让人又爱又恨的南欧宝地
One of my many regrets in life is that my daughters will never see the Italy I knew. Other people probably feel the same about Greece, France, Spain or Portugal, recalling the age before everyone seemed to be everywhere. When even Florence was not that crowded in summer and the small towns and villages of Tuscany and central Italy―certainly the south―were Italian in every way: very few foreigners and that promised, apparently 1)indestructible way of life.
An early start in the cool of morning, hard work followed by a good lunch with wine from a jug. Then the sacred siesta―a nap, or cuddling-up with someone else during the Italian afternoon, when everything is determinedly chiuso―closed. After the 2)impenitent heat of day 3)relents, the 4)shutters reopen and evening begins for most with the passeggiata, Grandpa on the arm of his granddaughter, teenagers showing off, heated discussion over Gazetta dello Sport or munist party’s daily, L’Unità, posted on the wall. For others, back to work: for a few hours, behind the counter or in the office. On Sundays: forget it―no, you cannot go and buy this or that. Those metal shutters are down and will remain so until Monday morning, possibly late Monday afternoon. Sunday lunch lasts from abou
t 3:30 . till past 11.
This is rose-tinted and ignores the appalling 5)tribulations some people faced, but these customs still
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