A Table For Coffee

I wish I was drinking a macchiato in Italy. These gently, sunny mornings and the smell of coffee always remind me of Italy, Europe for that matter. The expansive square of St Peters, the fresh food market of Florence, the hills of Tuscany, the red roofs of Verona, the alley ways of Venice, the trams of Milan, like my home town, the sea of Sorento, the beaches of Calabria, the shores of the beautiful lakes, or the hills of Bolzano. The Italy I know.

You never know where the earth’s brew might transport you.

Fiat 500s, fresh bread, tumblers of red wine, olives, black and green, meat dishes, cheese, pizza, pasta, peppers and goat, the tarantella, boasts and brags, grandmothers, and mothers who were sainted. Scooters, fashion, soccer, gelato and art. Cobble stoned streets. A race of men who lose their minds behind the wheel of a car. And David’s hot arse.