Nobody gets in or out
The leather-skinned farmer solemnly jabbed his calloused finger in six different directions around the compound. CCTV cameras blinked back at us, hidden amongst trees and buildings. The large electric gate slowly closed behind us. The farmer shook his shaven head. He doesn’t speak a word of English, but we knew what he’s trying to say.
Nobody gets in without him knowing.
The owner of our previous holiday cottage had managed to secure us a night’s stay at this nearby winery/b&b. He was more shaken by the recent break-in than we were. By the end of our brief stay, it felt like we were consoling him about the ordeal. When he dropped us off at the new place, he waved us off with a hangdog expression (all the while being berated by the farmer who was obviously very proud of his security set up).
We’d gone from a scenic cottage to a maximum security compound complete with iron bars on windows and doors. It still had a beautiful views, it was clean and the owner even gave us some free glasses of wine…but the paranoid, bare-bones nature of the place wasn’t exactly what we had pictured for our stay in Chianti.
Last week, we’d travelled up and down Rome experiencing all of its history and sites. This week was supposed to be our rest from it all. We were going to roleplay being a charming Italian couple in the countryside. Beck was going to visit local food markets with a song in her heart like the opening of Beauty & The Beast. I was going to pretend to be the genius artist who needed the country air to craft my masterpiece. I was even going to take up yoga - honest!
But it just didn’t feel like that was going to happen now. It was kind of tainted. But what were we going to do instead? We had another 3 days to kill…
Say fuck it and treat yourself to an overpriced hotel so you can be treated like a expensive baby.
So thanks to whoever broke into our cottage for helping me discover the best Americano of my life at the Hotel Villa Fiesole. Cheers!