Italy

Cloud inversions in glacial puddles, up here the thin air befuddles. An orange pink glow soaks into the terracotta hats of the Po Valley as the pearly white molars of the Pennine Alps line up row by row standing guard. As the sun’s cyclical spin spirals into the ground below, a glint off a thin straight line: the knife’s edge of the Canale Cavour.

The onset of exhaustion: the mind dulls and the senses fade – until a stranger’s conversation awakens the neurons with a familiar language; the comfort of familiarity warms amongst the cold rigid surroundings. Garibaldi, a name held in reverence, a commonplace in public works throughout the nation, welcomes me to town with a tight embrace. Water laps at my feet from the bottom of an open well, undoubtedly the same source drawn on by the roots of the living buildings up ahead. I quicken my pace, incredulous at the resilience of children to the malicious synergy of icy spray and stinging winds. A garden on an incline, the patchwork pattern of a quilt slipping off the edge of the bed.

The view out the carriage window betrayed an English middle gray; an ominous fog hovered over the land, a frosted glass blanket for casting away any direct sun, forecasting a bleak flat light for the afternoon undone. The slow train provided ample opportunity for people watching – a Bengali immigrant making a long tiring commute, a model returning to her hometown from the big city, a reunion for a group of old friends on a post-retirement day trip.

Deep into the northern tip of the lake, the snow capped peaks blended seamlessly into the bright whites of the low hanging clouds; here the air is silent, separated from all the crowds. The rocky beach shriveled at the touch of the frigid waters – hardly ideal for sunbathing. Lonely houses dotted the hillsides like stray boulders from a landslide, connected to civilization by only the hardiest of ferries braving the treacherous open waters as the valley walls funnel gusts at the boats with pinpoint accuracy. The towns on the lake, a masterclass in packing efficiency, made use of every last bit of land available before the buildings started to stack on top of one another climbing up the hillside. Better appreciated from a distance than from the twisting cobblestone stairways that wound themselves up like a coil.

Venice, the lovers’ land – though really more a sea, and on sinking sand. Ornate gothic facades, pudgy domes fenced in by sharp spires – and metal scaffolding? Hordes of cranes towered over the city’s skyline, pecking away at its Byzantine facades hunting for the wooden piles underneath. Of glistening waters radiant in the midday sun surrounded by buildings of entry denied, of bridges spanning twisted channels narrow and wide. Gondolas that plow the tide aside and gondolas that abide to the harbor tied. A mask with whom you can confide, whose backside knows that you’ve cried, yet at the end of the day there’s still nowhere to hide. A thousand dyed flowers collide on a vase all staring at you starry-eyed. Tour guides who here reside speak wisdoms with a deeper meaning implied.

Filled with porticoes and towers and streets covered in graffiti, the walkways overflowed and spilled onto the road. Despite the drab dense fog, the plazas were vibrant and bustling between the steep orange cliffs that rose looming and imposing. With a festive atmosphere and about as many cars in the town center as I saw in Venice, forgive me Bologna as I may have judged you too harshly.

Always a wonder how quickly life can change – a short train ride through the Apennines brought out blue skies with only light streaks of clouds. Yet that somehow didn’t correspond to the number of people out soaking it in; seems Italians are just determined to go out and enjoy life regardless of rain or shine. Over an open bridge, through a corridor of crowded shops, up a steep hill and then back down again. Along the edge of the Giardino Bardini, which while not exactly in the countryside, evoked the beauty of the rolling Tuscany hills; it helps that this would be the only time we experienced the region with sunshine. Said sunlight filtered out faster than ever, touching only the tips of the tallest cathedrals until it fully freed the surface of the earth from its grasp, two beings with arms stretched out being pulled forever away.

Rome, where all roads lead; such seemed to be true for every single tourist in Italy that day. A broad set of stairs leads to a long long long straight path. Two twin chapels kiss at an oval theater – nearly an ice skating rink so cold. A star with all five points twinkling shines among the city center connecting the River Tiber to its atmospheric counterpart. A slow grueling crawl to the city inside a city where St. Peter’s Basilica sits towering, plump, and pretty. The temple where Brutus made his claim to fame, now trampled on by feline feet; the light drizzle sent the ferocious beasts off to hiding, much to Caesar’s relief. The quiet whispers of backstreets turn to grumbles that blend into a constant hum when rounding the moat of the Pantheon. The plaza packed full carries its contents far and wide, spreading along the cobblestone cracks like a spilled drink escaping the scene of the crime. Further east, another spilled drink draws a crowd; the intoxicatingly bright turquoise glacial silt its only saving grace.

Mount Vesuvius standing tall and proud in the distance: a reminder of what once was and what might be soon to come. Vagrants roam in hunt of their prey – another meal means another day. Through mountain tunnels from which the cold seeps in, through wooded fields that cannot hide the volcano’s reach, through backyard corridors sunken beneath the living world, through valley viaducts that hold your gaze to the gulf below. To buildings on a Dutch angle, streets made for a bishop and not a rook. At the town’s center, lush leafy vegetation works its way down to the center of the earth. An abandoned mill, overgrown and reclaimed by ferns, sits nestled at the confluence of two river gorges carved long before human existence. A hairpin bumps into the bottom of the city ramparts; the long way round is the only way down. Limoncello and gelato served to the tune of cathedral bells ringing, a marching band’s song drowns out the birds’ afternoon singing.

On a hill far removed an ancient tomb rises from the ashes like a phoenix. Avenues once filled with life, then entombed and quiet, now engaged with the world again. Rocky ruin gives way to a grassy carpet rolled out for visitors as far as the eye can see. Another labyrinth of silent roads, this time still buried: glimmering pools of moonstone guarded by twisting tunnels too tight and tough to take head on.

Like water filled to the brim in a basin, fog envelops the low lying valleys of Piedmont enclosed on all sides. A hazy daydream entrances the city so gently, pining for a look from above. Uphill the buzz softens until the quiet calm of dusk takes over. A dainty church crests a lone mound providing a wide immersion of the town’s expanse. Back between the interwoven buildings below, trams cross knit little islands and cross isthmuses, pulling tight the network of parks filled with dogs and river promenades and busy stores.

The mountain basin proved not enough fortification against the shifting weather; the billowing pillows rolled and tumbled, scaling the luscious Mediterranean hills to fan out over the Italian Riviera. Colorful boxcars slip and slide down the incline and pile up portside and cruise ships line up outside the harbor awaiting their turn on the gangplank like cars at a drive-through. Tides rose, pushing deep into enemy territory, while the cold cruel clouds wept their hearts out and shed themselves of their sorrows.

Deep layers of snow gave way to thin sheets of frost, waters still spilled into long flowing rivers, heavy hills sharpen into thin spears. The icy air glazes all it touches, making its demands for a steamy shower. Dried off by a gentle breeze, we march on guided by nothing more than the faintest of stars hidden behind a dancing curtain of jade.