They say I shot a man named Grey and took his wife to Italy. She had her hands on a million bucks and when she died it came to me. I can’t help it if I’m lucky. – Bob Dylan; Blood on the Tracks

The following conversation never happened thirty years ago; but it could have. My new client/friend Michael, about to hop onto an exploding cookie empire known as Monsieur Felix & Mr. Norton was looking for a new production facility. As a commercial real estate broker I stumbled across this guy and on our first sortie, listening to the new Travelling Willbury’s cassette, we fell in love. It was the beginning of a beautiful friendship, putting Rick and Louis’ Casablanca chumminess to shame.

At the time Michael didn’t say, but could have said, “Thirty years from now, once the trials and tribulations associated with building a business are behind me, I will pick up my close friends and family and head off to Italy to celebrate my sixtieth birthday”.

So here we are. Perched atop a mountain range, ensconced in a beautiful villa just off the east coast of Italy in the province of La Marche, Michael, his wife Gina, his brother Albert, sister-in-law Linda, daughters Paula with BF and probably soon to be fiancé Andrew. and Julie, quasi-daughter Cleo, first cousin and brother-from-a-different-mother Sonny and wife Suzy, and best friends Bruce and Lori are sharing in and helping produce the dream.

This blog, while somewhat self-serving and probably not of interest to the 6,999,999,988 of the rest of the planet, will provide a permanent and totally subjective recounting of the events of this 2 1/2 week foray and adventure. Should we end up killing each other at some point, perhaps the clues for the Masadaesque murder-suicide can be found within these passages.

Nothing short of a tome the size of the Encyclopaedia Brittanica could provide the sordid details surrounding the interactive past amongst us twelve, so just take it on faith that the relationships, multi hued and deeply textured, will serve to contextualize the events of the past three and future fourteen days.

We all go way back with each other save and except for Sonny,Suzy, Lori and me. I’d met Sonny and exchanged a few brief words at Beno’s funeral. From those preliminary exchanges I was looking forward to getting to know him better. Suzy had been warned about me and, despite not knowing what the fuss was about, I have been on both my best behaviour and double my regular dose of medication.

Other than a pool, views that Tuscany would be jealous of, spectacular villa (air conditioned), servants only too eager to please, and enough food to survive a fifty year siege, it’s a pretty ordinary place to hang out. Arriving on different planes from different places, we reconnoitred here and let the good times roll (figuratively). Day one involved adjusting to the new time, unpacking and familiarizing ourselves with our places and each other.

The main house houses Michael and Gina, the girls, Andrew and the cousins. The two outhouses provide accommodations for brother, friend and  spouses. I realized quickly that getting all 12 on the same page was as simple as herding cats. Add to the mixité the fact that some of us react at the speed of light to suggestions and prepare accordingly, while others in the group act at the speed of dark, it became intrinsically obvious that, as they say in fancy restaurants, ‘separate agendas, please’. All parties have had no trouble gravitating to whatever interests suit them at any given time. Eating, vegging, tanning, exploring, swimming, listening to music, drinking; there is always somebody to accompany.

Come back tomorrow when the actual birthday party events are reported upon.

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