A Tosa resident since 1991, Christine walks the dog, raises kids, cooks but avoids housework, writes and reads, and works too much. A Quaker and
, she has been known to stand on both sides of the political and philosophic fence at the same time, which is very uncomfortable when you think about it. She writes about pretty much whatever stops in to visit her busy mind at the moment. One reader described her as "incredibly opinionated but not judgmental." That sounds like a good thing to strive for!
There’s never been a better night than last night to spend along the lakefront in the company of thousands of well-behaved, happy strangers. Tonight (Sunday) might be just like it, so you have a chance, too, to enjoy Festa Italiana.
I had free tickets courtesy the Italian Community Center, so friend Linda and I paid $6 each to hop the bus from the Watertown Plank Road Park ‘n Ride. The bus was about half full, and we disembarked practically at the gate around 7 pm.
First up was food. You can’t help it, really, when you’re hit by all those wonderful smells of Italian cooking: garlic and sausages roasting, sweet peppers and onions, eggplant and tomato sauce. The food was better in the olden days, when it was still prepared in the kitchens of women who competed for pride of place at the church festivals. But this wasn’t half bad.
An old guy, his hair dyed as black as it must have been when he was a young buck in Chicago, hit on me at the ATM-- until his son-in-law reminded him that he was married. It was benign and funny, and probably a routine the two perform often.
We sat at a picnic table at the Miller stage listening to bad jokes, great accordion riffs, and good crooning in frank (or is that Frank?) Rat Pack style. A beautiful young woman in a red dress sang “Where the Boys Are” even more melodramatically than Connie Francis, and an almost middle-aged woman across from us lip- synched the words to her man seductively. Their three kids did not flee from the table in embarrassment but indulged the old folks. That’s the way it is at Festa.
Italian Idol was great fun. In a small venue, local singers compete for the title. If you go tonight, you’ll hear the finalists. We sat with welcoming strangers as a young woman sang "Someone to Watch Over Me."
“Oh, I love that!” one exclaimed. “It’s a Katharine McPhee song, isn’t it?”
“Oh, no: it’s a really old song,” we said.
“Who sang it first?” they asked.
I didn’t have the heart to tell them that I actually wasn’t around when George Gershwin was writing all that great music. “Ella Fitzgerald, maybe, or Sinatra,” someone else offered. Ah, and how well they sang it.
A very brave guy who looks like an accountant became a popular favorite when he dared to take on Young MC’s “Bust a Move.” And when someone sang John Lennon’s “Imagine,” a group of women pulled out their opened and lit cell phones, held them on high, and waved them with mock solemnity.
The air was clear and cool, no bugs or bad lake smells. It wasn’t hard to find a place on the rocks to watch the fireworks. Afterward, there was dancing—people your age and mine, moving joyfully to the music.
It didn’t really matter what kind of music.
