First experiences

Sleeping in a dimple on the mountain so that every walk is eventually uphill. Wood fed to a pizzeria, smoked crust mixing with Yesmoke cigarettes. Wine from grappa that makes you flinch like vodka to vino di la casa like fizzing sugar. Sprouts of grass in the shingles, natural window boxes and there are plenty of those with poppies and zucchini. Unmortered roman gates that millions of us peasants have passed through for thousands of years. Truffles like kneeling down and licking the mountain on the best day of your life. Espresso machines hiss like the salt in prosciutto. Which will always have a special place in my heart. Clouds rise off the mountains and caress the grotos that birthed early Christianity and form the rain which flows, like in a vain, through the aquiduct. The same aquiduct which two thousand years later makes my sink spit at me like I'm a better target than the sink. Warm salami and chilled, but never iced, juice that throbes your fillings from the sugar. And here that means sugar not the chemicals we know but the Italians will never understand. Pasta to the teeth and coffee corrected with memories of licorice jelly bellies that are really the fire of sambuca making your head swim and heart pound.