Bella Tuscany by Frances Mayes Page B

a kitchen window I see a woman moistening her hands with olive oil so working with the pasta will be easier.
    After cross-checking the Veneto in several Italian guidebooks, Ed has pinpointed a lauded restaurant with rooms upstairs. We're delaying Venice, saving it for last. The restaurant is in the village of Lorregia, our headquarters for a couple of days. En route from Chioggia, the brakes start to grate. Not a good sound. At the hotel we ask about an Alfa dealer but it is late in the day. Unfortunately, tomorrow is Sunday. Ed asks if he could call, just in case someone's still there. If we can't take the car until Monday, we'll be stuck and all we can do is eat in the lauded restaurant. “Bring it over
subito.
I'll take a look at it,” the mechanic responds.
    The woman at the desk, one of the owners, becomes concerned. “How will you return? That's thirteen kilometers from here.” Ed asks if there's a place to rent a car if he needs one. “Closed. They close at five on Saturday. You call me from the mechanic. I'll see.”
    Where cars are concerned, my participation in the equality of women stops. I want a car to turn on, go. I don't like looking under the hood. All that convoluted metal and the battery that could send you over the moon if you touch the wrong plugs. I trail upstairs and Ed takes off.
    The room is severely plain but immaculate. Checking into a hotel, sometimes austere as a monk's cell, sometimes grandly luxurious, I always revel in an anonymous sense of freedom, particularly if I am alone. I take off the bedspread, turn back the sheets, look out the windows, open the drawers and minibar, feel the towels, examine the lotion and shampoo, the glass jar of cotton balls, or whatever amenities are offered. I'm the opposite of my fastidious aunt Hazel, who travelled with her own pillow and a spray can of Lysol disinfectant. She held it over her head, dousing every available surface, backing out of the room for an hour while all the germs died. I like the leather folders of nice writing paper, the pad by the phone with the pencil just sharpened, the slick magazines about the town, the terrycloth robes. This room, however, has few of these checkpoints to explore. It does have a good shower, and I have a good book.
    Where is Ed? An hour goes by, then another. Finally, he comes in and tosses keys on the bed. “We now have a Fiat Panda until Tuesday morning. The Alfa's brakes need parts and the mechanic will have to find them in Treviso Monday.”
    â€œWhat was wrong?”
    â€œNothing drastic. Wear and tear. He can finish early Tuesday morning. You would not believe how nice the
signora
was. I called the hotel and she came and got me,
then
she drove me umpteen miles, at least ten, in the other direction where she arranged for me to rent a car from the Fiat dealer. It was in some industrial zone. We'll probably never find it again.”
    â€œHow incredible.”
    â€œShe drives like a real Italian,” he said with admiration. He opens the window and the earthy aroma of
funghi porcini
sizzling in hot oil causes him to shower quickly and change into his blue shirt. We descend to the dining room. Because of the adventure, we are treated like old friends. Everyone in the family knows about the
problema
with the Alfa. Glasses of
prosecco
are brought to us and everyone agrees that the Alfa is a fine car, that Italian cars are superior in design to any in the world.
    â€œWe're totally in your hands,” Ed tells the waiter. “Bring us your favorite local wines, the specialties of the house.” This is Ed's favorite way to dine, to give the chef the compliment from the outset of selecting our menu. A more trepid diner, I'm not always thrilled when the sliced
lardo,
basically a buttery fat, or sea urchins are presented. I hope we will not be served the
medaglioni d'asino,
which I spied on the menu. Medallions of donkey I can live without.
    The waiter invites us to follow him