Having settled into the routine of Tuscania, I feel that my
writing cannot help but become softer, more reflective. One has the sense here that
they have traveled somehow in time, back to a place where everything moves more
slowly, like water winding around the cobblestones as it makes its way down a gentle
slope. This is a place where when the wind stops blowing, you can catch the
stench of medieval times, where volcanic rock fortresses centuries old turn
into sand at your touch, and you find yourself wondering if magic might be just
one small dimension removed.
This romantic impression, of course, is due largely to how
foreign this place is to me. Sitting here on the floor of my room, my back
curved against the bedframe, I hear the constant chatter of the townswomen, gossiping
window to window. Because I cannot discern any meaning, their nonstop conversation
has on me the effect of classical music. It pleases, but does not distract. It
facilitates creativity without controlling it. Many times since my arrival I’ve
wished I spoke more Italian, but then I think of moments like this, and I feel
that perhaps it is better to be able to just enjoy the music.
On Sunday I walked out of the apartment and saw nuns on
their hands and knees in the middle of the cobblestone street, arranging flower
petals and colored sawdust chips in intricate designs, forming vibrant pathway
so long I could not see the end. One of the sisters explained that there was to
be a procession at 6:30, that I should attend. Their convent is apparently
right by our apartment. “Stop by whenever you want,” she told me. “We have a
trampoline.”
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| New nun friends |
I told her I would come by, thank you for the invitation,
and then started walking along the edge of the path, watching how the sisters’
poppy stained fingers moved like beetles over the stones. I breathed deeply as
I passed the giant cross outlined in lavender. I smiled at the little boy
sprinkling water on the art with a watering can bigger than he was. Part of me
wanted to take off my backpack, set my laptop on the side of the street, and
join in the decoration. I regret to say I didn’t. I did, however, stay to watch
the procession. I saw the children dressed in white march on either side of the
path, saw a man with a gold mask walk right over it, his soles slightly warping
the perfect circles, changing the griffin’s smile into a grimace.
Today I happened to be rinsing off a yellow pear in the sink
at the exact moment the woman across from me started hanging out her laundry to
dry. Never have I been so fascinated by something so mundane. The way she
spaced the wooden pins perfectly on the sheets, so when she took her long red
pole and pushed the ends down the wire, there wasn’t a single wrinkled fold or
crease in the linen captivated me. Never have I eaten a pear so slowly. By the
time she was done, I had bitter grounds of core on my tongue.
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| The face of Jesus for the end of the procession |
So far, my reading assignments for class have led me to
consider the vast ways in which our expectations of travel can and do vary from
the reality of a trip. It is true that I never would have anticipated my joy at
receiving a free handful of celery from the man at the produce market, my
rapture in watching a woman dry her sheets, or being invited to jump on a nun’s
trampoline. But explorers farther back than Columbus have taught us that
knowing what is out there is largely irrelevant. Expectation is not what
counts; in the end, it is only one’s willingness to go and see that matters.
Our first class discussion, led by Kay the squatty
Irishwoman, revolved around the history of travel. In the past, people went on
journeys to garner spices for the motherland, conquer new territories, flee
famine, persecution, or invasion.
What necessity, I wonder, has driven me?
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