I awake early ready for the next leg of my journey. First I decide to have breakfast at my hotel. They serve me a delicious bowl of oatmeal, whole grain toast and tea. I am satisfied and feel nourished for the journey ahead. I check with the front desk, still no luggage in spite of a promise that it would arrive in the middle of the night. I am not surprised. I did not expect it and have already purchased all that is necessary to continue my travels.
This leg of my trip has brought me to the most anxiety. I have to board the subway and get off at a particular stop, then search for the bus that will take me to Sora. The timetables are iffy and should I choose the wrong time to leave I will wait in the middle of nowhere for hours. I purchase my subway ticket and follow the signs to the correct line. I continue following and a train is just arriving. I rush to board it and as the doors close realize it is the wrong one. I disembark at the next station and head back the other direction. I finally board the correct line and watch my time hoping it will arrive at the appropriate time. The train arrives at the last station and I begin to walk trying to follow signs to the bus terminal. My Italian is progressing and I read a schedule that tells me to climb up and wait at platform 10. I make my way to the platform and happen to glance at the bus at platform 9. It says Sora. I rush over, buy a ticket and board.
After two days in Rome my feet were blistered in 6 places, the cobblestone streets had taken their toll with their many cracks and rolling walkways all running up or downhill. My feet only hurt when I put them up at night but now I am aboard a bus and have a couple of hours to rest them. I put them up and realize how much my legs ache. I have climbed more than 2,000 steps in the last two days as well as 20 plus hills.
The bus quickly becomes my favorite way to travel in Italy. It has a slower pace and it winds through hilltop towns instead of sticking to the freeways. I see village after village, farm after farm and vineyard after vineyard. In the countryside people prefer to have a vegetable garden rather than a large yard. Most houses have a vineyard, olive grove, fruit trees and large garden with trellised tomatoes and other vegetables. Some have used the land between houses to plant wheat. I am immediately inspired by how useful all the land is. There is not wasted expanses of grass or plants that have no purpose. Italians are diligently purposeful about how they use the land. A deep respect for mother nature seems embedded in their culture and nature responds with a resounding thank you in here magnificent splendor; hundreds of varieties of butterflies, bees happily buzzing and not bothering with humans, birds chirping their exuberant thank you. You hear as you wake each morning and throughout the day in the countryside.
The bus squeezes through another village. Stucco houses with Spanish tile roofs line the narrow streets. Hills surround the route and large granite peaks jut skyward. It seems the mountains are huge but later I am told they are only 1,000 meters high not much higher than the elevation of Central Oregon. The contrast between the valley below and the mountains above give you a sense of something much larger.
I think back on my time in Rome how Italian men ate me up with their eyes as Elida would say. I have never felt so delicious. The beautiful men I met and kisses I shared remain written on my soul. I reminisce. My face has been kissed by Turkey, the eyes of an angel, Rome the thoughts of the devil and Milan a tenderness lying somewhere in between. Extreme attraction always makes me think of my devil side but God meant for us to enjoy one another in that way. In Italy they are not bound by our Puritanical rigidness. They can both worship God in an extremely humble manner and passionately pursue human relationships. They are not obsessing about worldly pursuits because relationships are a very Godly endeavor. I think back to how Allesandro wore his white linen shirt unbuttoned just so, inviting me to touch. He and I were born just two days apart and he liked to tease me about being older. He was frustrated that I was leaving Rome. He could not understand why I wanted to go to the countryside.
I pass hilltop villas baking in the sunshine. The hillsides are lush with trees and greenery. The area reminds me of Northern California and it dawns on me that of course Italians chose to settle there; it was so much like home, the mornings cool and fresh and the afternoon hot and sultry.
Waking up each morning with the shutters drawn, window open, birds chirping and church bells chiming would have only been better if I had someone there next to me. Doug went to Italy alone and I wonder if he had the same thought. I could have of course awoke with one of my new friends but it wouldn't have meant anything and when offered they tried to understand my reasoning.
The road to Sora curves like a woman's body with soft hills in between. Somehow Italy makes you feel more like a woman, more soft and sensuous. I needed that. Life has made me too hard, too rigid, too regimented.
We pass a large brick building, huge and topped with a cross. A large brick wall surrounds it and I am immediately curious about what it was. We pass through another village where clothes hang on the line to dry. I imagine they will dry in seconds as I melt in the heat. We cross a brick bridge over a small river and I finally spot the Cyprus trees that I have always equated with Italy. Will I keep this idea after spending so much time in the country?
My new wardrobe explains Italy as well as words. The shirts cut low and lay just so to accentuate your curves. Everything about Italy screams bold sensuality not to be confused with sexuality.
I arrive at the last bus stop in Sora and the driver tells me to disembark. I am looking now for the pizzeria where I will catch my ride to the farm. I don't immediately spot it so I use my phrasebook to ask a man. He directs me and I am off. The men of Sora look somehow different from those in Rome; darker. One asks if I need a ride when I say no he politely shrugs as if to say "Oh well" and drives off. It is Sunday and Sora, as with much of Italy, still observes the Sabbath. Nothing is open and I am supposed to call for a ride. I look around and spot a payphone. (Do we even have these still in America?) I drop in a couple of Euros and make the call. Antonella greets me on the other end and says he is sending someone.
Maria, Antonella's mother, picks me up in her beat up two-door. He English isn't too bad. After we climbed the steep winding hills to the farm I realized I had forgotten to get cash. As if she knew what I was thinking she directed me down a path through the animal pen filled with horses, a donkey, sheep, goats, chickens and pigs. The path was a shorter way to get back to Sora. I am first served a glass of homemade wine and a piece of sourdough bread. This I am told is how they greet their guests.
I decide to take the path as it is still early in the day and there does not seem to be anyone around. I later found out I had arrived during Siesta. The path wound through the forest down the hill and across a creek. Part of the path was lined with the stations of the cross, a common theme in this town I would soon find out. I was finally dropped into town, the walk was long but it somehow felt refreshing as I poured with sweat.
On my return walk I was thinking how refreshing it would be to jump into the lake, something promised in the advertising. It turns out the lake was about one hour away by car and they did not always go.
That night we head into town with Antonella's wife, Linda. We are going to watch the soccer game in the town square and have some pizza. The first pizza place will not cook anymore pizza because the game is about to begin. We continue on to the next one where luckily they are listening to the game on the radio. With pizza in hand, folded of course, we head to the square. A huge screen is set up and many people are gathered. This is a beautiful piece of Italian culture. The game is not going well for Italy. The men flick their chins and stomp their feet in disgust. The yell at the referees when a call goes against Italy. A pageant is played out before us. My new friend Dasha, from the Ukraine, and I discuss how they behave and enjoy the evening. Bernadette, American but living in the UK, is there too but exhausted from a hard day of working in the heat. We have gellato at half-time and finish the game. Vendors are selling Italy shirts and noisemakers. Children wave flags bigger than they are. They drag on the ground as they run around the square. I watch a Mom buy her son a noisemaker. She waits patiently until he finds the loudest one. I think of myself as a mother and how against that I would be. I have something to learn from her. Spain wins 4-0. The men look as if they are going to cry, some might have. We head home and turn in for the night.
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