Another swelterer today. It's upwards of 30 degrees again, and I'm sitting in my room in shorts and t-shirt with the fan blasting six inches from my face. And I am still boiling.
You know what I could do?
I could eat a watermelon. Yes. A whole, massive, juicy, anguria of a thing, glistening with dew, succulent and red, and deliciously bulbous.
That's what I did in Italy, 25 years ago. I practically lived off watermelons. I'd buy them from the canteen on Via Settembre XIV, I'd get them from the fruit stall; I'd take them home, chop them up, or sit with one on the steps of the medieval church, sometimes between the trees in the ever delightful Piazza Italia. Ah. Happy days. Covered in sticky watermelon, 17 years old in a foreign country, being gawped at by the vecchi and the Italian pigeons.
Funnily enough, just like in Italy, the clouds are stacking up in that way that they do before a storm. As the afternoon wears on, the sun lights their tops in a sort of a crunchy gold, and they stand out against the faded blue, August sky. I remember sitting on the ancient high wall overlooking Umbria, eating anguria, watching clouds like that while the local jazz festival played. That was a hot day, not dissimilar to this.
It would make sense, wouldn't it, to add watermelon to my shopping list. If only for the cool nostalgia.
No comments:
Post a Comment