Sala colazione

Yo, this ain't no five-star hotel breakfast lounge, nah this is the real deal, the kind of place where the morning sun bleeds through the window like a cheap-ass crime scene, and the wooden beams above? They ain't just ceiling decor, theyre the bones of a mountain lodge thats seen too many drunk tourists and hungry backpackers. Im standing in the middle of this sacred, slightly dusty battlefield called Sala Colazione, and Im not here for a photo op Im here to eat. Like, really eat. The buffet table? Its a war zone draped in a flag of red, white, and blue, covered in dishes that look like theyve been raided from a grandmothers kitchen. Theres toast, jam, cheese, eggs, fruit everything youd find at a Swiss chalet, except the Swiss are way more organized. The chairs? Theyre wooden, rustic, and look like theyve been here since the last ski season. The walls? Theyre lit by flickering lamps that cast shadows like ghosts, and the floor? Its tile thats seen too much foot traffic, too much spilled coffee, too much existential dread. Im not impressed. Im not even hungry. But Im here. And if you ask me, this place is more than just breakfast its a reminder that even in the middle of nowhere, somewhere, someones still trying to feed you. And thats a damn victory.

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