 |
| Assisi en il Cuore Verde |
Fingertips trail ancient walls, the
occasional tree gets hugged; the mood of a city filters in through my
senses. Years later, a sound or scent or taste will take me right back.
Even better, I have only to call the experience up in memory to know
how a place felt. I've learned that snapping pics along the way tends to inhibit, rather than inspire this process.
During the first leg of my first
European journey, I took reams of pictures. The Moms recorded video
and snapped photos of every train station and street corner across
five countries. And for a while, their camera-enthusiasm was infectious
and I clicked along with them. My prepared travel mode; plugged into
my CD player, the book in my hand a handy camouflage; was great for
savoring a city and it's denizens. In addition to providing a
soundtrack for my memories, the music calmed me during the hectic rush
between taxis, trains and buses. Reading a book is a great way to
observe unobserved. And because Rory Gilmore and I were separated at
birth (omigosh...just realized, that the phrase "could be my daughter"
is more applicable...ouch) far too many books weighed down my luggage
when the trip began. I developed the habit of leaving them behind when
they were. To this day, I wonder about the travels of those who read
them after me...and whether they were as freaked out as I was by the
ending of Carol O'Connell's "Judas Child".
Giving up my camera however, was, like
most good things that happen while traveling, an accident. Five weeks
into the trip, the Moms had gone. My travel partner and I were spending
two weeks at a resort just outside of Assisi. A resort, which, due to
an extended fight with my friend and the determined pursuit of the
Neapolitan handy man, was feeling just a tad cramped. So a beautiful
snowy day found me in Siena, a couple of trains and a bus away...without my camera
Dang it.
Only, not so much.
I remember scattering pigeons as I
crossed the piazza, cursing my forgetfulness. I can feel the suspicious
gazes directed at me from the white haired ladies on the bench ahead. I
walked all over old Siena that day, not missing my camera nearly as
much as I thought I would. And then I found it.
Down some side street, I will never find
again was a gallery of modern art. They were just opened, some of the
rooms had not yet been finished. The art...it was mostly okay. Some
pedestrian, some self-consciously cool, with a couple of truly awful
and brilliant pieces thrown in. I went up and up and up, and was on
the roof. To this day, I'm not sure whether it was the installation or
the view which first took my breath. Maybe it was one of those moments
where art and life collide to create an impression far more evocative
than either could on its own. It's true, I know; a good photo of the
scene would be more descriptive than words. Instead the experience is
private, jealously guarded in my own heart.
An immortal moment...something in Siena which exists only for me.
