Fireworks: The 1812% Solution

4 07 2011

On our way to San Remo today.  The pearl grey car with it’s chamois beige seats and smooth engine is the perfect vehicle of transport.  We go every year just in time for the World Fireworks Championships.  We stay at a seaside hotel with a view room and terrace doors that open to the ocean air.  The beach runs for miles in either direction.  There are always cocktails on the quay and flowers on the bedside table when we return.  Room service never arrives without a biscuit meant for a small dog.  And, yet, the theme of the whole trip is problematic.  Mind you, I love the bursts of color in the sky; the way my long shadow lights up against the fine aubusson carpet.  But the noise takes me back to some genetic canine memory of hunting, firing squads and death.  We’re still hours away from San Remo and the skin between my toes is sweating.

My Contessa understands this, bless her.  This year, a solution:  Small dog, curled up on her multi-colored cashmere sweater (in the driver’s seat, of course), pearl grey car parked in the deep cool of the hotel garage…windows up, stereo on.  Setting my imagination to the 1812 Overture as it matches the bombs bursting in air, I am content to watch the fireworks on the news at eleven.  Chow.

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