Day 13: Schiavon

Copper warm and rain. That's how I'll remember that Monday morning. A brioche with the sugar cracked on top, a flaky caramelization with a cream that, for the first time, tastes like what crema seems to be aiming for. A double bitter on the side.

Driving through Marostica, the vineyard soldiers with plumes of mustard, fire, yellow. Tiny flags dancing in the wind. What they've endured. What they offer with their fruit.

After our tour, the sun thought about appearing, but winked instead. Streaks of blue behind lacy white curtains. We trekked to the top of the castle and then made room for lunch. Warm riced potatoes, octopus with lemon and a pungent olive oil marrying them together. A union.

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