Salumnerio Magnifico

April 30, 2024

Our last day at the Villa Orselina. Just before dawn, a half moon. The rain has gone; the sun is out.

Funny, isn’t it. How you get so attached to a place in such a short time. The receptionist is like an old friend. When we tell her we’re on the 10:22 train to Florence, she shares that although she grew up in Milano, until very recently, she had never been to Florence. The waiter knows I like my tea black and that when Cathy requests a latte, she doesn’t mean just warm milk.

Breakfast is glorious in the warmth of the sun. I continue my quest in search of the perfect croissant; Cathy eats sensibly, though her devotion to prosciutto makes me wonder if she might drop me like a cold canned ham if she found a salumificio magnifico.

A swallow joins us.

Two ducks spot Cathy as an easy mark and they are soon eating . . . my croissant . . . out of her hand.

Then the fun begins.

I have carefully planned our departure. Breakfast at 8:30, check out no later than 9:15. Gas up the rental car at 9:30, drop Cathy and the bags off at the station at 9:45, and then . . . my first turn at the wheel of our sporty Volkswagen Tirguan . . . I drive back to the rental car agency curiously tucked in underground public parking in downtown Locarno, undergo a damage inspection, and then a leisurely stroll back to the station.

A little tight, I admit. but doable. Si? Non.

One small unanticipated problem. The meticulously thorough Swiss gentleman at EuroCar has decided to take a mid morning hike . . . no doubt for a croissant of his own . . . at the time we had previously arranged.

This was not expected. I of course immediately panic. Luckily, when he returns . . . croissant crumbs on his chest . . . he realizes from the look of terror on the old American’s face that we might have to forego the damage inspection.

I hand him the keys and up the garage ramp I run. Okay, run is an exaggeration. More of a trot. Maybe a cantor. Cathy has assured me that if she is not there when I return the train has left already.

With her.

So, I’m a little alarmed when I arrive at what I thought was where I left her, bent over, hands on my knees, panting. No Cathy.

Damn it. Just as I suspected, she’s been seduced by a Firenzian saluminerio. They’re probably nibbling on a sample plate of his finest meats and cheeses south of Lugano by now.

Then, shaking off my O2 starved delirium, I spot her.

“You okay?”, she asks.

“Sure”, I say. “Let’s go to Florence.”