I’ve been trying for four days to describe what I did Easter Sunday. It’s really annoying, because I want to write well; but I can’t find the words that put you there with me. So, I’m just going to go ahead and talk about it anyway, and if it sucks, I’ve got pictures coming later to make up for it. Here goes.
After Marco and I had lunch, he took a nap; I grabbed my camera and went for a walk. I love the part of Rome we’re in; it’s only about a quarter mile outside the ancient walls at Porta Maggiore, an interesting mish-mash of stately villas, apartment buildings and tiny homes built by people who clearly had no regard for zoning laws or building codes. It’s by far my favorite neighborhood.
The wisteria was noisy with bees hard at work; courtyards, terraces and gardens were noisy with families lingering over a long Easter lunch outdoors in the sunshine. On every street – and I walked up and down all of them – I heard grandmothers cooing at babies, the hungry sighs that accompanied a new dish brought out from the kitchen, children making up new rules to old games, the clinking of silverware against plates, a burst of laughter at a joke well told.
The smell of wisteria was everywhere, mingling with lemon trees, wild rose bushes, grilled lamb and roasted garlic. Various family pets were angling for scraps, or napping soundly in the sun. I was alone on the streets a majority of the time, joined only by the occasional family from out of town bearing enormous chocolate Easter eggs – or waddling out of mamma’s house bearing Tupperware – and this old man, watering a patch of lawn that was more pristine than the 18th hole at Augusta.
I was out and about for three hours; but my heart felt so light, and my soul was so at peace, that I could have stayed out for another three.