Italy's Siren Call Lures Us More And

Sometimes The Valley Below Is Like A Bowl Filled Up With Fog. I Can See Hard Green Figs On Two Trees And Pears On A Tree Just Below Me. A Fine Crop Coming In. May Summer Last A Hundred Years.

Splendid To Arrive Alone In A Foreign Country And Feel The Assault Of Difference. Here They Are All Along, Busy With Living; They Don't Talk Or Look Like Me. The Rhythm Of Their Day Is Entirely Different; I Am Foreign.

Memory Is, Of Course, A Trickster.

Whatever A Guidebook Says, Wether Or Not You Leave Somewhere With A Sense Of The Place Is Entirely A Matter Of Smell And Instinct.

Sometimes You Have To Travel Back In Time, Skirting The Obstacles, In Order To Love Someone.