A Day at Home in Santadi (with Robota)

With deep gratitude to Anna Lisa- whose quiet care and generosity make this house truly feel like home.

There’s a moment like that- quiet, almost unnoticeable-

when you realize this is no longer a visit.

It happened after a week.

A week of living in the black apartment like a polite guest:a small coffee, minimal mess, a feeling of “I’ll be leaving soon.”

And then, without drama, it landed:

I’m not in an Airbnb.No one is coming to clean.There’s no “cute kitchenette.”There’s a home.

Mine. For a few months.

And then the tasks begin.

Because a home is not an idea- it’s operations.

Laundry.

I’m standing in front of an Italian washing machinewith more confidence than I have.

I turn a knob.Nothing happens.I stare.It stares back.

It’s an intimate moment.

Within minutes, I already learn:

• what 40° means

• what a program is

• and what humility feels like

Eventually, it starts.Or maybe I just understood who’s in charge.

And then, naturally, I move on to waxing my mustache

Of course.

A pink box.Big promises.Sharp reality.

I’m standing there, holding a wax strip,wondering how exactly I got to this point in life.

Stretch. Press. Breathe.Pull.

This is the moment you realizethat running a household includes acts of personal bravery.

Moving on.

Waste separation.

And here- welcome to real Italy.

SECCO.UMIDO.PLASTICA.CARTA.

I’m standing there holding toilet paperand asking existential questions.

What is life?What is order?Why can’t this be simple?

And then the revelation arrives:Anything unclear goes to SECCO.

I’m considering applying this to relationships as well.

Then the kitchen.

At this point, there’s no turning back- this is a home.

Lettuce gets VIP treatment with paper towels.Tomatoes stay outside- they have character.Kiwis and plums go through an emotional ripening process on the counter.

I’m standing in front of the fridgerealizing I’m not organizing food- I’m managing a system.

Next stage: the dishwasher.

I open it.It’s open.We look at each other.

Three bottles:two blue, one orange with a questionable past.

I learn quickly:what doesn’t belong in the dishwasher- doesn’t go in the dishwasher.And life is too short for dramatic kitchen foam.

And like every truly good day- there’s wine.

Two bottles from Porto.One- 1985.One- 30 years old.

I look at them and think:

Some days are like a Colheita- a single, precise moment.

And some days are like a Tawny- layers, time, depth.

And this day?It was a blend.

Of a washing machine that refused and then agreed,of courage in front of a wax strip,of philosophy in the trash,of lettuce with protocols,of a dishwasher with boundaries,of coffee that restores breathing,and wine that explains everything.

And then… coffee.

Lavazza.Moka pot.Low flame.

The smell spreads through the house,and suddenly everything settles.

This is the moment when the house stops being a taskand starts becoming a place.

And now-

I’m sitting on the balcony.

A cup of coffee.A cigarette.The late light touching trees, rooftops, stillness.

Everything is in place.

The laundry is part of life now.The fridge follows rules.The dishwasher understands me.And the bins… are no longer existential.

And I think to myself:

That all of this- this entire day,with all its small, ridiculous, important tasks- happenedin one conversationwith Robota.

And TasteAPlace?

This is exactly it.

Not just wine.Not just a journey.But the moment a place begins to become yours.

And if someone had told me in the morningthat I would end the day with a deep understanding of SECCO,a moka pot, and a 30-year-old Port- I would have askedif they wanted to come help me with the laundry.