Bells

San Rufino

Santa Maria Maggiore

Santa Chiara

San Stefano

The Temple of Minerva, P. Comune

And, of course, last, but not least, the magnificent Basilica of San Francesco

 These were the days, my friends, we thought they'd never end......

But, not wanting to have it hanging over our heads as we approach our early morning departure later this week,we have already been packing and getting ready.  It's not exactly a favorite part of a holiday, for us of for anyone for that matter.  It's especially hard when we're not only packing "stuff", but we're closing the lid on a life that we have grown rather fond of during the past two and a half months. We're saying good-bye to long, long days, to breathtaking views and saddest or all, to wonderful friends and acquaintances.

We have a thousand new stories. I still have a few to write and promise myself that in the next few weeks, I will. Right now, I am hearing the church bells that have become my clock. I almost don't have to count along with each peal to know what time it is. The bells have a way of sinking in, creating an instant memory of just how many have rung at a given time. Every once in a while, for reasons I do not know, they just start ringing. A cacophony of  hard, loud chimes that last for at least five solid minutes at a time. When I am back at home, I am sure that the little videos I have made will play over and over and each gong will bring me back here. 

The adventure is coming to a close for us but, for others, it is just beginning. Each day, we see the arrival of tour groups, busses parked in a lower lot, refilled late in the afternoon.  After our dinner, we take our own passigiati and savor the feeling of being "alone" again, the little city, quiet and calm, closing itself like a giant clam, protecting the life within, awaiting the arrival of the incoming tide when the new day brings the multitudes.  It is simply amazing, how many Americans are visiting Italy. The term "revenge travel" has been used. The post-Covid return of tourism. So many young families. Lots of gelato. Tons of pizza. Really great pizza. 

I hope to remember every last second of every last wonderful hour. Of every last kind person. Of every new word I have learned in Italian. Of every scent of every rose, jasmine, wild flower on the way to and from the little market where we have shopped for groceries in between our trips to the "big" supermarket. Of every person behind every counter in every cafe. Of every cappuccino that has been lovingly delivered to every small table with a view to live for.

My promise is to not bore my friends with details, to not thrust my phone and show the six thousand new photos that it holds. But if you ask, I will tell you and if you want to know what my personal favorites were and always will be, it won't take much persuading. But, for the moment, it's all on hold. I hear bells.