I am pretty sure I have yet to see a stop sign in Italy. Italians are fearless when crossing the street. They don't even look. The roads of Frascati were made for pedestrians and mules, not tiny, fuel-efficient bullets. Smart cars have never seemed so dangerous. Instead of a cross walk, I try to find someone who is well-dressed and focused on anything other than traffic. Then I walk with them, being sure that I am on the opposite side of the approaching car. Moments later, I have crossed the street.
Maybe it is the coffee, the late dinners, the free flowing wine. I am sure there are slower places in Italy but everything is buzzing in Rome. This weekend I hope to get out to the mountains for a night in my own.
I still can't figure out how to show you photos. I want to show you the view from the train as the sun is setting and we are climbing the hill out of Rome, into the vineyards. I want to show you what I discovered in Boston the day I left. I was walking around with my father and I saw something that reminded me of New Orleans, of Italy, of all those places that sound like magic, where you might find a forgotten alley way, hang paintings of everything you pray to and think will save you and want to share with others so that they too might cross without looking and just keep going.
For now you have this. It is not so bad, no?
