Day three in Maida.

Nonno pours espresso, thick and black, while Giovanna pins whites along the terrace clothesline. She has finally changed her blouse from the lively floral printed sleeveless to a plain blue tee.  Nonno still wears the button down he sported at the airport upon our arrival. Change is not common here. 

We hike the steep road leading to the town square, "la piazza". Tall, rugged walls of slate gray rock to our left, a guardrail bordering our right. And beyond, the Appennino mountains rise and then fall, offering a glimpse of the Mediterranean Sea. The town is a series of dilapidated layers. Nonno leads us to the house where he was born. It resembles a large stall made of weathered burnt orange brick, pale stone and cement. One floor, one door, and a terra cotta shingled roof out of which sprouts vines and weeds and tangled thorny branches. Nine children lived in that house, once upon a time. He points to a small courtyard just below, and tells my kids that this is where he kept his donkey, many years ago. 

"And my girl-a-friends, I bring here, too," he confesses only to me, smiling. I smile, too, and imagine his inspiration point ... Two teens, bathed in moonlight, sharing romance atop a scrappy, work-worn mule.