I dream of Italy

In these dark depressing days: I dream of Italy.

 Of Amalfi Lemons as big as my head, of warm lazy evenings cycling through Olive Groves. I dream of perfect pizzas, and the queues of Neopolitan mobsters down the promenade to get them. I dream of tanned, green eyed men on mopeds; of the daily quest for Tiramisu; of stunning architecture; and homemade limoncello. I dream of gelato in piazzas, of pebbled beaches and beautiful harbours. The smell of enormous bunches of basil, of €2.50 prosecco and fresh mozzarella. I dream of the heat of the sun, of the buildings, of the sand. Of wonderful old women who speak no English but can say everything they need to with hands, and food and a look. I dream of carefree days, of suntanned skin and of ancient history. I dream of fountains, and wine and a feeling of peace. I dream of paninis, of bright blue skies and undertones of religion. Of feral cats, of twisted sheets; of mounds of pasta and of the pull of the ocean. I dream of Italy.










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