Some readers have been wondering about Pa. In particular, why is it he’s not around at times. An example, the evening at the Ziryab Shisha Lounge where he never made an appearance.
You see, Pa was very health conscious. Still is. As an athlete, he was forbidden to smoke or drink. That stuck with him. In college he did some research and made up his own mind. Tobacco and alcohol wouldn’t serve him well in the long run. The same with sugar. Pa was fortunate to not have a sweet tooth. That also served him well. If Pa had a vice, it was ice cream. He could justify ice cream. It had milk, and milk is good for your body. Besides, over his long life he never saw that ice cream caused anyone any harm.
We’ve stopped for ice cream a couple of times. Pa encourages it. “If it had been bad for me, I wouldn’t have lived to be ninety-five,” he’s stated with some authority. “Good point,” I responded, not in the mood to instruct him on rudimentary genetics.
Pa being Dutch might have something to do with it. The Dutch have long been a fastidious people. Their tendency toward high standards perhaps a contributing factor.
By the way, we’re in Florence, having arrived late yesterday. We booked three nights at the Villa Merlo Bianco, a convent run by the Suore di San Giovanni Battista (Sisters of St. John the Baptist). We’ve yet to look around much, but it appears to be quite a place.
According to the literature, the Villa was built sometime in the fifth century, then rebuilt in 1529 after the Spanish siege of Florence. For centuries it was an estate for wealthy barons, falling into disrepair early in the 20th century. During World War II, the allies used it as a command post. At the war’s conclusion, the good sisters took it over, restoring it as a safe haven for travelers.
The Villa provides breakfast but no other meals, so Pa and I hit the streets in search of something authentic. We happened upon the Vecchia Osteria del Nacchero in a quiet neighborhood nearby. A small place, it looked very authentic, with service beginning at 7:00.
It was 6:55 with the door slightly ajar, so we stepped in. On the far side of the room, around a large table, was a “family” finishing its meal. This wasn’t a family with little kids, just adults, two generations at least. The patriarch, in a tone that chilled me to the bone, barked “Five minutes!”. I felt like the young man who’d been dating his daughter and he’d just found out about. Then it crossed my mind that this might be some kind of “planning” meeting, the subject of which was a secret not to be shared beyond the table.
Whatever the reason for the greeting, Pa and I backed out slowly. A block away, we found a little Chinese place
where we were welcomed warmly and treated like family.
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