Walk, walk, walk, walk in the Light.

Giugno 26, 2008
Days in Italy: 6
Known Bug-bites: 12
Total Gelato Sessions: 4
Collective Fanta Chugged (mL): 2490
Picturebook: Weekend Excursions

So Aaryn, Jono, and I find ourselves sitting in the first-class booth, which is just second class with a plastic partition. The rest of the seating is full, and we don't want to move into another car lest we miss Dory's signal when we arrive at our station. Aaryn in her fearless diplomacy greets the sharply-dressed Italian man sitting next to her. I enjoy how much the people in Italy live up to our schema. I mean he pretty much looks the way you imagine a stereotypical Italian guy to look: the slicked hair, the tight pants and all -- maybe that's why Aaryn's being so friendly with him. Nonetheless she very much enjoys his reciprocation of kindness; how, with his minimal English, he nobly proceeds to talk her and answer her questions. They discuss life in Italy, his hometown of Florence, Italian soccer players, and somewhere in the conversation she casually throws in that she's from Arezzo.

Immediately his face changes...or rather, his mouth, since his designer sunglasses cover most everything else. His newspaper becomes an enthralling, tour de force piece of literature, and his English is reduced to "eh...I don't know." None of Aaryn's banter is of any effect anymore. The chuckles that once humored her curious inquiries devolve into vague exhalations that make it seem like he's not into this anymore. Two minutes pass and he gets up, grabs his stuff, and disappears from our car after wishing us a good time in Cortona. Harmless enough, except that the train isn't stopping, and he said earlier that he was heading into Cortona too. Jono looks at her and says "Why did you tell him you from Arezzo? Floretines hates Aretini!"

That little rivalry I mentioned in a past post? This is it. Florence and Arezzo. Random guy and Aaryn.

The streets of Cortona prove to be a worthy consolation to Aaryn's little Romeo and Juliet alternate ending. It's a tourist town, thanks to Diane Lane, filled with gifts shops, gelaterias every few feet, it's own an street accordion player, and an uphill incline that thoroughly puts San Fran to shame. Dory takes us up...up...so far up the quaint scenery of faded antiquarianism and clothesline laundry fail to penetrate the burning desire to just tap out with an ice-cold Fanta.That, of course, is no option -- I mentioned how I'm 1/3 of the male population right? We reach the top, the gorgeous top, and it's so worth it.

An Etruscan wall built 5 centuries before Christ was even born.
nuff said.

We carefully walk down, slant-bodied, and break for lunch in the Piazza made famous by "Under the Tuscan Sun." Jana, Cayenne and I stop by the bank, where we encounter a rich , Italian-American, vagabonding woman who, after a quick glance, exposes our Orange County residence by what she calls "the California glow." She's even able to distinguish Cayenne as not being a possessor of such, a conclusion Cayenne later rambles on about in resentment.

Lunch at Fufluns finally scratches the pizza itch. Finally. It'd be more accurate to say I've been having an Italian food eczema since I came to Italy, and their house special pizza is quite the relief. But of course, eczema means there's always room for more scratching. Second wind: Snoopy's gelato. #1 gelateria in my book so far.

We head up to the monastery of St. Francis, a sight well-coupled by Dory's "Here Comes The Sun" ringtone unexpectedly going off.

The place is utterly serene. The surrounding space is nothing but endless trees drooping into the valley. It's pretty amazing. I mean, we're all agitatedly walking this endless road, we turn a corner and the next thing you know we're all alone. When the air is clean of any noise pollution, thoughts just become so loud. As if by righteous conviction, everyone around me finds themselves sitting, staring, pondering, journaling, basically the whole gamut of pensive expression.

This seems to be more difficult for me. While most everyone else is easily discovering marvel after marvel, my wonderment seems to only rest on how different and old this place is. It's a weird feeling, which sadly doesn't attribute itself to spirituality or a communion with God. I'm a bit long-faced by the fact that revelation is refusing to crash itself into me right now. In fact, it wasn't until I looked to the scattered awestruck travelers around me that I even really acknowledged God's presence here. I think I'm so used to finding and establishing the presence of God in everyday, hidden corners of life that being able to just sit and bask in His more apparent majesty has become too much for me to digest. I'm surprised to notice not many thoughts run through my head, except for wondering what would compel a person to become a monk in the first place, to deny himself of social normalcy and almost everything else.

No answer comes to mind.

Lord, grant me peace of mind.
Help me to be more in tune with Your presence,
And open to your revelations.
Guide me in worship as I learn to humble myself before your creation.
Grow me in the knowledge of You, that I might be filled with praise at the sound of Your name.
Be Lord of my life.

The walk up our front steps is partnered with grunts of relief. During a much overdue shower I do another bite count. The hike has been exceptionally irritating to my feet, and so camouflaged bites have now come to visibility, revealing a whoppingly different recount. I look at my legs feeling like I could audition for the movie adaptation of Seuss' "If I Ran The Zoo."

Known Bug-bites: 27

Uh oh. One went blister.