, , , , , ,

Scattered throughout Marche are infinite little villages, and, after spending months hopping between them, sipping on dozens of spritzes in dozens of caffe’s, stumbling into many bakeries when the wind chills to the bone, and sticking heads under public water faucets when there are no clouds left in the summer sky…. they all start to blend together a little bit.  All of the San‘s and di‘s and –etto‘s and –ano‘s come together to form a single paesino, one villaggio, borgo on top of an eloquent hill, with the same browns and the same slopes and the same walls.

This, of course, is not true.  Because each of the many towns in this region has their own charms, and their own speciality of cookies, and their own saint, and their own name, and their own memories.  And their own unexpected burst of color, no matter how small it might be:

Canvas Thirteen

Rhapsody In Pink

An while I don’t necessarily always remember the name of each paese that we visited, the colors and the tastes I can’t forget.

[In other words, I am now more than halfway done with this project.   Glass (or two) of pinot grigio, prepare yourself to be thoroughly enjoyed.]