While visiting family in Sicily about 17 years ago, I had the most perfect pear. Ripe. Sweet. Juicy. Not too soft, not too firm.
Sicilian pears must be bred for taste, not trucking. Ah, great metaphor for what’s gone wrong here in the States. Tasteless, tough pears.
I remember that trip well. The High-Tech Exec spoke no Italian but enthusiastically lost his money to two of my great uncles in a long poker game. They had a lot of fun smoking cigars and communicating with gestures and grunts. Later, one of the teenage kids stole the High Tech Exec’s fabulous fur-lined, leather gloves, replacing them with a crappy wool pair.
It was December. Back in Rome, we went to Midnight Mass at the Vatican and walked 3 miles home in the freezing cold at 2am because all the cabs had gone home for Christmas and public transport had shut down, too. I was…cold. Actually that would be an understatement. It was BITING cold outside. We were staying in a snooty Swiss-owned hotel. Someone’s cigar smoke wafted through the vents of our room every day.
Winter is not my favorite season in Rome. Fall and spring are much better.
I’m looking forward to some fresh, well-bred fruit this fall in Piemonte. Lots of laughter. Some wine. Visiting vineyards. Maybe a massage. Lounging in the suite. Coffee on the terrace. Working in the pottery studio. Sitting in the kitchen talking with Diana. And having more fun than a barrel of monkeys. A basilian times more fun.
It’s Friday. Wow, time flies.
I must admit to just a few hours of sleep and we have a photo shoot this morning for our website. The camera will pick up every sleep-deprived hour. I hope it also picks up my happiness.