To hell with January. I haven't left the house during the day at all this week. My hands are cracked from cold, my hair brittle, my feet stinging, frozen. Best just to stay in my lovely, warm room, doing wine/import research under my roaming tigers duvet, taking an hour and a half during the afternoon lull for some yoga. Coffee machine is still plugged in within arms reach...
I'm feeling so very melancholy, dreaming of Rome where the sidewalks even now are steaming, the sun soaking into the red bricks. That city is one giant clay pot, warm and simmering.
Will probably crack and beg FL to take me away this evening, somewhere out of town, away from Cormons. To Udine for a movie, to Grado for a plate of spaghetti alle vongole, to Slovenia for a ride through the dark hills. We don't have to spend any money, just get some breathing room. I'm easy.
If I thought our house was a construction site before I was clearly exaggerating, albeit unwittingly. The process of remodeling the bathroom has taken things to a whole new level. This weekend was spent taking up all of the floor tiles, then jack-hammering through a foot of cement, then busting down all of the bricks and plaster in the ceiling. The sound of shattering ceramic is possibly the most excruciating sound that I have ever been forced to listen to for 5 hours straight. The hairs on my arms were standing straight up, my neck and back muscles were seized with tension, I winced with every crash. Eventually I ran out into the neighboring vineyard and slumped against a giant tree, holding my hands over my ears and wondering what kind of stuff it is that I am truly made of. Something far too soft for this kind of work, I reckon. All of the chunks had to be shoveled into buckets and carried down the stairs and out to the side of the house, where they were dumped into a huge pile (or, when it was up to me, just sort of spilled alongside). As of now the bathroom is ready to be put back together, but the entire house is covered in a thick layer of dust and powder. It hurts to breath.
I am holding out for February. Even is it's still cold, at least there's Valentine's day, which has always been a favorite of mine regardless of my relationship status. Pink dresses, lollipops, confetti and sugar cookies, red roses, messages of love and friendship. And dinner at Sale e Pepe, for sure. February also means Carnivale, and I am going to make it a point to ride in to Venice for some of the festivities.
Beh, niente. It's time to start calling importers. I found an amazing website that lists all of the Italian wine import companies state by state, and I have vowed to systematically contact each and every one until something happens. Alessio and I are going to get together next week and put together packets to mail out, nothing too weighty, just brouchures that will hopefully land themselves on the desks of the right people.
Onward and upward, my friends.
I'm feeling so very melancholy, dreaming of Rome where the sidewalks even now are steaming, the sun soaking into the red bricks. That city is one giant clay pot, warm and simmering.
Will probably crack and beg FL to take me away this evening, somewhere out of town, away from Cormons. To Udine for a movie, to Grado for a plate of spaghetti alle vongole, to Slovenia for a ride through the dark hills. We don't have to spend any money, just get some breathing room. I'm easy.
If I thought our house was a construction site before I was clearly exaggerating, albeit unwittingly. The process of remodeling the bathroom has taken things to a whole new level. This weekend was spent taking up all of the floor tiles, then jack-hammering through a foot of cement, then busting down all of the bricks and plaster in the ceiling. The sound of shattering ceramic is possibly the most excruciating sound that I have ever been forced to listen to for 5 hours straight. The hairs on my arms were standing straight up, my neck and back muscles were seized with tension, I winced with every crash. Eventually I ran out into the neighboring vineyard and slumped against a giant tree, holding my hands over my ears and wondering what kind of stuff it is that I am truly made of. Something far too soft for this kind of work, I reckon. All of the chunks had to be shoveled into buckets and carried down the stairs and out to the side of the house, where they were dumped into a huge pile (or, when it was up to me, just sort of spilled alongside). As of now the bathroom is ready to be put back together, but the entire house is covered in a thick layer of dust and powder. It hurts to breath.
I am holding out for February. Even is it's still cold, at least there's Valentine's day, which has always been a favorite of mine regardless of my relationship status. Pink dresses, lollipops, confetti and sugar cookies, red roses, messages of love and friendship. And dinner at Sale e Pepe, for sure. February also means Carnivale, and I am going to make it a point to ride in to Venice for some of the festivities.
Beh, niente. It's time to start calling importers. I found an amazing website that lists all of the Italian wine import companies state by state, and I have vowed to systematically contact each and every one until something happens. Alessio and I are going to get together next week and put together packets to mail out, nothing too weighty, just brouchures that will hopefully land themselves on the desks of the right people.
Onward and upward, my friends.
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