Life's sole purpose is indulgence.
My research has proven this true trifold, twice in the form of complex sugars: Once combined with an irresistible compliment of (as my specific research included) pesto and parmesan or Shrimp and tomato Alfredo sauce. The second time in the form of three quarters of such crust, with a combination of freshly melted, fresh local cheeses, basil that still crunched a little at the stem, and naturally, the restaurants specific homestyle tomato sauce.
The third you ask?
Italian Gelatos. Creme? Check. Vanilla? Check. Tiramisou? Check. Hazelnut? Check.
The boot country isn’t just a menu either! Strolling down the main run of Sanremo with a certain beautiful, ballet dancing local, I was blown away by the assortments of roses, and the ocean lined by a black and white marble walkway. There’s a russian equivalent of a church a 10 minute drive from her house, more marble statues, a casino, and about a thousand name brand boutiques.
Only I would go to Italy, and squeal in delight at the prospect of marketplaces. Being me despite everything, I did. More Italian trademarks roamed the streets, from shoes, to sunglasses. I was enthralled by the idea of the originals of things like venetian masks and glassware, gold brocade frames, African bangles, and Vespa satchels. If there were people roaming the straight roads without 200 dollar sunglasses and Louis Vuitton purses, they were flying under the radar.
It was fairly windy on Sunday, but Saturday showed the coastline in it’s glory, my favorite view of it wasn’t on the boardwalk. It was on a balcony, with traditional linens and white wrought iron table set, timeless, and giving me the impression that it in turn was under the impression it would perch under the rose terrace for all time.
How many times in the run of a day do I wish I could capture a moment in time in a bottle, in a word, in a song, anything. More than anything, I wish I could share all this with everyone.
Today was the first day I felt fall in my bones, waking up in a house between Nice and Monaco, staring out over a private port, four houses down from Tina Turner’s old summer home. I walked down to the bus stop, and watched the sun come up from my window.
How people weren’t as all fixated as I, I’m not sure. I don’t think I would ever get used to this place. I can’t imagine not being traumatized to see the leaves of fig trees yellow, and surrender. I couldn’t dream a dream where the sun shines brighter, an ocean who’s blue is more entrancing.
That last line is a lie. I can dream of rivers of Celtic leaves running like wild horses down Smokey.
For all that Italian and French cuisine is to die for, for all the succulent luxuries that are everyday, today wasn’t easy. Today, picturing everyone putting the art of dressing for winter into motion, and then clustering around tables, in the warm light of loved company, the fall rain was a little chilling even on the Mediterranean.
Today, as everyday, I’m wearing my ring from my sweet 16, and the hieroglyphic counterpart from two summers ago and a dear friend. I have starfish in my ears, and my brothers pictures hidden away in my heart locket. I’m not that different. I’m not that far away.
Happy Thanksgiving everyone.
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