There are some memories which are so perfect, that one is
scared to pen them down. One is scared that putting them into words might taint
them, lower their sheen a little. But on the other hand, I am scared that if I
don’t write things down, I may forget them forever. So here I go, painting my
impressions before the business of every-day living wipes my heart clean of the
November love of my slipping memory “My last vacanza.” And the journey begins…
Venice: A
medieval city wrapped up in sea and mist. Little bridges cutting across emerald
green canals. Suitcases trundling over flagstones. Sunday washing stretched
across crimson skies, crisscrossing from pulley to pulley. Small restaurants
nesting by the waterfront, serving all
kinds of sea people. Masks, Columbine, Pantalone,
Arlecchino, made in China. A garden made of glass in Murano, an old lady
spinning a lace wedding gown in Burano, the endless colours of Vivaldi, the
strange nude in the middle of an Ocean, the only blemish on San Marco’s Square.
Difficult not to be enchanted!
Florence: A
cobbled city of palaces and art. Bangladeshi hawkers in San Lorenzo market promising
to sell original Prada bags without labels. Dark taverns with drunk tourists.
Some drunk on art, others on the chill, some on the opera but mostly people
drunk on just being in Florence. Tutti shops selling winter fashion. The
beginning of the Gelato trails. Mikhalangelo’s Dawn and Dusk crafted from stone,
teasing out tears from many wasted hearts. A small city that makes you wish, you
could spend a lifetime in it. Just standing on the Ponte Viccio, watching the sun
set over the arched bridges of Florence.
Tuscany: A late
orange tree in full blossom, resting against a yellow house crafted from old
stone. A land bursting with colour. The colours of a season past, the colour of
a season to come, the colours of waiting and then blue. Blue of an infinite sky, reflected in a fall
choked river. A smooth ride, cruising up
and down little lanes and resting churches. The many towers of San Gimignano, the
world famous Gelato shop in the main market square, roast boar at the end of an
immense curving courtyard in Castiglion Fiorentino , the open markets of
Barbarini, and the valleys of orange and yellow shorn of it’s purple fruits;
remnants of a summer wine in Tavarnalle, Chianti .
Assisi: Forbidding
religion on white cliffs. The looming castle of the Dominican order. Friars,
priests and nuns walking solemnly from cathedral to cathedral . A road built at
90 degrees. A lost car shivering in the night, bumping along. Cold, dark, lights. Here lived the God from
the Old Testament, all alone and then Rome….
Rome: A city of
tourists and friendly taxi drivers. A mad lady in a bnb recommending lots of
short eats. Little stores selling hot suplee, pan-seared risotto balls with
fresh mozzarella cheese, fried fish, aracinis (rice balls with mince and
cheese) , platters of antipasti and house wines from all over Italy. Bernini’s
Rome, handcrafted with churches, pizzerias, fountains, catacombs, angels, peepholes,
gardens and ruins scattered in equal measure across it’s many miles. Rome, with
it’s umbrella pine trees still and endless on both sides of a languid Tiber. Rome,
with it’s fashion divas packed into little cars rushing off to work. Rome, with
it’s many mysteries. Why doesn’t it rain through the big hole in the ceiling of
the Pantheon? How do you maneuverer your schedule to see all the wonderful
sights in the short window when the Roman is not closed for breakfast, lunch, mid-day
siesta, tea, mass or mass protest? And how do you manage not to fall in love
with it all?
The Vatican: A
city built to acclaim the temporal power of God On Earth. A city, intricately
woven in marble legend and golden leaves. A city, filled with busloads of
tourists, all queuing up in the immense courtyards for a glimpse of Papa
Francesco. A city which does not belong to Italy but to the world. A city of incense and more Bangladeshi
Muslims, manning stalls selling Christian memorabilia. A city of brotherhood and then… the Sistine
Chapel. A mammoth work of fear imagery , invoking the punishment of the
afterlife, and then the Pieta. The longing of the Pieta, the suffering of the
mother and thehumanness of it all. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust under the watch
of the Swiss guards.
Amalfi: The coast
of Amalfi is like a piece of wedding cake wrapped up in the foamy tissue of the
sea. Houses cut into rocks. Communing
with the sea from a potty. An orchestra made of drunk limoncello bottles, bathing
in the sober light of day. Prosciutto , wrapped in cheese, dipped in chillie
olive oil. Sail boats on a sunny day. Porcelain shops selling painted jars. A
lazy breakfast , which rolls into a long wintry lunch. A story book on a small
terrazzo. Droopy eyelids lulled to sleep by sunlit waves and a full belly. A blanched
almond coloured Moorish church glowing, as the sun slips into a roset sea. A
ship glides across a silver ocean, which lashes and licks the house, while a
descending night inks out shapes, horizon and perspective. The stars burst into
being and the living God blesses all those who roar at the waves, claiming
their life to be divine.
