What the house does, and when it does it
There is no spa, no gym and no concierge desk. There is bread at half past seven, a cold arch at one, a terrace at nine in the evening, and a door that locks itself at eleven.
The breakfast room on the ground floor, 08:05, before anybody came down
Six hours of it
A basket outside your door: two rosette from Panificio Rizzo on Via Libertini, butter, apricot jam made here in June, and a moka already filled. Tell us the night before if you want it at seven or at nine; after half past ten it goes to the chickens.
The light crosses the long table between nine and half past, and that is the hour everybody in the house ends up on the terrace whether they planned to or not. Four chairs. No service — the moka comes up with you.
Between one and four the city shuts and so do we. The arch holds two stools, the bicycles and a jug of water that gets refilled at noon. Borrow a bicycle by leaving your name on the slate; they come back at dusk or they do not come back at all.
Basil, mint, rosemary, two lemon trees and a bay that has got out of hand. Take what you need for the kitchen upstairs; the scissors live on the nail by the first landing and they have lived there since 2017.
One long table, one pot, 22 € a head, wine from the Leone brothers at Copertino included. It happens on Thursdays from April to October if at least six people put their names down by Wednesday noon. Nobody is obliged to come and nobody has ever regretted it.
At eleven the landings drop to a low amber and the terrace lights go off altogether. The street door takes your key from either side at any hour, so there is no curfew — only a strong hint, and neighbours on both walls.
Services, plainly
On foot, from the street door
Said once, so nobody is surprised
No parties, no hen nights, no filming, no drones over the courtyard, and no more guests in an apartment than the number on this site says. Three families live in the two buildings that share our walls, and they were here first.
One message, one answer