Vernazza Bonus Scene

Eavesdropping over Gnoccci

March 2018

My Stories

Mother of all Road Trips-1

Mother of all Road Trips-2

Mother of all Road Trips-3

Mother of all Road Trips-4

Containing Jim in Paris

Ranging the Yellowstone

Lisbon Portugal- Part 1

Lisbon and Sintra- Part 2

Evora Portugal- Part 3

Coimbra Portugal- Part 4

Porto Portugal- Part 5

At the Mammogram Office

Carmel Art Gallery

Venice- Part I

Veneto- Part II

Ravenna- Part III

Cinque Terre- Part IV

Vernazza Bonus- Part V


Crunch Time

Putting on the Ritz

Granada and Sevilla


Tuscany and Umbria - 1

Tuscany and Umbria - 2

Driving in England

Dwelling in England

A Dozens Reasons

In the Hamam

Istanbul Greece Diary

Pearl Harbor Team

Old Girl



Grandpa's Cabin

Pay-It-Forward Latte

England and France

N. Italy - 1

N. Italy - 2

N. Italy - 3

N. Italy - 4

Lessons from 4 Corners


Going to the Dogs

Don't Embarrass Me!

Letter from Siena

Arrivederci Roma

Joining the Matriarchs

Living History

Newlywed Game

Chaos Theory

Zach on the Road

Huckleberry Season

Stanley & the Sunbeam

I Dare Say


Middle School Relay

Grad Party


Moving On

Radio Shack

Newlywed Couches


Old Faithful Inn


Sweet Potato

Mother Bear

Two Blondes in Iberia

Revisiting Spain

Four Seasons Camping

Curly's Truck.

Disaster Restorations

Bobbie the Wonder Dog

Ducks and Beavers

Wearing Red

Photo Boxes

Las Vegas Soufflé

40th Birthday Party

The Heart Tickler

Wonderful Little Things

Heritage Tour

Erickson Era

Old Buildings


Split Seams

All Nighter

Talent Show

A Look Back

We arrive at the restaurant at 1:45 PM, fifteen minutes before closing.  The owner greets us but requests we order quickly as the kitchen closes soon.  We agree. 

Few diners remain at this pre-season, late lunch-hour on a drizzly Sunday afternoon, but the room still feels cramped.  Beside us sits a young American family--a towheaded toddler, a tidy mom, and a forthright dad with excellent posture.  He could pass for G.I. Joe.   

As instructed, we order our meals without delay.  Jim echoes my request for gnocchi with pesto, having sampled my selection of it earlier in the week.  Our dishes arrive shortly.  

The owner initiates a conversation with our American neighbors.  We can’t help but overhear.  

OWNER:  So, where are you from?

G.I. JOE:  We’re on assignment here.  I’m in the U.S. military.  

OWNER:  Ah, the US--a great nation. 

G.I. JOE:  Thank you, Sir.

OWNER:  I’ve been to the US, to the state of Oregon. 

My ears perk up.  Jim pays no attention to their dialogue, too intent on his food.  He has some pasta questions for me instead.

JIM:  So, you say pesto originated here in the Cinque Terre?

JEAN:  (whispering)  Yes, but, shhh, I want to hear what they say about Oregon.  

G.I. JOE:  I’ve been to Oregon many times.  We were stationed in Washington State, just north of Oregon.  

OWNER:  My brother lives in Bend.  I’ve visited Bend, and Portland, too. 

JIM:  Why don’t you ever make me anything with pesto?  

JEAN:  (still whispering) Because you’ve said you didn’t want it.  Now, please, shhh, I’m trying to eavesdrop.  

G.I.JOE:  Oregon is a beautiful state.  

OWNER:  Certainly.  Except for all the homeless.  They are everywhere.  And it is very expensive. 

G.I.JOE:  Yes, those are big problems in Oregon.   

JIM:  What is gnocchi made of?  

We complete our lunch, me abandoning my spy mission to explain the whats and hows of gnocchi.  And to consent to cook a meal with pesto upon our return home.    

We ask our waiter for our check.  He small-talks as we pay.  

OUR WAITER:  Where are you from?

JIM:  (in booming voice)  We’re from Oregon!  Oregon!

I cringe, grab our umbrellas and make for the door, scooting around our military neighbors while escaping eye-contact.    

G.I JOE:  (addressing owner)  Oregon is a beautiful state!