His daughter constantly scolds him for his blasphemy. We were told to get Nonno Franco up from his nap, which is how we found ourselves in his bedroom. There’s a poster of Gina Lollobrigida on one wall, and a crucifix on the other—his wife’s crucifix. Nonno Franco hangs his shirt and jacket on it. After making sure we brought the Berlucchi, he shuffles out to the kitchen, pours himself a glass, bolts it, and then pours himself another one before his daughter catches him.
That was totally delightlful!! my ex-wife's grandmother and Nonno Franco would have gotten along famously, depite her coming from Austria and him from Italy. She and my father in-law would sing bawdy songs at Friday night dinner (generally after several, few, lots of glasses of wine), and then when we'd ask her what the song was about, she'd reply, "Ach! It cannot be translated..."
By the way, who came up withe Italian version of the Manhattan Transfer? Or maybe that should be the other way round.
Never really knew any. But if I keep working on it I might become one.
That was totally delightlful!! my ex-wife's grandmother and Nonno Franco would have gotten along famously, depite her coming from Austria and him from Italy. She and my father in-law would sing bawdy songs at Friday night dinner (generally after several, few, lots of glasses of wine), and then when we'd ask her what the song was about, she'd reply, "Ach! It cannot be translated..."
By the way, who came up withe Italian version of the Manhattan Transfer? Or maybe that should be the other way round.