The farm was beautiful. Fields of pears and grapes and olives and kiwis and hazelnuts and cypress trees and Roman pines and fresh dew in the grass every morning and a universe of stars in the sky at night. And burly herding dogs with luscious coats of thick white fur that adopted me into their pack and took me on a private tour, leading me all the way up to the northernmost point so we could lull in the grass, them chewing tall blades and me, body gold in the sun. And a lazy morning doing laundry in the sink and hanging it on the line to dry, wearing a lil tank top and jean skirt and no shoes, thinking I could live this life. Italy, this is me. It’s so slow and unhurried and about beauty and love and sex and food and pleasure and poetry and to hear Dante in Italian, I am thinking I will learn the language for my next trip ..
It was cold and wet in the mornings then bright shiny sun and blue skies and bees buzzing and birds chirping and the sounds of pen against paper because there were no computers. Just (wo)man as nature designed.