I am so tired. Sleep still comes when it will. One night it is good, the next it is not. Think Lost in Translation. I drag myself out of bed at seven a.m. sharp everyday no matter how exhausted I am. A mild cold has sneaked through my defenses during the transatlantic flight. I keep hoping it is the swine flu — febbre dei suini (swine fever) or nuova influenza (new flu) as it is now called—so it will put me out of my jet-lagged misery.

But Sunday brings little respite. Fortune has a picture-postcard trip to a villa in the colli bolognesi (Bolognese hills) and marauding bands of small children in store for me.

My friend Paola has invited us to a friend’s parents’ house for a cookout. Now mind you, this isn’t like your Joe-average cookout at Washington Park. This is a ‘forget-what-I-wrote-about-in-the sorrows-of-travel’ post kind of cookout. There will be no sorrow on this day.

First, you have to picture the scene in your mind. You have to picture it because I forgot the camera and left it on the charger.

Bologna is nestled between the Reno River and the foothills of the Apennine Mountains in north-central Italy. Our destination lays at the summit of one of these hills where a large castle sits guarded by a phalanx of cypress trees. Imagine a house George Clooney would live in and you get the picture.

We pass under a wrought iron gate. Gravel crunches loudly under our tires as we pull off the main road surface. Stefania parks near a dark gray Range Rover that apparently belongs to the proprietors.

Two houses straight out of central casting, wearing requisite costumes of flowers and a fresh coat of ochre paint, occupy one edge of the property with a large, two-level patio separating them. The owners of the two houses greet us. Handshakes and warm exclamations of piacere! (pleased to meet you) are exchanged.

A brilliant sun shines in a cloudless sky as we walk into the garden. Far below, the A1 Autostrada that leads to Florence snakes into the hazy distance. To our right the Santuario della Madonna di San Luca (c. 1739) watches over Bologna from the Monte della Guardia. A sumptuous spread has been laid out on one of three tables: Grissini (breadsticks), salumi (coldcuts), pasta, wine. Yum.

Paola’s three children, Pietro, Ettore and Iacopo, dressed in their soccer uniforms, scurry around with abandon. Iacopo, 6, is the youngest. He is wearing an England jersey with his own surname on the back. Playing in goal, he has his blue socks pulled up over his knees like Italy goalkeeper, Gianluigi Buffon. Before we can set our bottle of prosecco on the table the children beg us to come play. Venite a giocare con noi!

Nothing works up an appetite like a few hard slide tackles on a bunch of eight-year-olds. I jump up from the play, hands pressed together as if I were praying, while pleading for salvation from the referee. Now I feel like an Italian player. Fortunately, none of us requires pronto soccorso (first aid). Grass stained and near exhaustion, the adults head back to the tables. A twelve-string guitar is produced. Singing commences while Roberta, Alessandro and I discuss our favorite lines from Pulp Fiction and The Big Lebowski and how they translate into Italian. “Ho una cura medioevale per il tuo culo!” Guess which line that is.

Bellies full and eyes drooping, Stefania and I excuse ourselves and head off to Crespellano where her parents live. We have a date with the nieces and nephew. Alessandro notices that his rear tire is flat with a bolt sticking out of it. Porco Giuda! Those swine just keep showing up in this story.

I bimbi (The children)

It’s late afternoon now. We pull up to Via Pietro Nenni which is only 5 km from Stefania’s apartment. Franco, her father, is attempting to herd Virginia (Virgi), 8, and the twins, Vittoria (Vitto) and Lorenzo (Lollo), 6, back towards the house from where they have been playing down the street.

Nobody told them that I was coming to visit. Surprises rule. When they see me in the car they start jumping up and down and shrieking. Stefania parks the car down the street. We all file through the cancello (gate) and onto the driveway. The front door to the house is open as is the garage door. Stefania’s mom, Vanda, is working in the back as we enter. The kids sprint back and forth. Lollo pulls out a ball and starts shooting baskets at the hoop bolted to the side of the garage. Chaos reigns. Vanda’s flowers are at risk. I do my best Chauncey Billups and take Lollo to school. He howls with glee as I dunk the ball. He dribbles a few times and hurls the rock toward the hole. Clang! The ball rattles in. Soon, Virgi and Vitto join in. A scrum ensues that looks nothing like basketball.

Eventually, we all decide to go around back where there is a small park and jungle gym set. A game is devised: Lollo and I are on the same team. All three girls are on the other. The children position themselves on the wooden bridge between the slide at one end of the jungle gym and the stairs on the other. Stefania and I remain on the ground. The objective seems to be for me to throw the ball to Lollo while his sisters guard him. If he catches it, a point is scored. He then tries to launch it back in my general direction. Suffice it to say the score is forgotten.

We play until called to dinner by Vanda and Franco. Just like when we were kids. The sun drops low behind the hills as we circle back around the row of houses. Dogs bark their disapproval from behind laurel-covered fences as we pass.

As we enter the house, the odor of home cooking descends upon us in a glorious curtain of spices. Lorenza, Stefania’s younger sister and the children’s mother, has made polpette con piselli (meatballs with peas) while Vanda has contributed mezze-penne con ragù (small penne pasta with meat sauce) just for me. One trait I share with my father is that I get cranky when I haven’t eaten. This cornucopia, however, soothes the savage Sopinski. I wolf the food down like a ravenous sailor who has been stranded on an island for six months. Vino frizzante (sparkling wine) is passed in my direction. Don’t mind if I do. Vanda encourages Vitto to fare la scarpetta with a corner of bread.

Pasta in Italy is served in a shallow bowl and is usually a primo piatto or first course. One does not eat bread with pasta since they are both starches. However, people often fare la scarpetta afterwards. (A scarpetta is a little shoe.) This entails forming a little shoe with a small piece of bread to clean the plate with. Not cleaning your plate is frowned upon. Stefania’s parents, as well as many from that generation, remember all to well the Allied bombings and periods of near starvation during and just after World War II.

The meal concludes with torta di pere (pear tart) as the children adjourn to the couch to watch a program on the Disney Channel. There is no escaping Hannah Montana.

Good-byes are eventually offered. Stefania has to work in the morning. I have handyman jobs to begin. I will win my battle against jet lag this night.

Update on Thursday, May 21, 2009 at 09:53AM by [Your Name Here]