Less than a year and a half ago I traveled to Tuscany in Italy for a bit over a week. This indulgent tryst was the result of a generous invitation from my former sister-in-law with her friends and traveling companions. Having spent time in Rome, Firenza (Florence), and a few medieval, walled hill towns, I returned to Philadelphia to stay with my son, a world traveler himself. The next day I headed back to Hanover where culture shock remained with me for several weeks as I went about my routines of work and play.
The photographs that I imported from nearly nine gigabytes of RAW images helped to ease my withdrawal from a country I am yet convinced I could go in a heartbeat to live. Further, the pictures provided assistance in converting my written journal notes into poems that would be alive with fresh images and metaphors.
Before I departed on this, my very first, overseas trip, I had conjured memories from reading The Passion by Jeanette Winterson. It concerns the fated journeys and magical moments of two characters who eventually share part of their lives in Venice. Although I never made it to Venice, I am assured that the next time (Oh, yes, there will be a next time insisted my villa mates) I will certainly allow for at least two or three days there.
While hiking through the streets and alleys of Hanover as I am wont to do, visions of narrow slate walkways in San Gimignano, known as the City of Beautiful Towers, haunted me in a good way. Originally in this tiny enclave, there were seventy-two towers built by patrician families, probably to demonstrate their wealth and power. The town was an important center for trade and for pilgrims traveling to or from Rome during the Middle Ages. There were so many remnants of the distant past there, I was certain everything had been some elaborate Disney World ploy created for our benefit, right down to to tiny older women hanging laundry out their windows above us as we paraded from unique shop to shop.
Siena was another town I felt compelled to see because my college roommate’s Mom hailed from there. In Siena I encountered my first experience with a duomo (Latin for “home”), when I visited the Duomo of Siena. According to the Italian “duomo è la casa di Dio e del suo popolo,” translates “dome is the house of God and his people.” One could feel nothing less than a sense of overwhelming awe, respect, and majesty inside the immense and gorgeous cathedral. The imposing façades contain treasures created by several artists of the time, including Michelangelo, Bernini, and Donatello. Siena is also famous for its large fan-shaped piazza (plaza), Piazza del Campo, with its summer horse-race of riders from competing districts, all from within the city’s walls.
My sister-in-law insisted that we also experience Volterra, a city over 3000 years old and resting upon a 1500 foot high hill. The views to the valleys and rooftops below were breathtaking and the city life vibrant. The architecture and colors were National Geo-like and each door of every building, large or small, incredibly distinct.
When I had all this sight-seeing under my belt, everyone encouraged me to take a day trip by myself by train to Firenza. I was in a near panic because the journey entailed my struggling with language to secure tickets and directions and meals and maps and bathrooms. All was an adventure and all worked out perfectly. People were most patient and helpful. So much so, that when I arrived an hour ahead on my return trip, I confidently ventured into the small railway town to bide my time getting espresso and walking to a park where I observed some of the following to combine with other events from the week:
Communion
Across the piazza from the duomo
people fidget like pigeons, minds
fixed on destination–Firenze, Pisa,
someplace other than home.I follow a blind man in a white shirt,
bolo tie, dress shoes, puffing
his cigar stub, waving a wand
to match his crisp cadence
and patent leather posture.Children play among shrubs.
Men on benches gesticulate
adding to the day’s summary.
Women urge their mothers
arm-in-arm around the promenade,
purses swinging in late afternoon.Wash dries outside windows.
Shutters make shadow wings
against yellow and salmon stucco.
Beneath socks, sheets and lingerie,
familiar phrases hover over slate streets
worn with visitation and commerce,
pocked by rain, warfare and parades.- Michael J Hoover