Bosa, for me at least, is not just a place to go to fill up the grocery basket every few days (although that’s OK, too), but rather it is like going to a spa: it is a destination; a place to look forward to being at, just for itself. Today was one of those days; I didn’t have a list or anything (although we had used the last of the sausages for breakfast this morning, and herself’s favourite blood orange drink is on its last legs), I was just in the mood to go.
I certainly don’t go for the architecture. The store, in a neighbourhood famous for elegant heritage homes, is in one of the ugliest buildings for miles around. No matter; it is what’s inside that counts: Fresh bread rolls, endless meats and cheeses, and Italissima this and Italissima that. They have a bigger store further east, I know that, but it is more like a supermarket; while the one on Victoria still feels like a fine Italian grocery store, person-sized.
And yes, I do have my own Bosa bag (or rather, my wife does — and I can borrow it whenever I want). Have you noticed that their bags have a pocket at each end, just perfect for carrying large blood orange drink bottles, leaving the rest of the bag ready for more sausages, tinned peaches etc etc.
Yes, a beautiful day.