I’ve needed grappa, and long and aimless walks in rain so light it feels like hundreds of gray fairy kisses on your face.
Turin feels right after Dubai especially, where I was over the weekend, and which continues to glow and hum with manic energy, like a nuclear reactor from a futuristic video game.
Full-bodied Italy feels right after the desert. But the desert is in me just as much as the fog in the Piemonte is now in me – not to mention the epic that is the coming Russian winter.
The soul’s fragments are balanced out by movement of any kind. You lean in one direction, and then you lean in another, and think you can even catch the sloshing sound inside of you, as all of the different elements rearrange themselves into a workable equation at last.
Either that, or it’s the grappa.