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Patricia's The hostel fed us breakfast: rolls, cheese and cafe latte. We took Highway SS11 straight towards Padova. On the way we passed police directing pedestrians across the street to the cemeteries. It was All Saint's Day. And we had groceries! We had learned something in the past year, after all. The ride into Padova was relatively quick. We rode straight through until we were a mere eight kilometers from Padova before stopping for lunch in a small town. Our search for a park was futile. We saw a nursery school with small tables, but when we entered the yard, a nun came out. I asked if we could use the tables. She said no and ushered us down the driveway, locking the gate behind us. We gave up our quest and cooked our pasta on the church steps. Soon cars arrived. I hoped we weren't going to be in the way for mass. We attracted a few stares-but they all ended in smiles and shouts of "Bon appetito!" Patricia greeted us upon our arrival and instantly insisted we make ourselves at home. Her Irish roots and Sardoassimilation ensured that our stay would be pleasant filled with much hospitality. Her home was beautiful. Italian marble floors, venetian glass pieces, Italian art, leather furniture and a Persian rug all combined with her artistic flair and good taste. Patricia had three children. Lisa, her thirteen year old daughter, generously vacated her bedroom for us; Eduardo was the horseman in the family and Stefano was the shy elder football payer. Felice, Patricia's husband, was a workaholic businessman. After a sumptuous meal I curled up on her leather couch and looked through a book on walking across Ireland. Wouldn't that be a treat? |
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