When your salad decides to dress up for the occasion.

Lunch felt like an interlude between moments of awe. The café was modest but warm, its menu filled with dishes that seemed to mirror the vibrancy of the landscape outside. I ordered something that sounded both familiar and foreign—a plate of falafel adorned with a kaleidoscope of greens and purples. The first bite was a revelation: earthy yet tangy, crisp but soft where it mattered. The beetroot salad on the side was unapologetically bold, its color almost too vivid to be real. As I ate, I couldn’t help but think about how food too carries stories—of places, of hands that prepared it, of traditions passed down quietly. Outside the window, clouds began to gather over the mountains, their shadows stretching long across the valley. It felt fitting somehow—this meal, this moment—like they belonged to each other in ways I couldn’t quite explain.