The family Osteria promises “Vini e Cucina,” and our weekly return to it yields:

a) feast as good as (maybe better than) before; b) friendly neighbor who offers help with our choice of a scrumptious dessert; c) kindly addition of Sambuca to cap off the meal; d) life story told in great spirit, together with a few history lessons, the wife’s editorial revisions, and a glimpse of her cell-phone pics.

Booty not at all in the derogatory slang sense.  By no means.  Booty, rather, by way of the Middle Low German bute (originally a taking of the spoils, say on the order of what we tourists do).  More generally, any prize or gain, as with these signs of the same:

One, if by car . . . an easy way to get yourself killed.

Two, if by foot . . . a sure bet on the same fate, since between the church and our place falls the shadow of N. 3 Flaminia . . .

Only a closer look at our trusty map seems to reveal a path beneath the roadway.  And so we are off . . . on our mid-day adventure . . . News at 11:00pm . . .

. . . Little News: Sun’s hot.  Doors lock.

Great Views: olive grove / treasure trove.

Pictures: The grave’s a fine but private place.

The jet itself, I feel sure, is doing just fine;

whereas me myself, we be dragging behind.

Picture