La versión español está después de la versión inglés.
LAST NIGHT’S VALENTINE’S dinner at Mesón Salvador was beyond compare. Chef David outdid himself and the entire staff once again seemed to have as good a time as their guests. The theme was the romance of Venice and the team dressed as gondoliers. They even grew mustaches for the occasion (which were already shaved off this morning). Waiter Jaime is fluent in Italian (as well as Spanish and English), so he added another level of authenticity… and charm.
LA CENA DE San Valentín de anoche en Mesón Salvador fue incomparable. El chef David se superó a sí mismo y, una vez más, todo el personal parecía tener tan buen momento como sus invitados. El tema fue el romance de Venecia y el equipo vestido como gondoleros. Incluso cultivaron bigotes para la ocasión (que ya se habían afeitado esta mañana). El camarero Jaime habla con fluidez el italiano (además del español y el inglés), por lo que agregó otro nivel de autenticidad … y encanto.
El video es un anuncio de servicio público estadounidense de 1969. El nombre de la canción es “VD es para todos” que significa “Le Enfermedad Venérea es Para Todos” y “VD” es taquigrafía para el día de san valentín (Valentine’s Day).
So, the 36th anniversary of the death of Big Sister Dale has passed. San Geraldo honored her by buying a box of “galletas de rellena de naranja” (soft biscuits filled with orange jam and covered in chocolate). Dale introduced me to these in 1970. She usually bought Pim’s brand, but this Spanish version brought back the sweet memories just the same.
WE FINISHED THEM OFF IN ONE SITTING… JUST AS DALE WOULD HAVE DONE.
1954: LOOK AT MY EYES! MY REACTION TO THOSE CUSTOM FABRICS, PERHAPS? OR MAYBE JUST MY SHOCK AT MISPLACING MY FEET.
Speaking of misplaced feet: Once Dale hit her teens, she began to train me in some basic social skills. For about a week before any party — wedding, bar mitzvah, school event — she’d drag me into her room every night, turn on her record player, and [try to] teach me to dance. The results weren’t exceptional but the lessons were a joy.
SUMMER ’73: LIKE A FINE WINE, I HOPE. BETTER WITH AGE.
In a recent conversation with an acquaintance, I was disappointed to learn how he really thinks. He said ignorant things about a particular group of fellow human beings. I told him politely that I didn’t agree. I then told him why.
He did an about-face and said that people should be allowed to live their lives as they want but he then began disparaging another group. I again politely voiced my disagreement and the subject was changed. After a while, I left feeling annoyed, resentful, and angry.
I won’t share the details. You have your own “Nasties” in your life and don’t need to be hurt by mine.
Some people are brilliant at sniping and venting comically on their blogs. It helps them get it out of their systems. It doesn’t work that way for me. I just get more angry, aggravated, and depressed.
So all I really want to tell you is no matter what difficulties or times of sadness I share with you, the stories will always be accompanied by love, humor, gratitude, and respect. I simply hope your visits here make your days a bit better. Welcome [back] to The Love Blog.
The day my sister Dale died in 1981, I was surprised to find myself momentarily alone in her living room. I picked up a book of poetry. As I placed the book in my lap, it flipped open and the first words I read were:
We who are left, how shall we look again Happily on the sun, or feel the rain, Without remembering how they who went Ungrudgingly, and spent Their all for us, loved, too, the sun and rain?
A bird among the rain-wet lilac sings— But we, how shall we turn to little things And listen to the birds and winds and streams Made holy by their dreams, Nor feel the heart-break in the heart of things?
New to me at the time, it was a poem written at the end of World War I by William Lyon Phelps. It gave me gooseflesh and has remained with me ever since.
Wishing those others who are left, in so many places around the world, the chance to someday not feel the hearbreak in the heart of things.
I have no rain-wet lilacs. But I have heard birds singing among San Geraldo’s sun-drenched hibiscuses. So, I’ll share those and finish with a smile from a sweetly dreaming Dudo (he of the toothy grin).