I love to travel, like many. Like too many, it is often said and written by those who criticize overtourism, sometimes forgetting that they are part of the problem, if not promoting it. Therefore, I do not criticize tourism, but I practice travel.
By sail or by oar since I was a child, as well as on foot or by bike, on back roads and dusty trails, even when it rains or snows, not to mention the fog which is the elixir of nomadic daydreams. I prefer the erotic to the exotic, because travel is not measured in kilometers traveled but in experiences lived. Relationships with environments and people; carnal relationships and not just visual ones.
I travel to feel, with my ears and nose, with my skin and mouth. I travel to collect, a herb or a flower, always with discretion. I pay attention to nature that fascinates me especially when it manifests between the cracks of asphalt or in the crevices of concrete. In the form and color of a mallow or a radicchio. But also in the skies of a peripheral or industrial area. In the form and song of a swift or a bee-eater. I travel to write, an episode or a story, always with discretion. I pay attention to life which excites me especially when it intertwines with that of others, from yesterday, today and tomorrow.
From the herbs and stories, I also make mixtures and soups, which continue the journey at the table and in books, in company or solitude. Dishes and pages nourish and tell, as long as there is the necessary time to prepare and read. Fabio Fiori
Sunday at 9.30 a.m. breakfast. Coffee, tea, all the good things that are needed to start the day well: biscotti made with organic flours baked in a wood oven, yogurt and local cheeses, fruit jams from the garden, and whatever the awakening and the season inspire (for example, chiffon).
At 12:30 p.m. a light lunch, greetings and toasts. In between, chatter, questions, beautiful ideas. As much as you want.
