Veroli, a medieval mountain village has a festival every year with buskers and acrobats and artisans that come from near and far. This band held my attention with its' captivatingly eerie sound from another era. The perfume of grilling sausages and porchetta filled sandwiches wafts heavily in the air and the kids are entertained by stilt walkers while I take in all that is. And know that this too shall pass, another summer ends. Another school year begins.
Summer is nearing its' end, the rains in Collingswood have turned my beautiful sun dried tomatoes into a terrible fly ridden science experiment. The words" we're not in Sicily anymore Dorothy" ring in my ears.
Back home I never realized how loud the secadas were, I feel like I've moved to the tropics.
My body still on Italian time wakes when the day is crisp and dewy and the sun just peeks out from the horizon, I've never been an early riser but always wished I was to appreciate this most beautiful part of each day. I don't mind at all that my body clock is still altered.
|Pensive mother and daughter|