my liking. I could write in here, but it doesn’t feel as inspiring as it could be.
I get back up and go check out the bookshelves. Most of the titles are in Italian, with only a handful in English, and they all seem to be about art or are non-fiction. I also don’t see any of Jana’s clients’ books, not even the big names. Okay, so maybe it’s a little narcissistic that I’m automatically looking for my books here, but I don’t even see them in the Italian translation. Huh.
Well, you’re a new client, I remind myself. And she probably hasn’t been here since she signed you.
It makes me wonder how long it’s been since Jana visited. The place feels very large with me being the only one here, but there’s a warmth to it, like it was occupied recently. Perhaps Jana Air B&Bs the place out most of the year. In fact, given what a big shot and busybody Jana is, I have a hard time imagining her here at all. It seems too relaxed and warm and easygoing for her. How would she get anything done?
I’m not sure how I’m going to get anything done if I don’t find a spot to write.
I leave the study and my search continues.
It is the perfect summer day.
I’m not saying that casually.
I mean, it’s the summer day of your long-lost youth. It’s a summer day that captures all the feelings of how the world used to be. A summer day to write about.
If this summer day could be bottled into an elixir, it would consist of a freshly-cut lawn and blossoming roses. It’s the soft warmth of the morning sun as it mingles into the heat of the afternoon. It’s the freshness in the air, the kind of air that has never been intoxicated with car fumes or pollution, an air of the past. It’s the angle of the sun as we approach summer solstice, powerful and steeped in eons of time, igniting something ingrained in us.
To put it simply, I’m reminded of being a child again, and what those summer days felt like. There was purity and freedom and joy. So much joy as we shed our shoes and ran across lawns and through sprinklers and leaped into bodies of water.
When did summers stop being like that?
When we had to work, I remind myself. Like you should be doing right now.
I sigh. I should be working. Instead I’m lying by the cerulean pool and the sun on my pale body is both strong and fresh. I know I should be working on my book, not working on my tan. In fact, I had planned to get up early and get right into writing mode, but that never happened.
Yesterday after I arrived, I spent the afternoon exploring the rest of the house and the grounds. I shot Jana a quick email to let her know I got here alright, since she and I aren’t quite on a texting basis yet, and she let me know that if I needed food that I could take a bike ride for about five kilometers to a country corner store, or I could just check the fridge.
Turns out she had Emilio buy me just enough food to survive a few days, including a fresh loaf of bread, butter, loads of olive oil, brown farm eggs, plus pasta, tomatoes and pecorino cheese. I happily made myself a sandwich with cheese and impossibly red, juicy tomatoes, and it’s probably one of the simplest and yet most delicious meals I’ve ever had.
After that I grabbed a bottle of wine from the bar and then went out onto the back veranda to sit on an iron patio chair and soak it all in. Which then led me to discovering that the glassed-in atrium is actually an artist’s studio, with sculptures filling the space.
I had zero idea that Jana did art. Then again, I’m discovering bit by bit that I don’t know much about her at all. If that really is her art, then she’s incredible. From the style I can tell that the sculptures I’ve seen throughout the house, and possibly the paintings too, are all done by her.
After that, I went to bed early. Perhaps the half a bottle of wine had something to do with it.
This morning I had plans to get up and write. That meant both figuring out how the espresso machine worked and finding the perfect writing spot. I wasn’t able to work it,