Seeing Dante in the Olive Groves

Airy music rushes to meet me as I walk down these hollow halls. Gordan is playing the piano again. This place is amazing. It feels so peaceful and ageless, like a soft forest glade, yet the iron bars on the windows, the tight spiraling stairs, and the long stone corridors contain boundless potential for adventure. If I could fence, these halls would probably ring with steel most hours of the day. But equally likely, the only sound to come from my fingers would be the rustle of pages as I turned slowly through books older than these halls themselves. Here in the hill town of Settignano, surrounded by fields and overlooking a brilliant view of the city, lived Dante and Michelangelo, as well as a host of other brilliant artists and poets, drawing life from the land and giving it back to the people. These past days have been a mix of stress and excitement, and today I plan to simply relax.

I may be the only one left at the villa. The Bortins crew is still out meandering the Mediterranean, and two groups left this morning for Pisa and Sienna. The remaining fellows have just now walked to catch the bus to town. I don't know the details of what they were doing over the past few days, but I can talk of Venice, that sinking city, where I spent my time. Brooke's sister and her husband live in the town of Montebelluna, just outside of Venice, and we stayed with them there. First, we left on Tuesday afternoon, after spending the day with the rest of the group, and visiting Michelangelo's David. Our morning done, we left for the train station, where Christopher saw us off, Brooke, Laura, and me myself. Our train took sped us away little by little to Padova. I had a funny little exchange with another foreigner, a woman who's case was too heavy for her. As I carried it off the train, she thanked me and I accepted it, all in Italian, with neither of us understanding the language. I was still chuckling about that when we met Victoria, Brooke's sister, at the gate. We boarded the train again and left for Montebelluna.

The little town was gorgeous and quiet, although, again, I found that it wasn't as small as I thought. The towns here are deceptively large. What I liked most was that there were no tourists besides us walking through its streets. The town was full of normal people going about normal lives. Victoria greeted old friends, and the place felt like a home— if not our own, than someone's. So we climbed to their apartment and spent the rest of the evening with them. Victoria is an amazing cook. I miss her, actually, and the gorgeous meals she would put on the table. When I told James that the woman I marry has to be able to cook, he spoke out with his Oxford wisdom and said, “Good lookin' changes. Good cookin' lasts forever.” Truer words are hard to come by. So we played cards and retired for the night, sprawling on cushions and mattresses in the living room.

Brooke wanted to stay with her family the next day, so Laura and I went out on the town. Actually, the four of us went out in the morning to the open market held every Wednesday in the square. Instead of cheesy trinkets meant for tourists, the market sold food, clothes, shoes, and all else that the people here actually use, all for so much cheaper than the markets in Florence. It was delightful. We bought food for Venice from the stalls and didn't mind the prices at all. Brooke and Victoria returned home, and Laura and I went to see the sights, mainly the church at the top of the hill. The streets of Italy are an absolute delight, with the possibility of gardens, high vistas, and singing construction workers beyond every turn. We meandered our way back in time to go to Wednesday night church, held outside of town, in an actual warehouse. Now I have experienced both equivalents here; the highly traditional, and the very charismatic. We sang familiar worship songs in Italian from a projector on the wall, and wore headphones to hear a translation of the sermon, a talk on understanding God's will.

Here in Italy, I've been watching everything with an eye of comparison. What is the same in the states? What huge differences can I find? To be honest, I don't know why I expected so much difference. The people are the same here. They worship in churches built before King Richard returned from his crusades, but they worship the same God with the same songs, preaching the same messages for the same problems. Old men still ramble, delighted to share their knowledge, and young bucks still crowd around each other in the park, laughing, boasting, and showing off for the girls. The tiny alleys are older than our capitol, and their ugly and new churches would be old and majestic to us. But the same people walk down the streets, going about the same business of living on this earth. That's what I've seen here. Dogs still bark at strangers, people still get used to priceless views, and tourists always come to see things from a different perspective. I no longer apologize for my camera, or try to blend in. Most of my “grazie”s have turned to “thank you”s, because no matter what I do, I couldn't separate myself from these people, not if I tried.

I can see all of Florence from here. I can see her dome and her spires, her soccer stadiums and her apartment buildings. I can see the valley stretching from end to end, full of orchards and gardens. The view from this mountain is beautiful, more so than almost any I've seen, but it's no different from the views I've seen from any other hilltop, and no different from the view the Etruscans saw two thousand years ago when they looked down into the valley and saw the little seed of a town wrapped around the Arno. Walt Whitman wasn't crazy when he compared us to grass, interconnected and the same. Solomon was right when he wrote that there is nothing new under the sun. And here I am, under the sun, seeing what so many great minds saw before me, and I'm very happy, content to be older than dirt and the same as everyone else. Now I want to read Dante's books. What did he think when he looked out over Tuscany? I can see his pen scratching, and I long to look over his shoulder. As for now? I'm going to return to Odysseus’s tale, and see how his story ends. You? You should shut off your computer and take a walk under the sun.

Au revoir, arrividerci, and see you later!

Your servant,
Barnabas