the plan was to cross the Aspramonte national park, from the east coast of Calabria to the west coast, and thence cross on the boat to Sicilia. on the second day we encountered snow on the top of Montalto. it became very plodding and deep through the trees and after a few hours of cold feet we wanted to descend quickly before the night fell. we scrambled down steep slopes and followed a nascent running brook to sleep by a big fire beneath big beech trees. it was only the day after when we observed the sun rising in the east - the same direction as the stream was running - that we realised that following that stream would take us back to the coast we had just left.
in any case food was running low, the scramble back up those steep slopes was uninviting and the idea of unequipped us scaling Mount Etna had become ponderous - at 3,329m it was sure to have a lot more snow than little 1,935m Montalto.
back in the house of fabrizio's father i decide to leave my bike there. i will travel faster without it. we decide to take the night train to rome in a few day's time. i return to pepe and rossella's farm where i have left my scarf and take away a big loaf of bread and a big round of cheese for the journey. eating the things they produce is an enormous pleasure. eating food is normally a pleasurable experience, but eating their produce enlarges the boundaries of pleasurability. rossella says perhaps they can sell and send produce through the post, and i happily consider the possibility. she also tells me that they will harvest grapes in october and olives in november. i listen to her invitation to come then and lend a hand with eagerness.
gianni is older now. he prides himself on having travelled with little money in his youth. when we first met he asked me if i was borghese. bourgeois
he clarifies: do i have money? how much?
well... enough to buy a flight back to scotland if i wanted to.
i detect a note of cynicism in his nod. he has classified me as bourgeois.
what is actually achieved by classifying people? we are all the same in essence, apart from a few notable differences.
actually essentially the same, in an inner kind of way.
appearance. the surface. the superficial.
can cloud and hide what is inside.
michel is crying in the kitchen when it is time for me leave.
he had looked at me with eyes full of far-off worry and said "do you also have mental problems?"
depression.
other times he had sought my affirmation, "la vita e bella, vero?"
- yes, i had affirmed, life is beautiful.
but how can that affirmation be really felt by him? crying in the kitchen.
mental health may be compromised, but he knows a human connection when he feels it.
if you want to communicate with somebody you have to speak the language - use the words - that they understand. therefore thank the good Lord for the bounteous raining gifts. Dio sa badare ai suoi figli.
"Rome still feels very unknown to me"
"i felt like i knew Rome a lot better after climbing the old railway tower - shall we climb the old railway tower tonight?"
in the morning the soft blue surrounding hills, and a great part of the city spread out in the new sun. the coming and going of the trains starts early.
Being in love is the quintessential good experience.
the scent of jasmine fills you at the very same moment that you are filled with a sense of well-being.
mmmmm
how do they do it? four or five or six little white pointed petals. they know exactly what they are doing, those flowers. continually filling the air of that street with that perfume; the next day the very same olfactory experience.
we had exchanged no words, but after having spent the morning hours sitting next to him in the library, i felt like i knew matteo in a certain minor way. when we shelter from the rain in the metro station and do exchange words, he tells me that he will travel to a house in the countryside an hour south of rome where a his brother lives with a group of families and where they grow plants in a sort of community. he invites me to come along, and there there are many other people visiting, and a big table with pots of bean soup and a big round of cheese being cut up and wine poured into glasses. and later some people are playing music and other people are dancing. and there is a fire.
in any case food was running low, the scramble back up those steep slopes was uninviting and the idea of unequipped us scaling Mount Etna had become ponderous - at 3,329m it was sure to have a lot more snow than little 1,935m Montalto.
back in the house of fabrizio's father i decide to leave my bike there. i will travel faster without it. we decide to take the night train to rome in a few day's time. i return to pepe and rossella's farm where i have left my scarf and take away a big loaf of bread and a big round of cheese for the journey. eating the things they produce is an enormous pleasure. eating food is normally a pleasurable experience, but eating their produce enlarges the boundaries of pleasurability. rossella says perhaps they can sell and send produce through the post, and i happily consider the possibility. she also tells me that they will harvest grapes in october and olives in november. i listen to her invitation to come then and lend a hand with eagerness.
gianni is older now. he prides himself on having travelled with little money in his youth. when we first met he asked me if i was borghese. bourgeois
he clarifies: do i have money? how much?
well... enough to buy a flight back to scotland if i wanted to.
i detect a note of cynicism in his nod. he has classified me as bourgeois.
what is actually achieved by classifying people? we are all the same in essence, apart from a few notable differences.
actually essentially the same, in an inner kind of way.
appearance. the surface. the superficial.
can cloud and hide what is inside.
michel is crying in the kitchen when it is time for me leave.
he had looked at me with eyes full of far-off worry and said "do you also have mental problems?"
depression.
other times he had sought my affirmation, "la vita e bella, vero?"
- yes, i had affirmed, life is beautiful.
but how can that affirmation be really felt by him? crying in the kitchen.
mental health may be compromised, but he knows a human connection when he feels it.
if you want to communicate with somebody you have to speak the language - use the words - that they understand. therefore thank the good Lord for the bounteous raining gifts. Dio sa badare ai suoi figli.
"Rome still feels very unknown to me"
"i felt like i knew Rome a lot better after climbing the old railway tower - shall we climb the old railway tower tonight?"
in the morning the soft blue surrounding hills, and a great part of the city spread out in the new sun. the coming and going of the trains starts early.
Being in love is the quintessential good experience.
the scent of jasmine fills you at the very same moment that you are filled with a sense of well-being.
mmmmm
how do they do it? four or five or six little white pointed petals. they know exactly what they are doing, those flowers. continually filling the air of that street with that perfume; the next day the very same olfactory experience.
we had exchanged no words, but after having spent the morning hours sitting next to him in the library, i felt like i knew matteo in a certain minor way. when we shelter from the rain in the metro station and do exchange words, he tells me that he will travel to a house in the countryside an hour south of rome where a his brother lives with a group of families and where they grow plants in a sort of community. he invites me to come along, and there there are many other people visiting, and a big table with pots of bean soup and a big round of cheese being cut up and wine poured into glasses. and later some people are playing music and other people are dancing. and there is a fire.
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