It’s been a long day on the bike as I roll into the quaintest of Italian towns (I realize this is a cliche, but in this case it is right on the money). I am tired, sweating profusely and in need of a little pick me up. The only store in town appears to be part farmacia, part general store and part bakery. I take it all in. What, of all these amazing delights, is going to do the trick?
Truth be told, at this point, just about anything. But I settle on a giant bottle of water and a couple pieces of stone fruit. I think most people call them nectarines, but my grandma always referred to them as stone fruit, so I carry on the tradition. Standing at the counter the shopkeeper, a distinguished looking older gentlemen, and I go through the long held tradition of attempting to communicate, even though he doesn’t speak a word of English and my Italian is muy malo, like my Spanish.
He is signaling me in an attempt to find out if I will need a bag for my stone fruit. I do the most ridiculous mime to convey I will “nom nom” my stone fruit immediately. I am thankful he smiles and doesn’t toss my out of his store. I pay and then take a seat on the shady bench just outside the door and proceed to have one of those life affirming moments where all is right with the world.
All it took was my bike, Italy and piece of the most glorious stone fruit ever devoured.