"Do you think we live in a utopia?" she asked, idling on the Albanian hillside under a foggy sunrise in early spring. "Is this how our ancestors dreamed of living?"
A clear brook bubbled along the bottom of gentle, grass-clothed hills. The first few migrant spring birds, back from winter's distant exile, sang melodic calls to one another in the gaining daylight. Brian took it all in and answered, "They wouldn't complain. I'm sure of that."
"Yeah, but--Hang on," she intoned; seasons flipped, new gear dropped into place, and the hills filled with snow, a clear powder. She kicked off on a slender ski path and he followed close behind, watching the edges of his skis. Conversation paused in the slashing breaths of snow and speed. Eventually they landed in a wide plain; she twisted the world back to fall and they resumed their long wander, hand in hand under colored leaves drifting through the clear-blue wind alone.
"I see why you're asking," he observed. "On the one hand, this--but on the other..."
"It all depends on whether one outweighs the other." She caught a bright orange leaf from its twisting journey. "And I guess that might depend on the person, or situation," she said.
"We're happy," he said quietly.
For now, they both agreed.
Dinner with two other couples--close friends, frequent companions--took place at a quaint old farmhouse in the valley. Nearby, an old grain mill churned the stream with its old, heavy, wooden water wheel, filling the atmosphere with its creaking rhythm. They talked of culture, and wine, dining long into the night. It was beautiful; it was perfect; it was free.
It was free.
They did this every night.
It was hell.
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