It started the week before last, an onslaught of emails reminding me of savings to be had. “Black Friday Week Deals…Cyber Monday Sale.” I had forgotten about Black Friday and had slept through the announcement of it growing into a weeklong phenomenon followed by a Monday of online shopping.

The streets are empty on Sunday. The stores are closed. There is a calm in the inactivity, a rest. Sundays have the stillness and quiet of winters. A winter Sunday is doubly quiet, doubly restful.

Lunch is served. A spread of simple foods lay at the center of the table. As always, a basket of white rolls accompany the meal.
“You always eat white bread with your soup,” I half ask and state to Paolo. Today I add a loaf of wheat bread to the meal I thought he might enjoy, but instead he goes for the loaves of white. “After the war,” he explains, “There was a shortage of white flour. Only the rich people got to have white bread. They made dark bread from what was left over. That is why I will never eat dark bread. Only poor people eat dark bread.”