We are home at last.
Upon arriving and before opening the door there is a certain trepidation that descends upon the homeowner. Perhaps, since you’ve last visited, a family of man-eating rats has taken up residence in the back room, or worse yet, there are squatters and they’ve used your good olive oil none too sparingly. Perhaps your router is a mere pile of burned rubble.
But, all was well. Yes, small insects are eating the armoire. There are distinct piles of sawdust littering the floor, amazing in their height (for only three month’s gnawing). Some day we shall return finding the marble top lying on a thick bed of sawdust, I’m sure. Our socks will have to find another home.
But, small worries aside, the internet works, the stove lights, there is hot water.
Then the last remaining dregs of dread are erased after a breakfast of eggs fried in Alpine butter, the yolks glowing a startling reddish-orange and the shells still bearing the requisite stamp of exact provenience. The bread is the celebrated pane di Vinca, wood oven baked and dense as Rome in summer. There is local chestnut honey.
What more does a man need? Besides a Ferrari I mean.