Under The Tuscan Sun

No, not the movie.
The book. *kate grins at Rach*
I'm reading it to combat our suddenly wet weather.
Yes, it's the adventure of another someone who moves to a foreign place and sets up house, una bella villa, aptly named Bramasole, from the words bramare, to yearn for, and sole, sun.

Reading these words, I feel like I am right there in Italy, in the sunshine (except that she's describing the night here, lol):

We shower and dress in fresh clothes. In the quiet twilight, we sit on the stone wall of the terrace and toast each other and the house with tumblers of the spicy prosecco, which seems like a liquid form of the air. We toast the cypress trees along the road and the white horse in the neighbour's field, the villa in the distance that was built for the visit of a pope. The olive pits we toss over the wall, hoping they will spring from the ground next year. Dinner is delicious. As the darkness comes, a barn owl flies over so close that we hear the whir of wings and, when it settles in the black locust, a strange cry that we take for a greeting. The Big Dipper hangs over the house, about to pour on the roof. The constellations pop out, clear as a star chart. When it is finally dark, we see that the Milky Way sweeps right over the house. I forget the stars, living in the ambient light of a city. Here they are all along, spangling and dense, falling and pulsating. We stare up until our necks ache. The Milky Way looks like a flung bolt of lace unfurling. Ed, because he likes to whisper, leans to my ear. "Still want to go home," he asks, "or can this be home?"

sunshine. stars. food. poetry. perfection.

... but what do the kiddos do to chase the clouds away??
in the pouring rain, S9 and his cool mate Zac have rigged up a diving-board out of an elaborate tower of balls and boogieboards:




*that's* airborne poetry.
pure rainbow perfection.