You'd Tell Me, Wouldn't You?

We arrived here at Varenna on Sunday, though the Fermi Institute where my physicist is working did not begin its sessions until Tuesday.  That gave Catbird some time to prowl around while my physicist prepared his lectures.  

 

Sunken tub in Villa Minestero

The Villa Minestero, where we are housed and where the lectures take place, is part of a larger estate.  Tourists pay admission to wander through, though they are restricted to the gardens and gift shop and--on Sundays only--the main house with its antiques and restored rooms.  We especially enjoyed the Murano glass chandeliers, embossed leather wallpaper and the beautiful sunken bathtub with painted nudies.  Although the estate was originally a monastery, obviously a few owners along the way--before it was donated to the Italian science organization--used it for more than mere contemplation.

 

Leather wallpaper in the bathroom of Villa Minestero

Catbird must also add that although the room we are in is comfortable, it hearkens more to the monasterial times: bare plaster walls, no scroll-work or artwork of any kind, strictly functional shower.  And, has been the case in most of our hotels, only a token accommodation to guests desire for a king/queen or even just a double bed.  Twin beds are pushed together and--if one is lucky--the bottom sheet fitted over both mattresses.  In Agay, our twin beds each had their own set of bedclothes and though they were arranged to sit against one another, the beds were light and drifted apart without much provocation.  Good or bad, Catbird has learned to sleep through the night on the crack. 

Early in our stay, as Catbird and my physicist walked along the garden here, we saw a woman up ahead step out of a doorway and rejoin her male partner on the gravel walk.  She was an average tourist--short hair, sensible shoes, middle aged--except that the back of her very full and colorful skirt was tucked into her underpants.  

If Catbird had been closer, she'd have tapped the woman on the shoulder and whispered in her ear, but the distance was too great.  To try to catch up to her would draw more attention.  To call out would have been worse. One could only watch in horror. 

Catbird elbowed her physicist and surreptitiously pointed out the wardrobe failure, then we both had to duck behind the next hedge and laugh ourselves silly.  

When we were slightly more composed, we reemerged only have to remove ourselves once again when we saw the woman and her partner walking arm in arm with her skirt still rucked up in the back.

"Oh, surely her husband will notice and tell her soon," said Catbird.  It was a plea, a prayer.

In a disclosure of acute self-awareness that forced us to abandon our walk and return to our room to laugh until the tears poured, my physicist replied, "Not if he is a physicist." 

The couple was last seen casually strolling the garden path much as we all do: oblivious to the spinach in our teeth, the napkin tucked into our belt, the sweater buttoned crookedly, the shirt on inside out, the hem ruched into our underpants.  Catbird just hopes when these things happen to her, someone she loves will tell her so she can fix it.  And laugh, too.

 

My physicist on the garden walk