E domani chissà
se ci incontreremo
sulla riva di un sogno
su una piazza italiana
sotto l'arcobaleno

E domani chissà
se ci rivedremo
sotto i ponti di un sogno
lungo una carovana
sotto l'arcobaleno

Buonanotte ai viaggiatori - Gang

The covers till her nose to keep her warmth inside. My hugs in search of her body in the never-ending bed. I need to stay close to her, to steal a bit of her tranquillity and to offer her my feelings.

The pale shadows of the candles are the only witnesses of the magic that is happening. A simple magic of two niños which is made up of tender caresses, long, long talks, cold noses, and šiltos pėdutės. "Gui, gui, gui," my pucca is saying. The night is surrounding us and we can feel its silence. My hand in her hand, we let this still atmosphere bring us towards the new day.

Then, the dream will begin again in the usual way, with those simple words we pronounce as a magic spell every morning we wake up together. Those words enforce our beliefs and make our future more and more certain.

"Buongiorno, Maccherone!"
"Buongiorno, principessa Zeppelina!"

I wish I could wake up with you this morning. Or being more realistic, to wake you up this morning after a night spent drinking and dancing at Piombi, and early hours spent holding you before falling asleep.

I wish I could wake you up this morning with tender breath to your ear, coming closer to you and touching your neck with my nose trying to warm it up between your skin and the cover.

I wish I could convince you to get up earlier as the rays of the sun are playing on the walls of our room and on the bed. I wish I could convince you to go to the shower and then to dry ourselves in the bathroom with the window opened widely.

I wish I could warm your chilled skin with tender touches of my fingertips. I wish your skin reacted even more.

I wish I could invite you for an early walk before breakfast this morning to see how the city is waking up. I wish we could listen to the silence of the streets and the first noises of opening street cafes, to watch the sun’s glitter on the roofs.

I wish I could invite you for a breakfast this morning. For a slow drinking of fresh juice, for a smell of coffee and croissant with chocolate.

I wish I was with you now.

A man is strong.
But he is nothing in the universe.
Two can make friends, two can make war,
and two can fall in love.

Probably the latter is the reason of floods in the oceans, the turn of the sun, the power to make the trees green after a long and tiring winter. When two are together, they have a power; they have a power to make people around to feel something in the air. Something trembling, something fragile, until they understand this was their souls waiting for something to happen.

Just few months ago, in the middle of winter, a frozen girl from a country neighbouring Lapland found a violet at a distant mountainside. She smelled the flower and fell in love without consciousness. A guy was meditating nearby at the time, trying to solve the most difficult processes of his life and the breath of the girl deleted his memory completely. Two became the two. And they are still without consciousness.

Just a week ago two hands were seeking for the same glass of wine, two couples of eyes looked at each other and two lips wanted to try the richness of the drink. One can not doubt the tastiest wine is from the lips of the person whom you like. The drops of wine concurred the souls and made them to bloom.

Should I tell you the simpliest explanation why all this happened? Because the TWO were planting the violets of their love, the TWO were smiling at the sun, the TWO were drinking wine for happiness, the TWO were in love.

It’s been anniversary of our acquaintance which happened ages ago. We lived a lot, we tried a lot, and we became close, very close. Because we’ve been together for ages. But people are used to count the time according to the sun rhythm and classify the things in a very strict way. So the ages turned to a few days.

That day was full of every day’s nonsense: the rush to the station in the morning, fast kiss to hold the moment of night’s fever, meetings, discussions which were interrupted by sweet thoughts about strange night once upon a time on 13th of June. Endless trust, endless risk and endless attraction. And right feeling inside something nice was meant to happen.

My Pucco came to pick me up from the work and to lay me on a bed of roses. Red roses on white bed. Flapping curtains in the wind. Silent sounds of romantic Brazilian music. And a note which was among the flowers reminding nice moments of our centuries’ history. Tender and funny. The way we were.

The ages passed. The human calendar counted the days and months. My Pucco is far away and sometimes the sadness knocks on my soul’s door.

I want to lay you down on a bed of roses
For tonight I sleep on a bed on nails
I want to be just as close as the Holy Ghost is
And lay you down on bed of roses

Yesterday I bought a rose. Only one red rose but it was enough to feel Pucco closer. As the life consists of nice moments we are able to make by ourselves: in this way I closed the door to sadness and enjoyed every message reminding me him. Limoncello in the bar, naïve eyes of a girl from the movie in a strange city, the music we used to listen in the coach and the rose. Just to feel Pucco closer.

There are many ways to walk in your life. As well as there plenty of ways to make friends. But there are only few ways to check if the guy is worth to be called a friend, if the one is trustable.

The first trip with a man is always challenging to me. What if we can not deal together in softly extreme situations? What if our talks will end suddenly? What if he is not used to sleep not in a bed?

By the way, probably it‘s the matter of age: earlier on the trips I was used to check if the guy who appeared in my life was worth to get into my bed, now I’m checking if the guy with whom I’m in bed is worth to get into my life.

This time overcame all my expectations despite I made them big enough. Exchanging bed with me into a stone with my mind but without my body gave him extra points. Moreover, it made me to look at him in other eyes: la piedra encantada let all its magic to work and clicked something deep inside. The charm had started to work too fast: la piedra encantada turned into la ciudad encantada as well as one night stand turned into deep feelings in us. La vida encantada.

Ingredientes. Harina de maíz nixtamalizada, agua, sal.

Preparación: la masa. Amasar la harina con el agua (aproximadamente 4 partes de harina por 3 de agua, en volumen) y un poco de sal. La masa no debe estar ni demasiado húmeda, ni demasiado seca. Si está demasiado húmeda no se despega del plástico durante la preparación, si está demasiado seca la tortilla será friable. Hay que experimentar un poco para dar con la buena proporción de harina y agua.

Preparación: las tortillas. Hacer con un pedazo de masa una bola del tamaño de un huevo de pato y meterla en una bolsa de plastico para alimentos congelados (u otra similar). Se aplasta con una plancha para cortar, con fuerza, hasta obtener la tortilla lista para cocer, fina y redonda.

Abridged from here

Cook them and you will get the taco shells easily. And then the hard stuff comes. Fill them with your fantasy: use food, feelings and red chili. They should be hot, they should provoke some visible reactions: little drops of sweat, a flush of joy in your face, passion in your heart. It depends on the atmosphere; in any case, real home-made tacos will change you. Put your hands on, don't be polite, let your instinct guide you. Be simple, be child, be greedy. Don't care about your dirty hands. Lick your fingers. Taste the tacos and the life!

Why. The reasons. These are the typical questions that are asked before starting to study any language. I even don’t remember my answer for English but for Spanish I had a lot. And for Italian there is the only one: pucca wants to be with pucco. And in order to be in bed with my Italian I have to be fluent in Italian as the bed is placed in Italy.

Before starting. Frankly, my first touch to Italian language was quite soft. It sounds nice, more clear than Spanish (or maybe I was fed up with Spanish by that moment) and more sexy which is not the last thing in the language. Oops, but I forgot, my goal is not to seduce the Italian, I want to stay with the Italian.

L’alfabeto italiano. Ok, it seems easy. You have only 21 letters with some exceptions in international words. At least the letters don’t have any strange symbols above them, below them or even in the middle. There are no very complicated rules of pronunciation and it sounds itself quite similar to my mother tongue.
Now I understand why Italians are so keen to learn my language.

First disappointment. How do you think where I met it? Le consonanti doppie. Hey, people, what is the point of using double l, t, n, c in the middle of a word??? And at the same time to have the words with one l, t, n, c which mean absolutely different things. Imagine my first day at university in Italy: I am asking my professor to lend me his penne (pens) but because of my pronunciation it unzips his trousers and offers me his pene (dick). I think my professor will adore me. I was too fast with compliments about the alphabet. But believe me; using double consonants won’t increase your alphabet! And if you double the consonants, why are you losing vowels (l’elisione).

First homework. Usually the first tasks are very easy: to put the articles, to form plural forms. Pucco is checking my perfect homework, I’m so happy about my prove in Italian and here it comes: l’yard => la yard (since y is not considered a vowel), lo pneumatico=> il pneumatico. Ok, let it be, „y“ in my language is a vowel so i‘ll remember it in future, but i‘m quite sure about lo pneumatico. In front of me I’m reading the rule: before x, y, z, gn, pn, ps comes an article "lo". Maybe some Italians make mistakes too.

First bunch. I get the answer to my question, by the way, based on very respectable explanation of Accademia della crusca: ... since our language is euphonic (this means we like nice sounds), we made sometimes an exception. In fact, lo pneumatico doesn't sound very nice, so some people prefer "il pneumatico".

First conclusion. Somehow I have a feeling that these „let‘s make it sound better“ it‘s just the beginning of my long way to Italy. But it’s always easier to blame somebody/something. Let’s blame the textbook for not giving full explanations to a very earnest student.

Some say the world will end in fire;
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.

(From Fire and Ice by Robert Frost)

Fuego. Hot summer in Valencia, sweat and passion covering our body, pale candles burning slowly. The scent of incense surrounding us.

Hielo. Petrol station, where are thou? I need your ice to calm down this stifling heat. Small ice cubes filling our drinks during the breakfast, small ice cubes rolling on shivering bodies, small ice cubes changing their innocent nature.

Fuego. Chile chipotle, chile serrano, chile jalapeño: flames in our mouth, drops flowing down our cheeks. Pleasant warmth is changing into burning heat. The night is starting as well as the brazilian music...

Hielo. Pucca in front of the fan. Refreshing breeze dancing on her hair. Cold shower after a day spent on the beach. Sweet, little hands playing with my back. Relief!

Fuego.

Pucca is close to me sitted in a corner of a crowdy bar stuffed with people, drinks and noise. Smell of life flowing smoothly along the river around us.

Pucca is close to me sitted in a corner of a crowdy bar stuffed with people, drinks and noise. I can feel her. It's just a simple sensation that comes from her "happy" smell, the sweet movements of her hands, and from her shining smile which is lighting up her face and my soul.

Pucca is close to me sitted in a corner of a crowdy bar stuffed with people, drinks and noise. I can feel her. It's just a simple sensation that is growing into something bigger and bigger. A crazy feeling into my belly. Could it be love?

Pucca is close to me sitted in a corner of a crowdy bar stuffed with people, drinks and noise. We are tasting a good, light beer as it was Ambrosia, the liquor of the Gods. Fantasy is coming into play. We cannot establish what is real and what is unreal. We are living a mixture of dream and reality. It could be love.

Pucca is close to me sitted in a corner of a crowdy bar stuffed with people, drinks and noise. A mexican mariachi comes. Is he a real mariachi? I like thinking he's an angel bringing a present for us.

Pucca is close to me sitted in a corner of an empty bar stuffed with a deep silence. And the angel starts singing. The song begins and our love also.

De la sierra morena
Viene bajando viene bajando
Un par de ojitos negros
Cielito lindo de contrabando

Ese lunar que tienes
Cielito lindo junto a la boca
No se lo des a nadie
Cielito lindo que a mí me toca

Ay ay ay ay
Canta y no llores
Porque cantando se alegran
Cieltio lindo los corazones

I sit in the cold office and recall the place I used to go a few years ago. Small cute bar with long and narrow inner yard in the old city. The sounds of piano, the colors of parrot, the smell and warmth of hot wine reminds me the Indian summer, especially on the day like today. Lucky you if you live I Spain, Turkey or Mexico. It should be warm over there. I come from cold rainy country, the country which name means the land of rains.

If I could keep the Indian summer forever… The rainbow on my path from leaves of maples, the first early morning frosts, spider works in the trees and clear sky with light pink stripes in horizon. And after long and quiet walk in the park, after playing soccer in the leaves, after get the cheeks and hands a little bit cold I would go to the bar and ask for a glass of hot wine.

The bar would smell the nuts and peace. People would talk loudly. When I lift the glass of wine to my nose, the noise around will calm down immediately, everything will color in honey. The cinnamon will bring golden rays and smell of the sun; cloves will remind the early morning frost and the warmth that I feel in my hands will spread in all the body. Slowly, with every sip of wine. I will listen to the sonata of rain behind the window with backing of piano near the fireplace inside.

It’s a perfect night of autumn to sit dressed in big pullover with the legs on the chair and hold a glass of hot wine. And let the rain knocks on other side of the door. I won’t let it in. I’ll keep my Indian summer feeling in the cute small bar situated in the old city despite there are two weeks already when the trees stand bared.