We have made our way to Palermo, a small town on the island of Sicily in southern Italy. The streets are smaller, and the cabbie picking us up from the airport is weaving in and out of traffic, often into lanes that have opposing traffic – unbelievably disconcerting, but these are mainly mopeds that go against the flow. Our flow, at least.
I take a look out the window and step onto the balcony of our hotel room. To the right, mountains are visible rising from the view of apartment buildings and offices; other hotels. To the left, there is a view of the water.
And today is our last day in Palermo; today we are fortunate enough to have a gorgeous breakfast spread sitting before us. Well, buon giorno.
I’m noshing on scrambled eggs and munching on a cornetto within moments, and slow down to close my eyes when I drink my cup of coffee. It’s that comforting.
It is then that I realize that my mother would probably like this bed-and-breakfast. The food is hot and good and fuels you for the day. My brother would probably enjoy this, too. My father would probably not be able to stop talking about it.
There’s a skinny Italian boy, maybe about 7 years old, sitting at a table alone. He picks up a plastic cup sitting on his table, pouring out milk onto a bowl of cereal. He cautiously pours the cup, gingerly making sure not to spill a single drop. His parents join him at the table, as he munches away.
Never underestimate the power of breakfast. Or a good cup of coffee.