Moving to Italy--Arrival-B

The mist added gloom to the damp atmosphere in the farmhouse courtyard as we stretched our legs.  Laughing and talking, the cousins who had driven us from the Torino airport pulled suitcases and bags from the cars.  From the barn on one side of the courtyard, we heard cows moo and rattle their chains.  At the end of the barn, an Irish setter pulled at her rope, barking, and wagging, and longing to greet us as a man appeared suddenly next to her, dressed in old gray wool and flannel.  He moved his wiry body rapidly across the yard, smiling warmly, hand outstretched—George’s Zio (Uncle) Silvio.  From the opposite corner, another man walked slowly towards us.  Heavier built, but with the same type of dark clothes, he leaned on a makeshift cane—another uncle, Zio Remo.  Italian words exploded around hugs and handshakes, double kisses, and smiles that welcomed us to our new home.  I spoke only a few words of Italian, so most of the greetings sped past my ears as unintelligible, mellifluous sound.  Everyone seemed friendly.  Zio Silvio, in his mid-fifies with thinning gray hair, was still good-looking, and I could imagine him younger, flirting.  His narrow face was open, and I could read humor in his light eyes.  I thought I could like him.  Zio Remo was a few years older, with a wide, flat duskier face and thinning dark hair.  I could read nothing in his dark eyes, except for his welcome.

I smiled and nodded in response to the introductions, then looked at the two-story house.  George had told me that it was one of ten at Gabi, the name of the little hamlet, and that the others were used as weekend and vacation homes, except for the two where Zio Remo and Zio Silvio lived.  It was definitely not resort living.  The brown paint on our wooden front door was chipped, and iron bars obscured the window of the room beside it.  I wondered what criminals lurked nearby that window security bars were needed.  Running the length of the second story was a pale green balcony from which dripped the gentle rain.  I guessed its chipped and peeling paint was probably lead-based.  Then I gauged the width between bars.  Very likely our nineteen-month-old twins could squeeze through.  Yikes! As I looked further, I noticed large patches where stucco had fallen away from many places along the wall, and long wet stains pointed downward to the mud and gravel below our feet.  This wasn't at all the grand house I had envisioned.