I’ve come into an empty apartment in one of my favorite neighborhoods here — a big ol’ home with many rooms, tall bookcases, and single walls painted pale blue. That kind of place. It’s waiting patiently for its owners to come back, but somebody I know with a key is letting me quietly squat until that happens.

It’s a few blocks from one of my favorite farmer’s markets, and I shopped feverishly in the final minutes of the afternoon, plucking spring onions, baby tomatoes, and shyly curling leaves of arugula from the scattered tabletops.

There’s nothing else worth eating when it’s this hot. Greek salad catches a lot of flack for being obvious, but I’m a lifelong advocate. It’s soothing, cooling, chunky, and salty — malleable to whatever you have on hand (or what’s at the market that day). (Ribbons of raw zucchini, thinly sliced bell pepper, spinach, raspberry vinaigrette. It all works.)

Nearby are also one of my favorite cheese shops and a bulk spice store with vats of briny olives for 4 euro/kg. Fate was begging me, you see? (Sometimes, fate gets bored.)

I was supposed to be on a plane today, but I’m not.