Assisi, Italy

Transcendentalism was around the sharpest turn of the hill, because I had seen it from the back seat of Christina's hatchback. It was something to share a view like this. Christina was Italian by birth American by right, Brooklyn, who had moved back sometime time to Umbria when she had fallen in love. I looked at camera phone pictures of her grandson and listened to her love stories for the child as we wound up the hill to the church of Saint Chiara. And then, my breath was taken away by what my eyes had seen, a panaramic view of Umbria, more beautiful than the time I have to desribe it, and more beautiful than I would have ever assumed or imagined.

Skip forward to that night, or maybe the next, I don't remember, Martina had taken me out to meet her friends and boyfriend. When I had first met her, I initially wondered, is this person a product of her surroundings or a outlying difference, would they be as kind and welcoming as she? They were - so kind and, this is what I hoped for my travels . . . memories taken not at the foot of the coloseum or the shopping district in Milan, but around a backyard grill of Italians laughing and talking (or were they arguing?) around a well spread dinner table.

Martina introduced me to her friends some of which were students, others working, some from this region and the next, all welcoming me in English as they bounced their language back and forth amongst themselves. Cool kids, they were cool kids. The food smelled amazing and there was plenty. I had doubted that they would actually eat as much as prepared because the Italians are not big people. And, from curiosity I watched, watched to see if they would eat the mass of food that had been placed on the table. . . they did, and capped it with that oh so famous gelato. I wondered why I had put on so much weight and they ate and laughed and ate some more and not one of them seemed unfit. Well, if I could just keep still and inherit that good fortune, that would be the best thing I could take from Italy.

We laughed and talked. Now, there was one there, whom I thought was so attractive, perhaps it was his eyes or his smile, or maybe it was his thick accent. Whatever it was he sat there beside me and I smiled back, squinting as we talked partly because I could not fully understand him and partly because of his eyes: so stricking that a conversation was more like a glaring seduction. He had long legs that were leaning against mine. I hadn't bothered to move, nor had he.

It was time to go, it was late, early morning rather and I did have work. But, despite any ridiculous cab driver, any short-tempered clerk, any annoying thing that could happen between Italy and America, it would be ok, because I had met people whom I will consider friends for many months and years to come.