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The taste of bliss

Today as I sat nibbling on my sandwich at work, I remembered the one we had with a glass of red in that b&b on the road curving up the hill thick with grape vine and olives trees. It was late afternoon when we finally reached the village, lugging that fat Lonely Planet guide and 5 Euros each, to realise that the village was shut for the afternoon. The blue painted door with handwritten board propped out on the steps was the only place announcing all day breakfast. Ham for you and cheese for me, we said.

The old gentleman with china blue eyes hobbled to his counter and sliced a crusty baguette, shoved sliced tomatoes, lettuce and a chunk of cheese and served it on white porcelain soup plates. Seeing us struggle with the bread, he offered us wine. We both looked at each other, hesitant and then broke out in grins when he added, it’s on the house. You were crying your way out of a relationship then and I was stumbling in to one and that day as we sat by the large bay window sipping wine with sun pouring down on us and watching the valley unravel below in sloping browns and

cypresses spiralling through the sky....everything else ceased to matter....that moment I knew what bliss could feel like....imperfect and iridescent and unexpected

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