THE POSTMAN ALWAYS FLINCHES TWICE
LACCO AMENO, Ischia, Italy I hoard books. This fatal flaw simply can't be helped. Once I've read a good one, especially in an evocative place, I simply must drag it back to my den and mount its head on the wall.
My poor suitcase strains along, scraping the sidewalks. Something has to give ...
Like my sanity in the post office.
The Poste Italiane clerk agrees that shipping several kilos of literature to America is "un avventura" (an adventure). He's not sure it's possible, but ci proviamo. We'll try. Why not? What can we lose?
What indeed? Besides handfuls of euros, some treasured volumes, important research materials and 90 minutes of my life, filling in octuplet forms without carbon copies?