Mombercelli we go to the four of us: dad, mom, kika and scoundrel, the black channel.
Birba spends quite a journey in the car sitting on the back and take the caresses while ankylosed from my arm to scratch my head and she twists me trying to watch the road not to vomit.
run towards Piedmont, destination: Mombercelli . A village in Monferrato-ino to reach you through the hills of embroidered vines laden with grapes, pastures and fields of sunflowers, small clusters of houses that pitted one after another with their church, the little bar, the red tiles . We get along
Sabbione and sides of this street unravel rows of tomatoes and grapes of that dusty purple surrounded wasps. The houses adorned with flowers and smiling face faces family, but clear the hot air smells of fruit soaked in the sun.
down you see an expanse of low hills slightly pale mist, a swimming pool in a chemical blue stands at the center of the valley and there's so quiet you hear the sound of voices and cannonball.
Life here seems simple. I'll give you a bit 'of my fruits and vegetables for dinner tonight I call you, tomorrow I will. The food is good and not too much, then you drink wine and grappa, so he returns home on foot in a jiffy.
The night is dark and the stars shine enough to dream the Milanese a sky that is no more.
You hear the cicadas and one gets bitten by mosquitoes reluctantly, and every evening he is aware of the insect hum of a new, never heard before. Bats and insects, muffled laughter, friendship.
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