Yesterday:

I knew I was in Austria when the Langnese ice-boxes changed into Eskimo.

This particular phenomenon was noticed by yours truly when we stopped by a petrol station for gas. Also, Manuel’s sister, Annalisa, would be celebrating her birthday today and Franco wanted to get her a gift from an Austrian town off the highway.

It was called Rattenberg, and like every Austrian town whose entire economy was based on tourists, it was famous for yet another kitschy attraction. In this case it was glass, in all shapes and sizes. Crystal, even. It was strange walking into this quaint little town where each shop was dedicated to the sale of every imaginable kind of glassware.

We entered an unassuming little shop called Kisslinger Kristall-Glas that turned out to contain an underground crystal dungeon and glass workshop, and three floors above of glass galleries. Overkill methinks.

Seeing how the glass-blowers shaped and moulded the glass pieces made the entire thing seem a mechanical process for me, devoid of any artistry. Practically a factory line producing nearly identical glass swans, their necks twisted into graceful, unnatural shapes.

I suppose I’ve never ever been a real fan of glass works. Too fragile, too breakable. And this can be a problem when you’re a hypochondriac and think you have Parkinson’s disease (which I do have, of course).

Franco dismissed a swan thingamabob in favour of a slender glass vase of blown glass flowers, held in place, oddly enough, by pebbly glass shards. Just seeing the lady at the counter wrapping them up clumsily and shoving them roughly into boxes would make anyone cringe. The three of us lunged forward instantaneously to catch a box she nearly let slip.

Like I said, too breakable for my liking. Liable to get a nervous breakdown just thinking about it.

Birthday gift secured, we flew across the highway in order to reach Trento in time for lunch. Italy’s slightly greener in the thrall of summer, the vineyards exploding in sparkling leaves and blissful grapes, yet remained as rustic as I remembered it.

The countryside, as I mentioned later in the day to Manuel, differs from the German one, which inspires fairy tales, in that it seemed to be actually inhabited by real, living people. Interesting people. People who actually talk and you would want to talk to. (Granted that I’d have to brush up my non-existent Italian first.)

Driving into Rione S. Marco towards Casa Mazza, I noticed that the orchard on the right was bearing fruit now. Apples, apparently. Franco said they would be ready for plucking in a month’s time, no sooner. We’ll see about that.

Manuel warned me of the horrible old man and his horrible old wife who used to chase after him (the juvenile delinquent of yesteryears) with a scythe to thrash and a stone to throw respectively. Shudders.

Manuel’s mom, sister and her kids, Serena and Alessandro, were awaiting our arrival at the balcony, laughing and waving at us. The kids were especially delighted to see their dad and uncle again, gushing with the kind of joy that only children know and adults envy.

I greeted them and kissed Mamma Mazza, who has become dear to me, the sweet lady. Beloved readers, I felt very welcomed into this wonderful family, even if just for the weekend, which is more than yours truly deserves. Mamma Mazza thanked me for coming when as I was thanking her for having me. Major blush. Oh well.

We sat down to a perfect lunch of gnocchi, salad and cheeses, finished off with an assortment of fresh fruits. What better way to spend a summer’s day. The kids were hilarious to watch at play and then there was caffè. Fantastico.

(I’ve to try really hard to remmeber I’m not actually here on vacation, just visiting. O but what a wonderful visit it is.)

After lunch, us guys moved Manuel’s things upstairs to his room. Hey, I got the kid’s room again, without the benefit of a non-snoring Blue. Which, I suppose, means it’s basically the same as the last time.

I had offered to cook dinner and Mamma Mazza acquiesced, so Manuel and I went off grocery shopping. Bloody difficult to find Asian seasonings here in a small Italian city, but we did our best. Once back in the kitchen, Manuel helped me and together we prepared a decent dish off spicy cubed chicken breasts, served with chicken rice that wasn’t miraculous in any way at all (which is a good thing, trust me).

The family suffered no ill side effects from dining on my cooking so all is well. Manuel and I went out later at night to get the best gelato ever from a gelateria called Gelatomania. It rather lived up to its name.

We then drove to where we had wine the last time in the parking lot. The place was open this time and crammed with young Trento life and simmering beats. We got the usual 0.2-litre glasses of Italian beer and sat down under the giant canopy of a sprawling grape tree.

Claudia and Piernicola were known to frequent this place but they didn’t turn up last night when we were there. Manuel said it was prolly cuz it was too early for them. After finishing our beers, we hit the lake instead.

It was dark, lit up by the houses dotting the other bank of the lake and the stars in the sky of which one fell over our heads. Romantic, as Manuel put it. Which meant that we didn’t get to make much of it.

We left the lake soon enough and as we turned into Rione S. Marco, Piernicola called Manuel up, announcing that he was coming out (just as we were retiring). Don’t know about you, but that makes me feel much older than I should. But no nightlife, however tempting, could get my attention the way a soft bed could.

N.B. Here’s an SMS I got from Monkey Boy the moment I started nodding off:

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i remembered 2 eat yo. somethin i call “extra sketchy knoblauch eierspätzle – cajun style”. damn good too. thanks to everyone i know 4 the ingredients ;)

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Copyright © 2002 Kenny Mah Ying Fye.