18 August

We were deep into the journey by then. Sunburnt, sore, and softened by the road, we made a phone call out of pure necessity. We had found a small bed and breakfast online and hoped for a place to rest, or at the very least a patch of grass to pitch our tent. The woman who answered the phone hesitated. Her voice was polite but cautious. She explained that she had already taken in another couple and was concerned about Covid. I understood. We did not expect more. I simply asked if she knew of a nearby field where we might sleep for the night.

There was a pause. One of those silences that feel much longer than they are. Then, slowly, her tone changed. Curiosity crept in. Something softened. “Come,” she said at last. “I will give you the address.”

When we arrived, she welcomed us as though we were long-lost cousins returning home. Her name was Attilia. She had the kind of energy that filled the space before she even spoke. Warm, inquisitive, and utterly genuine. We had barely put down our bags when she asked, almost casually, “Would you like to join us for dinner?”

Of course we said yes.

The meal was served outside, beneath a vine-covered veranda, with her family gathered around a large table. The garden buzzed with life and the air was thick with the scent of herbs and summer. The risotto she had prepared was extraordinary. Creamy, fragrant, and deeply satisfying. We praised it generously, and she smiled, clearly pleased. That is when she told us about Einstein.

She began the story with affection, describing a pig who had become part of their family. He had a name, a personality, even preferences. He loved apples. He enjoyed nudging people when he wanted attention. We were all smiling, picturing this clever and much-loved creature.

Then she said, quite calmly and without ceremony, “He is the risotto.”

The table fell quiet. Forks paused mid-air. Carlos and I exchanged a glance. Was she serious? She was.

And yet, the shock dissolved almost immediately into something much deeper. Einstein had not been raised to be consumed. He had been cared for, loved, treated with respect. When his time came, he was not discarded or hidden from view. He was honoured in the only way they knew how, by being part of a meal shared with reverence and memory. It was not morbid. It was, unexpectedly, beautiful.

That evening, we shared more than food. We shared a philosophy. About the land, about life and death, and about connection. Einstein, in his strange and unforgettable way, became part of our journey too.

The next morning, just after four, Attilia and her husband were already awake, waiting for us with warm coffee and quiet smiles. Their kindness lingered long after we had gone.

Some encounters remain with you. This one became part of us.

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