Once upon a time . . .

I am charmed by the castle-like homes sprinkled throughout Europe. Walking around Ambra, I was taking pictures of said homes when I heard a voice.

“Ciao, Ciao, hello! Do you like?” A wiry man with thinning hair walked out of his backyard. I put down my camera apologetically. “Do you speak English? Italian? If you like, you should see the backyard!” he said.

He had built over his backyard a canopy of grape vines. To the left of a stone path was a small pond, with fish. Tables, chairs, and a view of the Tuscan countryside--he had a photogenic backyard, indeed. I walked through the gate.

“I painted my house blue. Everyone here thinks it’s odd, but I like it. It’s like the sky!” He smiled as he raised his arms toward the heavens. “Come into the house. This way!”

(Now, it gets strange.)

“I just came back from Melbourne. I don’t like it here. The people are all too political. Communists.”
(Oh. Why did you leave Melbourne?)
“I’ve just divorced my wife. So now I am back in Italy working on my backyard. She was crazy. Skkkrrrrtttt Skkrrrrttttt. Skkkkkkkkkkrrrrrrrrrttttt”
(Um. Okay.)
“See that shed? My cats live there.”
(Uh. Cats?)
“I have 16.”

I solemnly swear to joke no more about growing into a hypoallergenic cat lady. I also allege that Hansel and Gretel entered the witch's house only to be polite.

During our conversation, I started thinking of ways to fend off a batty man and his army of attack-cats, but in the end, this was unnecessary. As I left, he gave me a jar of homemade grape jam and told me that we should become good friends. Because everyone else here is a communist.

When I told the Italians about it later, they laughed and said he was strange--very strange--but harmless. And the jam? Oh, eat it. E' solo marmellata.