Day 95: Bassano del Grappa

How to define the quiet streets you've never seen before and may never see again. A small cafe, waiting on the corner and filled inside with curiosities.

They served a tiny chocolate with my macchiato -- we were just talking about this. I plopped it in, watching the milky foam absorb it slowly, like a barge sinking to the deep. I'd like to melt like that. Sans fanfare. Luxurious velvet. My particles slowly swimming farther and farther apart, until I'm a just a sweet swirl.

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Day 94: Bassano del Grappa

Simple things. Left unattended for just the right amount of time. There's a rhythm to the way one goes and one comes. A clink, or two, above the low murmur of voices. 

You need to eat it while it's hot. While it's right in front of you with the shiny oil on the cheese. It'll be slippery and messy; that's fine. This is life. Lick the salt from your lips and crinkle the napkin in your hand. Go back for another bite.

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Day 91: Bassano del Grappa

Today it was the other side of the river. We walked where the sand dipped into the reeds. The water was clear and bubbling. (On this side you could hear it better.)

I didn't bring my phone. I left it tucked in the couch cushion. I wanted empty pockets and focused eyes. To really see the mountain's carves. To notice which branches were broken. The hidden vineyards spotted through fence holes and to find the animal that made the rustle in the leaves. The sunlight appeared in freckles along the way.

The path was narrow, but I discovered so much room there.

Day 86: Bassano del Grappa

We discovered a teensy tiny bar. There's a window with a sliding opening. You ring the bell, order a glass and take your cup to sip outside.

Private, very private, parties can fit inside where drawers and chairs pop out from the walls, built with the precision of a watch. Behind the door, you've stepped through the face. Among the gears -- not just telling time, making it. 

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