Don’t Stop to Think, Walk.

I walked under a fading sun, though there was enough light to show me no one walked at my side. I spoke silently, if there had been someone next to me I surely would have spoken aloud, but I was alone and I was content to share with myself. Indeed, I gave thanks for the peace and solitude. My smiling face confirmed this inner sentiment. On this particular stroll, my feet played guide and led me about because my mind was not committed to the path, but elsewhere. There was no errand nor destination just a free moment to wander within.
I pulled the collar of my pea coat close to my neck and shoved my hands deep into my coat pockets; protective measures against the piercing night breeze. The echo of my footsteps against hard, uneven cobble stones filled the silence, but that was all. At the time my thoughts were general and painfully practical. Where will I eat dinner? Did I turn off the kitchen light? How long did it take to set each stone in its place for the cobble stone street upon which I trod? To this point my head was down with my chin buried into my scarf to collect heat. I don’t know what prompted me to lift my head and gaze upward, but I did and in that instant the trigger pulled. A gun sounded, though not audibly. A previously cluttered thought process became almost instantly blank. I say almost blank because there remained one single, yet profound thought lighting up my brain like a Vegas casino sign: I live in Italy.
Profound might be a slight reach but truly up until that point I don’t think that realization had laid root in my mind. I had taken up residence in Viterbo, but Viterbo had not yet moved into my conscience.
My nostrils burned and my lungs swelled as I took in generous servings of the brisk evening air. Air lets one know he is alive and that reality is speaking for itself. I understood the importance of absolute reality only because I had watched “Inception” the night before. Great flick. I was fascinated with my new found revelation and basked in its truth. I walked ancient streets which were much older than anything my former American life had offered me. This was the country of my peasant immigrant fore fathers and I felt at home.
Origin, for some unknown reason, means the world to me. I have to know where something or someone comes from. This might be why I love maps. An hour bent over a map, following rivers and roads, streets and streams is an hour vanished in seconds. I loose myself in origin and in thoughts of origin. I felt original as I walked the Italian streets. A pleasant mist floated down at a leisurely pace and dusted my coat but did not chill my skin. Not noticing the rain, my skin remained indifferent, whereas my nose jolted alive at the fresh, pure smell of the sifting dew. I drew another deep breath, this time focusing on the acute scent filling my sinus cavity. If Italy was to remain home, I was happy it smelled good.
I was now nearing my door and my steps grew shorter until they stopped altogether, short of the doorway. With head tilted back and feet together, I determined to bind all of it up in my heart; the smells, the cobble stones, the silence. I knew that I loved Italy like an estranged aunt if for no other reason than it is in my blood. The desire to tattoo the memory across my memory for a very long time rose within me, though only briefly. Then I remembered hearing tattoos hurt so I decided to just write it down instead. Rain began to collect on my face; I shook off the wet beads and stepped through the threshold, shutting the door behind me.