Italian Armchair Dreaming
My brain tells my eyes to open but they refuse, heavy with the burden of a night fuelled by alcohol and a bright new friendship. As I struggle to my feet, a feeling like someone is driving a screwdriver into the middle of my head materializes. A wave of nausea rises in my throat, but I fight it back. Jesus Christ. What happened last night? I am at a small agroturismo in Lou Porti; a tiny, idyllic hamlet located at the foot of the Piemontese Alps in norther Italy. I will be working here for a week for room and board and a healthy dose of local culture. It is the last stop on what has been an incredible six-month tour of The Boot before I head home via Paris, and it is off to a roaring start. As I shuffle into the kitchen I notice Remo, the owner and farmer, is not yet up. Weird , I think , the fa...