5 AM Saturday morning.

Wide-awake, I got out of bed as quietly as possible. Tiptoeing into the closet I collected some morning clothes by feeling around in the dark, and then stole away past the door into the moody stairway. I moved at a snail’s pace down the steps making sure not to stumble or awaken Cheryl, who was soundly sleeping, totally unaware of my plan. It was still dark as dawn had not yet broken, so I ventured out the front door with a flashlight in hand to find my way down the steps and out to the studio. Once around the corner, I breathed easy as my silent escape had proven successful. (more…)

Monday morning Italy wakes up.

Saturday is considered a work day, but usually only until lunch. Then shutters are drawn, metal doors rolled down, and phones are silenced—all in anticipation of Sunday, when everything seems to be closed. Trying to find a loaf of bread on Sunday is like a squirrel searching for an acorn in December. (more…)