis found some hazardous material after all… but no. He’s just having a little ‘pisolino’ (nap) after his picnic lunch.
We might have celebrations and fireworks in the U.S.on the 4th of July, but good old Rapallo celebrates for three full days, and at almost the same time. July 1, 2 and 3 are the days of the Feste in Rapallo which commemorate the appearance of the Virgin Mary at Montallegro, 452 years ago. (You can read about that event 
Oh! The things we take for granted in the United States, things like peanut butter and pickle relish. Neither of these items is readily available in Rapallo, and usually we don’t miss them very much. But watch out – the 4th of July is just around the corner. You can’t get through the 4th of July without a hot dog or a brat, and according to me, you can’t eat either without pickle relish on top.
was up alone, and they made a big flash of light and then a loud bang when they landed on the front terrace. And there were 17 of them, which seems excessive, and that doesn’t count the dozen that were set off in our mailbox. I finally woke up the Captain who went outside and shook his fist and shouted at the departing figures, lads from a nearby settlement we surmise. That was harmless, all in all, but it was unsettling because they were not throwing the flash booms anywhere except at our house.
Nonetheless, I’m feeling paranoid. It’s always such a shock to see or suffer from an act that is just purely mean. It happens the world over, I guess. The firecrackers were probably just kids goofing around. But the car and the rock are on a different order – those were done with intent to damage. And I’m thinking about surveillance cameras… what a way to live. Or maybe… maybe we’ll call Cugino Rino in Genova. He has a menacing laugh that would scare the devil – we’ll just get him to come over here and laugh around the neighborhood a little, and then no one will dare harm us or our property again!
When we lived in Connecticut we had a ‘flock’ of hens. I use the term loosely; we had three hens. Ever since my grandmother told stories about making little rubbers for her chickens so their feet feet wouldn’t get wet, I wanted to raise chickens. It seemed more interactive than dolls, and less responsibility than actual children.
States the relatively pale yellow yolks seem anemic to us. But I must say, even our own flock of Connecticut hens produced the pale American yolk. It must be something in the Italian diet … even for the chickens.
Isn’t it tidy and pretty? If you get out your magnifying lens you might just be able to spot the man himself in the midst of his tomato stakes behind the tree in the center. Or you can just take my word for it that he’s there.
SD +T / square root H, where ‘e’ is east, ‘w’ is west, SD is smoke diffusion, T is temperature, H is humidity and NI is neighbor irritability. Risking the Bad Neighbor Award the Captain took our longest hose and put out one of the fires. Our eyes were still watering, and our throats were scratchy the next day.
An Ex-Expatriate 