The Italian countryside was one of ancient beauty and hope. Hope for the future to be just as wonderfully gorgeous and green, plentiful and robust. It was a gateway into the past. Maria hadn’t been here for years, but it was just as she remembered it.
Her Nonno’s vigneto still looked the same as it had ten years before; the terracotta roof in various shades of oranges and browns, the tan paint of the farmhouse chipping slightly, but still wonderful in it’s lightness, its proximity to the land. The ancient slopes, each hill and curve so unique, bright green in some spots, dark green in others. It was like a Tuscan painting that had been depicted by so many artists before.
Her Nonno’s vigneto still looked the same as it had ten years before; the terracotta roof in various shades of oranges and browns, the tan paint of the farmhouse chipping slightly, but still wonderful in it’s lightness, its proximity to the land. The ancient slopes, each hill and curve so unique, bright green in some spots, dark green in others. It was like a Tuscan painting that had been depicted by so many artists before.
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