It is winter here now and there is no one to serve dinner for down in the pub even on Friday nights. Alice and Daniele stay home. There are just Jonathan and Renata and I and the old men playing cards and drinking wine by the fire. Everyone wears their coats even though we are indoors. We greet each other like friends now.

Down in town, the cafes are mostly empty and the women waiting in line outside the butcher shop have scarves pulled tight around their heads. There are no tourists.

Jonathan and I stay home most days. I am wearing wool socks and two sweaters over my thermal underwear in an attempt not to be a spoiled American cranking the heat up to 11. The sun feels good on my face when I bring in the garbage bins or, ever optimistic, check the mail. Only a handful of the most stubborn persimmons still cling to the trees.

It is winter and I, who abhor the cold, find that I am nevertheless very happy in these days of solitude with Jonathan. We look out over the sea and shiver with the beauty of it.