I'm having one of those days where I'm just like, I need to move to Italy right now! I mean, Italians don't have problems, right? They just enjoy life and hang out whilst being chic as hell (proof here, here, here and here) and eating the most delicious food on earth, right? Right!
Maybe it's just the time of year, or perhaps I'm having postpartum-reading depression after finishing Under The Tuscan Sun, but I cannot stop nostalgically thinking of Italy. I want to eat fresh figs and look out from the terrace over acres and acres of Tuscan vineyards. I want to work with my hands and spend my vacations on the rocky beaches of Cinque Terre. I want to hear the quiet as it spreads through the valley, disturbed only by an occasional dog bark or motorbike, and I want to wake up to the sun.
One day, I will move to Italy. I will learn to talk with my hands and master the art of making fresh pasta. David will wander around the garden and I will write in my study with a window overlooking the valley, long-lost secrets buried beneath the soil. Family and friends will always be visiting and we won't be shy about putting them to work; together we'll harvest olives which we'll have pressed into beautiful oils, we'll weed the gardens, the bounty of which will fill our stomachs, and tend to the trees in the orchard. We'll barter at the markets and drink wine at night under the stars. That is what I want right now for one day.
(Photos of badass old guys taken in Cinque Terre in September, 2011.)
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