338. Italia

We come out of the piazza and I am super excited. Something to do with the enchanting surroundings. Something to do with the bells of the Chiesa Santa Maria del Ponte ringing loudly above us. Or with the Dora Riparian river flowing noisily under the ponte? Or would it be the strong pre-dinner cocktail served with a wide sweeping movement of the arm and a loud Prego? 

We walk under a clear midnight-blue sky dotted with stars, the air is crisp and icy, the moon is  bright and we can make out the snowy peaks in the distance.

We cross the bridge to reach the narrow streets. I lead the way at a brisk the cold making me decide quickly on where we could eat. 

‘Look, here? It says enoteca. Let’s go.’

My husband is tired of the linguistic variation of our travels: from obscure Welsh to exotic Irish, and now mysterious Italian, all this on a constant background French so he leaves it all to me.

‘Enoteca means wine shop.’ I say, pushing the door.