On meeting a pleasant peasant.

Spent the afternoon with my Italian true love. In our favorite olive grove. Sort of in the middle of nowhere. Out in the Sardinia countryside. Hardly anyone around. Only an old country  woman. Dressed like a peasant. In a long black skirt. But no babushka.  That was the only thing missing. Wished I could have talked to her. In a meaningful way. But couldn’t. Because I don’t speak much Italian. And my true love didn’t want to translate. She didn’t like the woman. Because she approached us. And started asking a bevy of personal questions. Of course, that wouldn’t have bothered me. Because I get personal. Very personal.  Right from the beginning with strangers.  Anyway, I later approached the woman. On my own. With a few words of Italian. After telling her I didn’t speak Italian. And that I was an American. I also told her that my companion was my darling. In Italian. The woman responded. In Italian, of course. And I didn’t understand. But I’m assuming that she said something to the effect, ‘How nice.’  Anyway, I thanked the woman. With Italian for thank you. Makes me wish I spoke fluent Italian.  That will never happen. But I’m gonna try to get better at it. Meanwhile, the woman collected several pails full of olives that had mostly fallen from the gnarled olive trees. Some purported to be 600 years old. I tasted an olive off a tree. And it was very bitter. I assumed that the woman would marinate her collection of olives. Wondered  how she does it. And if she sells any of the olives. She would have found a ready and eager buyer in me. At virtually any price. Anything to get on her good side. I liked the woman. Instinctively. Without really getting to know her. –Jim Broede