An Italian couple in Paradise.

Yesterday, I met a delightful Italian couple. Bruno and Mariella. I liked them immediately. Bruno speaks a few words of English. But didn’t matter. Because it’s easy to understand Italians. Because they use sign language. Constantly gesturing. With their arms, hands, fingers. They are the most physically demonstrative people on Mother Earth. Bruno and Mariella are no exceptions. If anything, they are more alive, more expressive than even the average Italian. And they exude good vibes. Made me feel welcome and at ease. In their nice three-level, spacious home. A five-minute walk from where I’m living with my Italian true love. She’s the one that introduced me to this dynamic couple. Both retired. Though they stay busy. With their garden of flowers, flowers and more flowers. And a bed and breakfast place they operate. Not at their home. But on the city of Carbonia’s main street, Via Gramsci. I knew their names before I arrived. I pictured Bruno as a big tough guy. Because that’s what the name implies. In my mind. If someone in America is named Bruno, he has to be Mr. Macho. Well, turns out that Italian Bruno is kindly looking. Has a white moustache. A balding head. On top. But with long gray hair down the back and sides. No mistaking him for anything but an Italian. When employed, he was a representative of trade unions. He’s labor oriented. A political liberal,  I assume. Too intelligent to be a conservative. Knows how to poke fun at former Italian prime minister Silvio Berlusconi. Bruno definitely qualifies as my kind of guy. And he’s been abroad. To the USA. To places like New York City. And Washington. And Atlantic City. For union-related meetings. Bruno showed me around the house. I’m impressed. A big study upstairs. With desk. And lots of books. Downstairs, in the basement, a huge open room. Think that may be where his son used to live. Now he’s 35, and living in Tuscany.  Oh, and there’s a nice fire place downstairs. I can picture a crackling fire. On a cool day in January. Anyway, we sat in the living room. Around a rectangular dark brown wood table. Sipping tea. Brewed by Bruno. Flavored with a spoonful of brown sugar. And a few drops of lemon juice. I had a refill. And munched on a half dozen cookies. From a bowl. Noticed that Bruno dunked his cookies in his tea. With his fingers. And a spoon. Thought only Germans and Slavs did that. Apparently, Italians do, too.  Conversation proceeded. In Italian, of course. With my true love serving as translator. Meanwhile, I became fascinated with Mariella. She could be an orchestra director. Doing a superb job with flamboyant music. Her hand gestures went in every direction. I’d not want to be seated next to her. But across instead. So that I could get a head-on view. Her hands made a flowing motion. Like a river.  She’d be superb at directing Smetana’s ‘Moldau.’ Before retiring, Mariella was a beautician. Her customers must have had relaxing experiences. Because those hands. They flow. Like a soothing stream of water. Remindful of a babbling brook in a primeval forest. But I settled for the flower garden. Fashioned mostly by Mariella’s hands. Gracefully. Colorfully. Magnificently. Oh, what a day. Meeting such a nice Italian couple. In their environs. Another sign. That I am privileged. Living in Paradise. –Jim Broede