August 28, 2006
Rest Day at Olgiasca
After breakfast I chatted to the departing Americans as they were preparing to hit the road. They took possibly unconscious, revenge on me, for my enthusiastic championing of the cause of cyclo-tourism, the previous evening, by regaling me with tales of the Florida golf-course. Then, back to cycling for a moment, one of the women said 'Hey Mick, is this your bike? It's old.' This is undeniably true. [bought just after New Year 1991] Momentarily though, I saw myself in a black hat and dirty poncho, rolling a dark cheroot around my mouth: 'Ma'am, I want you to apologise to my bicycle.'
Not long after the Americans had left, Renato's van showed up, back from the market, driven by his assistant whose name, I, shamefully, cannot remember. I was shown a box of fresh lavorelli, that night's dinner. We bought picnic supplies from the small shop, directly opposite the hotel and walked down to the beach, negotiating the intricate path that weaved its way around the village's holiday homes.
I swam. Barbara's not too keen on swimming in lakes. We ate our picnic. I fell into conversation with a man from Regensburg, Bavaria, who was accompanied by his two children. As the sky clouded over in mid-afternoon, we were ready to set off back up the hill to the hotel. We gathered up our stuff. Except my black T-shirt, which was nowhere to be found, a mystery we never solved.
At dinner we were served our lavorelli, three between the two of us [they weren't too big]. Renato's assistant whose name I can't remember, took the flesh off the bones for us, all part of the service. Back at home, an internet check on lavarello, came up with whitefish, which I see, are also common in the Great Lakes and other diverse regions of North America.
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