The Sense of Being

 We are making our way around the walled perimeter of town on our evening camminatata. Me, my Italian friend and neighbor, Carina, and my friend Kristen, another "Americana" who was smitten by this town and bought a house here. Four circumnavigations around the outer walls equals 5 k. We pump our arms and encourage each other, chatting in English amd Italian, falling to silence when the hills demand all our lung power. As we move through a narrow alley lined with terraced houses, Kristen exclaims, "There are so many smells!"
So there are! We start to identify each: coffee, begun now for the post-dinner accompaniment to i dolci, fried pepper aroma left over from the main dish, bread which has begun baking at il forno, which is what the locals still call the grocery store, even though it is now more than its original  incarnation of the town bakery. The bread will be fresh and ready for sale tomorrow morning. I make a mental note to get up early. There is an array of other smells I can't identify, but they linger as we motor past their sources, strong and distinct, giving us an extra dash of pleasure and pep. They form a sensory collage of life in this village.

  

 It occurs to me then how much your senses are heightened and fully engaged here. Sound bounces off of stone walls with sharp clarity and echoes in the dips between the hills. There is a seeming closeness and immediacy to conversations going on around you, even outside of the separating walls of your house. One friend told me from the loggia of his home in the country he can hear folks talking in the town a few kilometers away. When I eat dinner on my terrazzo I can hear the young voices and guitar accompaniment of evening mass happening below and around the corner. It's like having my own private house concert.

 All the sounds are clear and sharp. Their vibrations tingle in the air. There is little motorized sound to overpower it. No traffic buzzes by incessantly, producing a constant drone. If you are up early enough, you might catch the creak and rattle of a tractor cutting hay. You might hear yourself gasp as you watch it turn sideways to change direction horizontal to the steep grade,feeling your heart pound as you marvel that it doesn't tip over. 

You might catch the occasional rumble of a construction vehicle straining up the road. Going god knows where it's possible to go on roads that grow narrower and narrower as they go higher and higher. 

You can gauge life by your senses here. The screech of a rolling metal door means Alessandro is opening his tabacchi shop. It mist be 8:30 AM. The smell of garlic browning with a chaser of aroma of hot passata  means it's nearing 11. Pranzo is being prepared. A bit of smoke in the air means the pizzeria is heating up the wood ovens.   Must be 7 PM. And the sizzle and aroma of meat coming from several places around town means arrosticini is cooking. Lots of it. There must be a big soccer match on TV.  Expect a raucous night.

It is as if your senses are being played like a fine, masterfully crafted instrument. A string plucked here, a key pressed there.  Becoming a part of a symphony of sensory enlivenment. The sounds,sights,smells, tastes, touch are a rhapsody of life. Experiencing it, you thrum, you buzz, you hum with life yourself. You cannot escape feeling fully alive. But then, why would you want to? 

Tonight the pizza smells so good,the laughter at tables below me on the bellevedere is so sparkling, I'm going down to share in it. I can already taste the "salume piccante" on my classic pie!