The bell rings on the hour from the church a few cobblestone streets away, peaking in between some cypress trees.The rooster crows too. Five minutes later another bell rings, a reminder that the day is beginning.
Overlooking a sprinkling of olive trees, I’m about to sip my morning tea and tear away a piece of croissant already warm from the Tuscan sun, when I notice a small striped snake only inches away moving towards me.In my broken Italian I cheerily point out the suspicious serpent nearby to Paula, the lovely woman who serves me breakfast and tidies my room. An unexpected shriek including “mamma mia” escapes from her pursed lips, summoning the elderly neighbours from up the hill.
Straight out of a “Beverly Hill Billies ” episode, the 60’s television comedy, they appear armed each with a shovel. A lanky grey haired gentleman smacks the snake on the head, his wife in gloves and khakis scoops up the slithery beast and off they go, up the steep driveway, the snake, now dead in their possession, leaving me to my tea and a couple from New York seated sweetly across from me. The forty-something guy’s carefully chosen words and the freckled young woman’s freshly French manicured nails confirm they are honeymooners, a reminder of new love.
