We were greeted warmly upon arriving at Julio’s house with a flurry of handshakes and an onslaught of kisses; there was no way I was going to remember all these new names. Julio’s house sits on the edge of a newly constructed subdivision in Buttrio. In true Friulano style, directly across the street is a wall of corn; the fields seem to go on forever. Sitting and sipping my prosecco in the intense heat I shut out the noise and took in the scene. Even without a noticeable breeze, the corn swayed ever so gently offering a faint rustle as the dry stalks and leaves brushed up against each other. Above the horizon of pale yellow and green cornfields sat a deep blue sky with just a hint of cloud. Something this relaxing required another glass of prosecco.
Julio pulled dad aside and said “The last time you were here was for my first marriage. Let’s hope the next time doesn’t mean a third for me.” Laughter ensued; stigma had suffered another painful blow.
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