It has occurred to both of us, that this is what it feels like, doing needful stuff together in an entirely novel setting. A bit like setting up your post honeymoon household.
Rarely are things what you'd call convenient. What kinds of handy items do they have waiting in those kitchen drawers? Ah. Sigh—so we'll use our own bring-along bread knife here, as well? More exploring. Hmm, balsamic vinegar aplenty but only a tablespoon of EVOO. Another trip to Conad (food store about three blocks away). "And don't forget the laundry detergent." Uh huh.
A hotel would be freighted with none of these bothersome matters, of course. Beds freshly made daily by deft, anonymous hands; showers scrubbed; no need to figure out the stove-top controls again, because non-existent. If we are lucky a small microwave perches atop that ubiquitous mini-fridge. And that's it: neither muss nor fuss as far as your bored eyes can see.
And how sterile. Boring. Unstimulating. Why, I mean, would we want to pay double or triple the present Euros, for that mindless, unemotional dance, day in and day out?
Here's Eric having fun this evening, on the way to hatching a pretty good pasta dish.
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