“I could get used to this!” Armistice Rabbit exclaimed, leaning back from the table. He’d just polished off a bowl of pumpkin soup with rice and Parmesan cheese, roasted chicken and veggies, a salad, two slices of Parma ham, several pieces of melt-in-your-mouth Italian bread, and a clementine—which was really just an ordinary meal, here. Armistice and The-Big-Girl-With-The-Little-Girl’s-Heart were on vacation, staying in the countryside on the outskirts of Parma, Italy. The girl had friends there who had welcomed the travelers with open arms—and made sure that even Armistice was never hungry!
“So, what are our plans for the rest of the day?” the little rabbit inquired, resting his paws on his bulging stomach.
“Well,” the girl said, with an apologetic grin, “I’d like to play with the baby a little. His mom should be dropping him off any time now; she’s working this afternoon.”
“And—that’s my cue! If you’re looking for me, I’ll be taking a nice, quiet, child-free stroll through the gardens.” Armistice hopped down from his chair and headed for the door. He paused for a second to glance at the girl and shake his head, unable to comprehend her adoration of the small, wet, noisy human who would soon be arriving.
“I’ll be out later,” the girl called after him, “if Baby goes for a nap.”
Outside, the sky was bright and blue, with scarce a cloud. A tiny bit of haze hung around the horizon, but not enough to obscure the Alps rising in the distance. The fertile Po Valley was a major agricultural region. All around, the land was flat: farm fields with clusters of houses dotted here and there; the stark white edifice of the Parma Ham factory a sole, out-of-place touch of the industrial. The house in which Armistice and the girl were staying had once, long ago, been a monastery. Now it was home to multiple families, a few cats, a handful of chickens, and a lovely garden full of fruit trees, vegetables, and flowers. Armistice wandered along happily among the plants.
It wasn’t long before the baby drifted off to sleep, and The-Big-Girl-With-The-Little-Girl’s-Heart came down to join Armistice in the garden—but there was no little rabbit to be found! She looked among the lettuce, under the fruit trees, and even in the chicken coop before giving up and hollering.
“Ok, Armistice—where are you?”
In response, a nearby grapevine burst into a particularly dramatic strain of “O Sole Mio“. Peeking between the branches, the girl found Armistice closely inspecting a cluster of bright green grapes.
“Nope. Not quite ready yet.”
“There you are!” exclaimed the girl. “Enjoying yourself?”
“Of course. These gardens are marvelous. Look over here”—and with a couple of quick hops, Armistice transferred from the grapevine to a small tree. He pointed to the fruit—brown, fuzzy, and no longer than the girl’s pinky finger. “A kiwi tree!”
“I honestly didn’t even know kiwis grew on trees. . . . I never really thought about it, I guess,” the girl said, reaching up to stroke one of the soft brown shells. “Look how tiny they still are!”
“Very cute,” observed Armistice. “My kind of babies, these. Although, to be honest, I still prefer them grown up.”
The girl laughed. “Come on, you silly rabbit. Let’s go for a walk.”
Armistice obliged, and the pair followed the tractor path through the field. The harvest had been taken in, leaving row upon row of churned-up soil, with a tenacious weed here and there. Stray tomatoes scattered about added a bit of color and aesthetic intrigue, like autumn’s version the springtime poppies.
At the edge of the field was a small country road. Armistice and the girl hopped the ditch to follow it, winding along beside a gurgling stream. As they turned a corner, Armistice gave a little gasp.
“Oh, look!”
The girl just smiled. She’d come this way on purpose—this street was one of her very favorites. Here, tucked in the middle of farmland, was a tiny cluster of very, very, old houses. The girl wasn’t sure how old, exactly, but she figured at least a few centuries. They were tiny, irregular; stone construction with brick accents. Her favorite still had a few patches of bright red-orange stucco, unevenly faded, clinging to the stone surface—even more beautiful, the girl couldn’t help thinking, than it would have been when it was new. The window boxes and porches teemed with a variety of plants and flowers—roses, petunias, geraniums, along with others the girl could not name. She had never dreamed, before coming here, that such places still existed. To be honest, she could still scarcely believe her eyes.
Beyond the stretch of houses, the street opened out onto a tree-lined lane. At its end was a larger, more heavily trafficked road, so the girl and Armistice turned their steps homeward, making their way back to the fields and the garden. Before they went inside, Armistice carefully selected a few sprigs of mint from a pot.
“Green tea with mint would be a perfect afternoon treat,” he observed, and the girl had to agree.
The next day, after lunch, The-Big-Girl-With-The-Little-Girl’s-Heart turned to a very full and rather sleepy Armistice. “I hope you didn’t eat too much. It’s a beautiful day again today, but it’s supposed to rain tomorrow. I think we should go to the city this afternoon—and I thought maybe we’d introduce you to gelato, if you want.”
“If I want? Are you kidding? Let’s go!”
The girl laughed and followed the little rabbit out the door.
In the garage, the girl found a red bike—a Garlatti bike, made in Parma three or four decades earlier. Armistice had a nice little seat just above the front wheel, and the girl made him a seatbelt from a piece of twine.
“Andiamo!” she exclaimed, and the two were off.
They rode out past the farm fields, past old cottages and manor houses and newer, modern family homes. They rode through the little town of Porporano, past the little church with its pointed steeple. Further on, a ring-necked pheasant, with his emerald head flashing and his feathers glinting golden in the sunlight, spooked from the bushes and flew across in front of them, disappearing into a field of soybeans.
“Whoah!” Armistice exclaimed. “Who—hey!”
The girl had followed the pheasant with more than just her eyes. She realized that the second before the front tire went off the edge of the road, swerving back just in time. Armistice swiveled in his seat to give her a look.
“Precious cargo here, remember?”
Soon, the buildings began to get taller and more frequent, and the girl turned off of the road and onto the sidewalk, following the marked bike route. Parma was a biking town—it seemed to the girl that there were at least as many bikes as cars, if not more. Everyone biked: schoolkids, mothers hauling two or even three children, businessmen, nuns—even toddlers had “training bikes” in the form of strollers with handles and pedals.
After crossing a few streets, the pair rode alongside a brick wall. Below them was a wilderness within the city—trees, shrubs, and grasses springing up alongside the Parma River. This street was known as the “Lungha Parma” because it followed the course of the river. An occasional bridge, lined with old-fashioned streetlights and flowerboxes, crossed over to the other side. As she pedaled, the girl’s smile grew bigger and bigger, and although she made sure to keep her hands steady this time, her eyes kept drifting to the left. She knew what was coming. And suddenly—there it was! She skidded to a stop so fast that Armistice gave a little grunt.
“Look, Armistice!”
Across the river was a row of houses in an eclectic mix of heights and colors. One was a bright pinkish-orange with green and white striped awnings. Another was goldenrod yellow with thick, rounded brown shutters; another peach, with a veritable forest on the upper balcony. The girl’s eyes danced along the red-shingled rooftops. This was her Parma. She had spent hours studying this view, these houses, on her first trip to the city years before. To see this streetscape was to greet an old friend.
Even Armistice was impressed. “I have to admit, it’s much more colorful than I’m used to. Quite. . . cheerful. And charming.”
They looked for a moment longer before Armistice noted, “You know, all those different colors, one right next to the other. . . they almost remind me of a display of gelato.”
The girl laughed at the rabbit’s not-so-subtle hint. She rode a couple of blocks more before turning right, crossing the street and coasting down a hill and under the heavy brown stone arches of the Palazzo della Pilotta, the former Faranese palace. Now, the massive sixteenth-century structure housed a library and museums, and the grounds were a public park. As the bike began to rattle across the cobblestones, the music of a lone accordion filled the dark arcade. Armistice was silent now, he and the girl both caught up in the magic of the moment.
They left the bike in a rack near the park, next to Parma’s famed Teatro Regio, a gorgeous Neo-Classical concert hall. Armistice hopped up onto the girl’s shoulder. Together they wound through the streets filled with bikers and pedestrians. Traffic was very limited in this area. On one very old street was a little gelateria, the Novecento, which had long been the a favorite of The-Big-Girl-With-The-Little-Girl’s-Heart. The girl ordered a small cup with two flavors. She picked strawberry, and was surprised to hear Armstice choose coconut.
“That wasn’t what I expected you to say,” the girl told the little rabbit as he hopped along beside her, carrying the cup of gelato. “I figured you’d go for one of the super-rich, chocolatey concoctions. . . . Coconut seems a bit, I don’t know, tame.”
Armistice puffed himself up and eyed the girl. “I happened to like coconut, thank you. And in the words of fellow explorer, the young George Bailey—‘Say, brainless, don’t you know where coconuts come from?’ Tame does not seem the correct adjective. “
The girl stared for a moment, taken aback by the breadth of her small companion’s cultural connaissance. Then she laughed and shook her head. “Armistice, you never cease to amaze me.”
“I should hope not.”
But just then, The-Big-Girl-With-The-Little-Girl’s-Heart gasped, thoughts of coconuts and It’s a Wonderful Life and even a certain little rabbit suddenly gone. The pair had arrived at the Piazza del Duomo, the medieval heart of the city. In front of them was the baptistery—an octagonal structure of pink and white marble completed in the thirteenth century, towering over a cobblestone square. Just beyond that, facing the girl and the rabbit, stood the Duomo—Parma’s Romanesque cathedral, which had slightly preceded the baptistery in its construction—a mixture of marbled grey, tan, and pink stones, accented with bricks. And, attached to the Duomo—the clock tower! This was the cause of the girl’s awe—a slender structure soaring up above the surrounding buildings, piercing the blue sky. At its very top, a golden angel, sword held high.
The first time that the girl had come to Parma, the majestic tower had been completely hidden in scaffolding. Shortly before, the angel had been struck by lightning and fallen, and the tower had been badly damaged in the resulting fire. Years of restoration work had been necessary. Now, for the first time, the girl saw the clock tower completely free of construction, standing tall and sure and strong once more. Slowly, she moved closer and closer to it, looking it up and down, from bottom to top, until she was close enough to reach out and touch it. And she did, feeling her fingers tingle with excitement as they gently brushed the rough stone.
Armistice, meanwhile, had stationed himself comfortably on a nearby bench—perfectly content to be abandoned with gelato.
From the Piazza del Duomo, the girl led Armistice to a small park, showing him her favorite haunts from her first stay in the city. Turning to the left, they continued under a long arcade, the arches painted in a variety of colors. At the end, they made another left, arriving in front of a bustling little market—Amici Market, which lived up to its name. The man behind the counter smiled at the girl, greeting her in English. Somehow, he always remembered her, though it had been a year since she’d last seen him. He let Armistice pick out a free treat from the fruit bins, and both the girl and rabbit left smiling.
The two continued to weave through the city streets, the girl pointing out an occasional steeple or intriguing façade. Soon, they found themselves on the Via Garibaldi, a wide roadway lined with shops. Here, the girl’s steps quickened again.
“Either slow down, or pick me up!” Armistice grumbled.
“Sorry,” the girl laughed, stopping to scoop up her little buddy. “It’s just that I’m excited.”
“You don’t say!” The little rabbit shook his head. “Promise me you’ll never play poker.”
But the girl didn’t hear him. At that moment, the two stepped out into a wide, open square—the Piazza Garibaldi. Bistros spilled out of the buildings and into the square; pedestrians gathered around a statue of Garibaldi himself. Bikers zoomed back and forth, along with the occasional car or bus. And presiding above it all was the Palazzo del Governatore, the grand thirteenth-century governor’s mansion, its bell and clock tower as iconic as the Duomo’s. The palace’s cheery yellow color stood out against the blue sky, as if the building radiated with centuries of absorbed sunlight.
From the Piazza Garibaldi, it was only a short walk back to the river. Armistice and the girl crossed over the bridge to the other bank, slipping through a gated entrance and into a shady, tree-lined park. Suddenly, everything seemed to grow still, cool—as if by stepping through that gate, they’d left the city far behind. The Parco Ducale had, as the name implied, been a ducal estate. Once, it had even been inhabited by Maria Luigia, the second wife of Napoleon, who had spent many years in Parma and had been instrumental in turning the city into a center of art and culture. The wide, tree-lined paths were a favorite gathering place for the city’s inhabitants, but even so, the park didn’t seem crowded. Armistice and the girl made their way down the central walkway. At its end was a turquoise-blue pond, filled with a lively assortment of waterfowl. A goose honked loudly from the central island, near the ruins peeking through the trees. A path ringed the pond, and high, neatly-trimmed hedges encircled the path—as if this were an ethereal place, needing shelter from the outside world. Looking up, Armistice spotted a black sign, lettered in red, hanging near the top of the hedge.
“Il Litorale degli Incanti,” he read.
“The Edge of Enchantment,” the girl offered, as translation. And both of them fell silent, watching the sunlight glinting on the surface of the blue-green water.
From the Parco Ducale, the pair walked by the river again before turning back to the Palazzo della Pilotta, where they’d begun their explorations.
But before it was time to head home, the girl wanted to sketch a bit. She stationed herself on the grassy lawn of the Palazzo, in the sunshine. Armistice, meanwhile, decided to fully immerse himself in Parmesan culture.
The girl laughed as she looked up from her notebook to see the little rabbit sprawled on the grass, eyes shut. “You look like a local, Armistice.”
“Siiiiiiiiiii! You should try it. La vita bella, questa.”
So the girl closed her notebook and stretched out alongside the rabbit, watching the golden evening light dance among the leaves of the trees and creep across the palace walls. As the bright rays gave way to a hazy glow, she stretched and nudged her little companion.
“Come on, Armistice. Time to go, I’m afraid. We need to get back before dark.”
Reluctantly, Armistice sat up. “Ok. But this time, I drive!”
The Remarkable Tail of Armistice Rabbit 