EVERYTHING HAS ITS TIME

I curse that extra cup of cappuccino. And the delicious crispy pastry. I evoke the horrors of menopause - the sweating from hell with sugar, alcohol, flour... But order and order.
These belong to the visit to my coffee man in the morning. Here I sit and write, work, think and read.
A few hours before the sun pushes its way between the houses. A cappuccino and a pastry, a bottle of water and a big smile.
A short conversation in Italian where I learn more words. My own ambition is to learn ten words a day and one expression.
I recently had to learn coppolo - when the coffee guy asked if I needed electricity for my computer. He's so weird. And he seems extra happy.
I guess he has sold his movement that he has been trying for over half a year. I have had thoughts about it myself.
But it is too early. There are certainly dreams of baking Swedish licorice biscuits for the Italians. Everything has its time.

Right next to me, on our little thoroughfare outside the coffee shop, came a small group of maybe ten people.
The coffee man quickly set up a small table with champagne glasses and soft drinks. The bride and groom who appeared out of nowhere were simply dressed in summer clothes and the bridal bouquet consisted of hand-picked meadow flowers.
These consisted mostly of dried grasses, not much blooming at the moment.
But so nice. Everyday life on an ordinary Wednesday in my small village is so loving if you just open your eyes and let reality in.

Every morning I take the opportunity to work a few hours early before the heat takes over. After that, I take a morning walk around the village, criss-crossing.
Says gomorron to those who recognize me.
Then I have breakfast (dolche – sweet pastries… and coffee and, to the surprise of the Italians, 1 liter of water). And then I go out into the village and sit in the shade and continue working.

I follow the sun and its shadow. Different places at different times.
In the middle of the day I can't even be out. Right now it's 35-37 degrees in the shade.
I train mentally to cope with the heat but sometimes I fall through.
Then I retreat indoors and hug the air conditioner.

The funny thing when I go for my walks many times a day and evening is that nowadays most of the villagers say gomorron, goodnight, goodnight to me.
Then I hear the conversations between the aunties fall silent as I walk by and then they start to chatter and chatter… gossiping… probably about me and my regular visits.
They know more about me than I know myself. And I smile happily to myself and think that's exactly how it is. What happens in the small village must be gossiped about.
What else to do??

On the way back this morning, the grumpiest old neighbor ran after me down the hill. He shouted seniors, seniors, eighteen! I stopped and smiled, waiting him in, curious as to what was on his mind.
He said in mixed Italian/English, we were looking for you last night. We had Ferragusto dinner outside here and wanted to invite you, but we didn't know exactly where you lived. Ohh, I said. Thank you so much, so incredibly kind.
I told them that I am looking for a house in the village and that I work from here every two weeks. Oh I know I know, he waved his hand.
You will be invited next time!

When I had thanked him, tears rose in my eyes, could you be happier?
Can you get a bigger welcome? I haven't even moved here yet.
Nevertheless, I am already part of everyday life here.
Here I am happy to the core.

Thank you for sharing my happiness italiano.
Amore m.