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I was celebrating a friend's 40th birthday at one of the weekly carnival celebrations in Viareggio, an Italian Riviera town in northern Tuscany.

Unofficially #2 on the "best carnivals" of Italy list, Viareggio attracts thousands of tourists to this seaside city during the carnivale month of February. The main event is a grand parade on Sunday afternoons along the water-front promenade. No doubt, this event has a secure stake in fun along Italy's west coast. Only the east coast's Venice carnivale can claim greater panache, but the two are incomparable. 

Venice's Carnivale crawls with masked visitors swaggering from one crowded piazza to another. Exclusive parties carry tickets prices that can instead buy you a zippy red Vespa. Hotels book months in advance. Elaborate feathered and sparkling masks paired with period-style costumes are practically de rigueur. Pretending is all the rage. 

Viareggio is a cheaper, more approachable and in some ways, a more family-oriented carnivale experience. 

Hotel rooms along the parade route can be snatched within weeks of the events, though enviable balcony rooms should be booked months in advance. In fact, a room with a view can transform the experience: there is nothing quite like being eye-level with three-story papier-mâ·ché floats. Having the option to watch from above, or join the crowds below - with endless access to your own bathroom - is priceless. (We had a large window on the parade route for 150 Euro per night for a triple). The biggest challenge of the weekend will be moving your vehicle off the parade route the night before, but even the city's modern computerized license-plate registration program will guarantee you'll leave ticket-less.  (Your hotel will register your car upon arrival.) 

If you are not the dress-up type: you've found your match.

I arrived in Viareggio with more effort put into my wine selection than costume. Armed with plenty of snacks, wine and a few cans of silly string I was properly dressed: no festival-wear required. When the spirit hit, a friend's borrowed mask was perfect for a few pictures. Colored wigs and floppy pointed jester hats tinkling with jingle bells can be bought on whim for 5 Euro from the equally-priced vendors lining the parade route should you change your mind. (They made perfect presents for my children back at home with my husband.)

But by all means, if you're dying to re-use your Smurfette costume from last Halloween, you will easily find a gaggle of blue-skinned friends to join. The locals get into it. Families dress in themes like parts of an Italian "trattoria" (restaurant). There goes two teenagers (barely) clothed as babies. Minutes later, an over-sized penis walks erect, his fabric scrotum bobbing at his ankles.  

Did I mention this parade is mildy R-rated and highly political?

I've never seen so many spoofs on the former Italian Prime Minister's bunga-bunga reputation.  One float features the sinking ship of Europe (that at first glance could be mistaken as Captain Francesco Schettino of the shipwrecked Costa Concordia). The current world leaders are precariously balanced onboard while the shirt-less Berlusconi plays with a posse of well-endowed mermaids. 

This could be described as thinking-person's parade, a crude yet gorgeous editorial testament to the cynical political currents running through the Italian people. From the judge of the enthusiasm, the Italians are fed up, but not afraid to have fun. 

Escapism is alive. It's easy to walk away from excessive inspection and be instead swept up in the flowing fun, Nutella crepes, shared laughter and spectacular display of multi-story floats that boom music and swing with moving parts (many hand-pulled with elaborate pulleys and cranks, the young men sweating with their great effort).  

I'm not sure Obama knew he'd be featured at this parade, dressed like a Catholic priest of all people, but he would be intrigued by the artistic rendering of himself and his fellow world leaders. Viareggio's carnival parade is second to no one when it comes to bold political statements, remarkable floats, and great carnivale fun. 

(Vintage wood block calendar I picked up at the local flea market in Bagnoli, Italy)

(If you don't count those frozen trays with eight looks-like-but-doesn't-taste-like spicy shrimp imitations I'm embarrassed to admit buying. But I do, and my children beg to add the faux lacquer trays to their play food.)

I have never totally rid myself of the urge for rolled food despite a miserable 24-hour bad sushi aftermath outside Atlanta Georgia some 14 years ago. Roll on, I must. I wrote about some of this before and my one-time Napoli sushi experience at Tokyo here.

But it was time to expand Naple's sushi repertoire. At the invitation of friends for a night out, we did exactly that a few weeks ago. 

Air and sea, that is the combo found in the Japanese word Kukai. The restaurant is also an unusual blend. Not too far from the rocky sea walls of the Bay of Naples, high up and tucked into the cramped Spanish Quarter where little air is found, there is a surprise of a gem: Kukai, a Japanese restaurant (in Italian: Giapponese ("Jee-ap-OH-nay-say"). 

Naples gets left at the door.

Worn stone steps lead into a sleek narrow room showcasing a glass kitchen, like the bull's-eye in a sushi roll. Fast hands and Asian faces work wonders with Mediterranean seafood; they have nothing to hide in this terrarium of a workroom. Shadows bump glowing lights, warm and cold tones dance across faces. A reflective metal sheet hangs from the ceiling like free-form art. Not one clove of garlic hangs from the roof. The early evening clientele is roly-poly and squat like well-fed Neapolitans: adventurous locals? Late night seems to beckon a cultured clash of lean urbanites that are as streamlined as the decor. What a dichotomy. 

Hip and fresh, the food follows the atmosphere's suit. Crispy fried tempera is artfully displayed on rectangular pale platters. I'm reminded that the grease-less veggies are the Italian favorites of the area: eggplant and zucchini. Ramen noodles swim in oversized bowls big enough for your face. I couldn't keep my chopsticks off my husband's Sake (salmon) sashimi. The Italian-Japanese fusion continued with a nicely matched local Campanian white wine, Feudi di San Gregorio's Cutizzi. Crisp like a cold ripe pear, the acidity of this white mated nicely with the clean Japanese flavors.    

Was it just absence feeding the fondness of this meal? (Or the good company and stimulating conversation?) 

I don't think so. I am now convinced you can have a memorable sushi/Asian experience at Kukai without jipping your wallet or your palate. 

HOW TO GET THERE:

Website: http://www.kukai.it/?language_request=en_US

Do you know where Piazza Plebiscito and Gran Caffe Gambrinus are located downtown?

From the front doors of Gambrinus with the piazza at your back, walk 3 blocks up Via Toledo. Take a left on via Carlo de Cesare. Kukai Nebu is a short hike up on your right. (Don't wear heals!) 

Google image: via Toledo and via Carlo de Cesare

We like to drive downtown for evenings and park at this garage:

Supergarage Excelsior 2000 S.R.L.

Via Nazario Sauro, 22, 80132 Napoli, Italy +39 081 764 4404 ‎

It reminds me of my children's Italian preschool days. Peanut and Buddy never played outside in the winter months, their Italian teachers either refusing to spend the time outside themselves or believing it was not "healthy" for the children. It was probably both. 

A midday visit to school found the teachers swaddled in puffy jackets hovering around space heaters. Soft scarves were a hit as a teacher-Christmas gift one year.     

But there was difference between the Italians and 'foreigners.'

Buddy's American classmate Piper had an internal heating system. The toe-head girl rarely wore jackets - or scarves, winter boots, and ear-covering wool hats looking ready for the ski-slopes like the Italian children. This deeply troubled her Italian teachers. They'd ask her mother "Where's her jacket!?" while my friend confidently responded with a sly smile, "She's fine." And she was. My children would be only half as bundled as the Italian children, but compared to our bare-armed American friend, they escaped critique. All the concern was concentrated on little Piper and the shorts she smartly wore with cute tights.  

We commit wintry sins in other ways with our American habits. My landlord scolds me incessantly if - gosh forbidden - he catches my daughter with wet hair. Or no socks. It's why she suffers from asthma and body-convulsing coughs, he declares. 

I confess, I have adapated. I only rarely let the kids out of the bathroom without a little blow-drying. (Last night I almost cringed sending them to bed with wet heads, but it was too late and I was too tired.) Each year we buy a new pair of house slippers that I hound the children over incessantly. "Go get your slippers!" Where are your slippers?" "Why don't you have your slippers on?!?"

We inevitably show up at the 7am bus stop looking ready for a winter storm compared to our newly arrived American neighbors. I think she just made it out of her flip-flops a few weeks ago! (Ha! love ya' neighbor Lori!)   

I wear scarves indoors. I type with wool gloves missing their fingertips. This morning I duct-taped the soles of my favorite pair of fluffy house boots. My cold toes can't live without them. Our collection of jackets, scarves, boots and gloves has grown exponentially, one for each weather condition (rain/cold, rain only, freezing cold, light breeze). They have taken over the flight of stairs to my basement lining the wall like family photos.    

The fact is: there is no escaping the cold here. Humidity is higher in the winter than summer. The chilling air feels wet. Houses lack insulation and the dampness envelops you. Floors of tile are as cold as ice. There is no fluffy wall-to-wall carpet to greet your morning feet. Often my house is colder inside than out. Fires aren't just for effect. Oil and electricity is expensive. Heat is only run when at home and only in the rooms that are occupied. People here simply cannot afford American habits of short sleeves indoors, cranked-up heat and bare feet, whether they believe the cold air causes ailments or not.

My neck never aches -- maybe I have not been here long enough to take on Italian ailments, only a few of their habits. You should see my collection of scarves!

3 December 2011 Last updated at 12:04 GMT

How to avoid getting 'hit by air' in Italy

By Dany MitzmanBologna, Italy

Many Italians, it seems, are prone to a particularly wide range of winter illnesses, helped apparently by an in-depth knowledge of human anatomy.

More than a decade living in this country has led me to a shocking conclusion. Being Italian is bad for your health.

As winter draws in, those around me are suffering from a range of distinctly Italian ailments, that make our limited British colds and flus sound as bland as our food.

As I cycle around the medieval streets of my adoptive home town of Bologna, I smile to myself, marvelling at the fact that I am still wearing a light-weight jacket at this time of year.

No translation

My Italian counterparts are less fortunate.

They have their woolly scarves and quilted coats out and are rubbing their necks, complaining of my favourite mystery Italian malady "la cervicale".

"Soffro di cervicale (I suffer from cervicale)," they tell me, making it sound particularly serious.

Most people over the age of 30 seem to have the condition, but I am still at a loss as to what exactly it is and how to translate it.

I have looked it up in the dictionary and found "cervical" - an adjective referring to the cervical vertebrae, those little bones in the back of your neck - but as an ailment, there is simply no English translation. We do not have it!

The British also do not seem to have the sort of exceptional knowledge of their own anatomy which Italians have.

Benefits of ignorance

Soon after I moved here, I remember a friend telling me he was not feeling very well. "My liver hurts," he said.

I have since been assured by doctors that you cannot actually feel your liver, but what really struck me was the fact that he knew where his liver was.

We British, in contrast, are a nation staggeringly ignorant of our anatomy.

Italians can also tell you if the pain is in their stomach or intestine - and can even specify whether it is colic or colitis - but to us it is all just "tummy ache".

Yet although I should feel embarrassed about my inability to point out the exact location of my gall bladder, I am not.

Why? Because I think it makes me healthier.

After years of first-hand experience of the delicate Italian constitution, I have come up with a theory about why we British are so much sturdier. If you cannot name it, you cannot suffer from it. If you do not know where it is, it cannot hurt you.

Among my Italian friends I am considered something of an immuno-superhuman.

I can leave the gym sweaty to have my shower at home and not catch a chill en route. I can swim after eating and not get congestion or cramp. I can walk around with wet hair and not get "la cervicale".

I even brag about it. At restaurants I will say: "Let me sit in the draught. I'll be fine. I'm English."

'Mustn't grumble'

I ran my theory past a Sicilian psychoanalyst and he said I had a point.

For example, the British do not have a term for a "colpo d'aria". It literally translates as a "hit of air" and seems to be incredibly dangerous for Italians.

They can get one in their eye, their ear, their head or any part of their abdomen.

To avoid getting a colpo d'aria, until at least April, they must never go out without wearing a woollen vest, known as a "maglia della salute" (a shirt of health).

British mums hold their kids' jackets so they will not get hot and sweaty while they run around and play. In contrast, the parks here in Italy are filled with pint-sized, quilted Michelin men, zipped up to their noses to stop the air getting in and hitting them.

Italians are brought up to be afraid of these health risks, while our ignorance of their very existence makes us strong and fearless.

It is a question of etiquette too.

We are a nation that "mustn't grumble", trained from an early age that the only answer to "How are you?" is "Fine, thank you."

Our vocabulary reflects this. Whether we have had a cold or spent six weeks in intensive care, we will tell you we have been "a bit poorly".

'Change of season'

But last week I experienced a moment of panic. I woke up feeling weak and nauseous.

What if that cultural difference was actually contagious?

What if years in the country had changed my constitution and I too was suffering from another common Italian health hazard, "the change of season"?

I tried to convince myself that lack of sleep was to blame, but I was not certain.

Later that day, I bumped into a neighbour and confessed that I was feeling "a bit poorly".

"Ooh," she said, looking concerned. "I went to the doctor yesterday and he told me there's a 48-hour stomach flu going around."

Then her face brightened up. "But don't worry, you're English so it'll only last 24 hours for you!"

And suddenly - superhuman status restored - I felt a whole lot better.

An unexpected flood of emotions rolled over me today while cleaning up the kitchen sink. I had just rinsed, salted, rubbed and bagged the turkey. Covered in a speckled brine, it was now ready for an overnight rest. A little day at the spa for the 16-pounder? Poor once-a-thing. Last rites? I guess so. Tomorrow its roasted verdict will be sealed. 

In my mind popped my grandmother "Grantsie." Fresh baked pies lining her long kitchen counter, her famous chocolate meringue always a choice, white-topped and fluffy, slightly browned and sometimes weeping. Pecan pie would be there too, glazed chunky whole nut pieces, never chopped. And those mashed potatoes with gravy! I got fat on those one summer. Strange to remember Grantsie first since I don't recall ever sharing a Thanksgiving with her and my Gramps at their home. The 2-day car trip to their Indiana country house was too long for the short November break. I have fond food memories there, nonetheless, and today her quiet spirit and country cooking visited my Italian kitchen. 

I naturally then remembered Mommo, a kindred spirit of mine. She was the last of the grandparents I shared a Thanksgiving with. Her soft wobbly cheeks and smiling eyes greeted us with talcum powder hugs. Mommo always left her lipstick mark on our faces, which we self-consciously wiped away with the backs of our hands when she wasn't looking. Mommo oozed love. Everyone loved her, and her bangley plastic bracelets, always color-coordinated to her outfits. We undoubtedly spent every Thanksgiving with them, sometimes at their house, sometimes at ours, I seem to recall, but I have no idea what she cooked for the meal. (I am sure my mom could tell me.) One fact was certain: my grandfather "Poppy" would have a Scotch on the rocks in hand within minutes of arriving. As the day lulled by his drinks grew weaker with a splash of water. 

Mommo, Grantsie... my own mom. When did I become the mom setting the Thanksgiving table 5 days in advance and prepping whole turkeys? How did I end up living in Italy at 39 with 2 children and a Navy husband? 

I hung my purple washing gloves, wiped my hands across my pink-flowered apron, listened to the drone of MSNBC streaming from the States, and thought of Peanut's Brownie meeting today, and Buddy's new-found love of Nerf Guns.

There is no escaping that I'm a full-fledged adult, a parent, a wife, a mom.

I hope this doesn't sound like I wish it was wasn't so. I'm not looking for an escape. But sometimes I have these surprising moments where the reality of my life converges into this single, emotionally-charged and concentrated thought: I'm a grown-up. Not a kid anymore. Friend-filled Thanksgivings happen only if I will them to. Traditions have been mine for the creating. A food-filled day is mine for the making. Memories are shaped by my actions.

Next year there will not be the landlord's long Italian table in our basement surrounded by a collection of friends abroad. (For sure! Though we said this last year!) We won't be in the minority for having the day off. Our Butterball self-basting turkey will not have crossed the Atlantic to reach our military grocery store, a reverse pilgrimage. My sturdy rosemary bush and potted sage plant won't provide fresh herbs for me in California. I guess I'll have to plant new ones.

This Thanksgiving is borrowed time abroad. I thought we would be gone but we are not. Instead, we have one more year to add to the previous three, a chance to fully formalized our Italian traditions. A chance to once again impart on our memory bank the love of this country, our time overseas, and our "family" abroad - wonderful friends we are so thankful to be with tomorrow.

Will Buddy and Peanut remember mom's tribute to Italy pancetta-sage turkey? or famous mac-n-(Italian)cheese? Will they remember the ritual visit of our landlord wishing us Americani well each Thanksgiving? Will they reach back in their minds and decipher what friends were at what Italian Thanksgiving? Was Braden there in 2008 or 9? 

I hope they mine their memories in a need to remember. 

But if not, I know that come tomorrow, no matter what is remembered one day in their growing minds, we will once again share a labor of love -- a giant Thanksgiving feast - with dear friends that have enriched our lives abroad in ways that are beyond words. We'll toast Italy, each other, love and the blessed peace of our lives. I feel so grateful, so fortunate.  I hope this is the same for you! 

Happy Thanksgiving! 

(This is the best Turkey recipe- TIP: Cook it upside down (breast down) for 2 hours, then flip. Keeps it extra juicy.)

Sorrento has evolved into a tradition for my family during the holiday season. Each year as we slink southernly along the Amalfi Coast my children will, once again, beg for a ride on the holiday train that embarks from Piazzo Tasso. I'm sure we will indulge them. Here, our Italian Christmas traditions do not include sitting on Santa's lap at the local mall; instead, we ride sparkly white trains through historic streets. Disposable plastic buds shoved in our freezing ears, we listen to the classic 1898 "O Sole Mio" Neopolitan song, and like the singer, we croon for a little bit of "my sun" on these chilly days.

Sorrento is simple. The central historic area is like a stage above the sea, a cliff-hugging playhouse sure to put on a pleasing show. Visitors either come from the Amalfi roads above and to the sides, or by boat below, the marina at sea-level. Either way, everyone meets in the middle. The Piazzo Tasso is a natural starting point. Orient yourself. In the wings you will find just as much of a performance as the main stage, so venture off the into the many bustling alleys that lead-off from Piazza Tasso.  

Remember, Sorrento is about strolling, sipping warm coffees at the tiny cafe tables, and shopping. Leave the guidebooks and tourist check-lists at home. Walk the many car-free streets, pick-up a bottle of the famous limoncello, maybe a new scarf or leather gloves, and sample the signature candy-coated almonds locals love (and serve at every wedding). There is a great candy store on the main pedestrian shopping alley on the corner, the pretty colored "Confetti" sign with a dancing folksy man and woman, will be easy to spot. It is an open store with bright lights and a smiley robust man behind the counter. Ask for a sample of his candies and he'll give you one while singing.

The city can easily be enjoyed in one day. Have a meal, but beware: finding good food in Sorrento is hit-and-miss. So-so meals are more the norm in Sorrento's restaurants where year-round tourism breeds mediocrity.  Ristorante L'Antica Trattoria on Via P.R.Giuliani, 33 is located in the main area and has repeatedly pleased visitors. (A friend just told me last week she had a fabulous meal here. Thanks N!).  The restaurant's abundant flowers and gorgeous ceramic planters always attract my camera's lens and though I have never eaten here myself, I have many photos of the restaurant's entrance. 

Just yesterday a reader wrote me stating that she and her husband were swinging through Sorrento on a cruise next week. (Hi Linda!) She sweetly offered to bring my anything I might be missing from the States. I'm often amazed at the kindness of strangers. In replying to her email I mentally revisited Sorrento.  It reminded me of the swing in feelings I've experience there. 

My affection for Sorrento has swelled and shrunk through the years. I am no longer a tourist undergoing a flash experience with the town, speedily shuffling in and out looking to categorize the city - good or bad - comparing her to a Rolladex of previously visited places. Instead, my relationship with Sorrento is fluid, genuine, malleable, and never a fairy tale. Each time I return, I approach her like an acquaintance I haven't seen in awhile, smiling with open arms, ready to catch-up, and glad to have yet another chance encounter together.

=============== 

Read more from previous reflections:

Sorrento's Travel Lessons

Sorrento's Siren

Sorrento Revisted

Sorrento at Christmas

Dreamy Italian Skies - Part II - Sorrento

Don't you hate when favorite web sites have cumbersome hard-to-remember names?

How many times have you been mid-conversation with a friend, unable to remember exactly the address to your favorite website, your hands up in the air motioning at that lost place in your brain where it's hidings?

"Just Google it!" you surrender.

Now you can stop trying to remember that funny square and space that follows Living In The Boot. The ".com" domain finally became available, and now you can simply go to: www.LivingInTheBoot.com

Easier to share! Easier to type! Hope this helps. 

Back into Cantina di Solopaca and fill 'er up! Damigiana bottles that is, not your car's gas tank. A country drive a few weeks ago with some girlfriends showed me what everyone in the American community has been buzzing about recently. In this concentrated world of ex-pats, waves of new must-see-things splash across the community. Eventually, we move-on to something else only to spead yet another wave of monkey-see, monkey-do.

But in the meantime, it's all about Solopaca. Not to be confused with the DOC designated wines that come from that area, I am instead refering to the co-opt of farmers around the town of Solopaca who collectively produce Campanian wines of all varieties. White falanghina, coda di volpe; red aglianico, barbera -- all ready for the pumping. Ancient grapes, modern technology.  

Have you ever been through a drive-through liquor store? My upper high-school years were infrequently spiced with a few daring drives through the "brew mart" on Cortez Road in our beach town. Someone always had a fake ID, and another was willing to do the driving. A bottle of Mad Dog 20-20 or a case of Mich Light was our mission. I guess we figured we could make a literal mad-dash if things didn't go our way, or ask for a 6-pack of coca-cola if we chickened out. The car was our security on wheels.

In Italy, drive-up wineries are relatively common. Let me bust a common myth now: the average Italian drinks cheap wine, most likely from vines grown in his own backyard - what we euphemistically call "landlord wine" - not the over-priced (but often worthy) "Super Tuscans" that rich wine collectors foam at the mouth for.

Here's a perfect example: in the less than 1 hour we were at Cantina di Solopaca buying and tasting wines and filling up new damigiana bottles, a handfull of locals arrived on this lazy Friday morning with large plastic jugs like the kind filled with Gatorade at your child's Saturday soccer match. Nothing fancy here. The jugs match the wine: simple, everyday "table" wine - vino di tavola. No pretense. Just an earnest pride for the grapes of their locality - they wouldn't drink it any other way.

  Cantina di Solopaca is in fact a conglomerate of local farmers who decided back in the 1960s to "work for the purpose of increasing and protecting the heritage of the area's wine "Solopaca" and progress(ing) economic and (the) social importance of agriculture." Co-opting helped stabilize grape prices, and eventually every farmer was convinced of joining. The grapes come in and "after careful selection are vinified by traditional ancient (methods and) refined by modern winemaking techniques." Today they harvest over 3,200 acres of vineyards for almost 4 million gallons of wine. That's a lot of jugs to fill. (Or bottles. They sell traditional bottled Campanian wines of all types.)   

We filled up the car -- with wine -- the "boot" (trunk for Aussies) full of small damigianas, wooden wine boxes and a few sparkling falanghina's we tasted and enjoyed that morning. The day was gorgeous, a crisp hint of fall whistling through the mottled autumnal leaves lining the winding rural roads of our journey. Mountains cupped our car as we raced from our children's school "literary parade" that morning to this quick outing - and then back for school bus drop-offs that afternoon. A road-side stop for sandwiches with the locals was the perfect answer to our rumbling bellies. These kinds of days remind me of the memorable adventures always available while living abroad, and how much return comes from being fueled, open and ready for a top-off of fun. 

The road winding around the corner and parallel to the highway was flooded. All of Italy was struck by continuous and violent thunderstorms Saturday through Sunday. Roads became raging rivers, people's basements and garages flooded, there was loss of life, and even the much-anticipated Napoli v. Juventus football (soccer) game was cancelled! When Italians cancel soccer games, you know the weather is bad. 

Today the water-logged debris is scattered about the streets, clogged on corners and curbs. Mini-mud slides have turned the roads into filthy dirt pits.

A big puddle and some front end-crashing potholes didn't dissuade me today. The usual parking lot "guard" was there, a squat smiley man whom I swear is the identical twin of Italian actor Chazz Palminteri. (Think good cop in The Usual Suspects and "Shorty" in season 3 of Modern Family.)

In southern Italy, there is a always an "attendant" that "watches" over your vehicle when you visit an establishment. Custom has it that you throw him a few coins on your way back to your car - though nervous newbies in Naples often tip them beforehand. I'm not sure it really makes a difference.

I haven't stopped by the mercatino in months - free time has been at a premium lately. They must have had a recent cleaning spree, items were nicely grouped and it felt less cluttered, which is hard to do for a place that has everything. 

One item immediately caught my eye: an old wooden rolling pin for 4 euro. I have been collecting them over the last few years here in Europe and have now amassed a *tiny* collection that I adore. I only actually use the one I bought (kinda creepy not knowing the origins of the others), but I delight in thinking about the old nonne (old grandmothers) that might have spent countless Sunday mornings rolling out dough for fresh pasta or crust for a torta (pie). The shapes of the rolling pins - some long and skinny others squatty like the mercatino guard - visually please me stacked in the corner of my baker's rack. 

The next 'find' was a cheery blue vintage kitchen scale by the Italian manufacturer Brandani. It is slightly off by one hair of a milligram, but it still works. The edges are touched by a bit of rust, but I love it. I am a sucker for kitchen items, especially unique to Europe and Italy. I snagged the scale for about 10 bucks. 

It ended up being a good mercatino day: easy on the wallet but heavy on the fun scale. Ahem, no pun intended!