I took a few hours today and walked around with a mind to my mother (Joy). If not for her blindness I know she would not have married and most definitely I would not have been born. She would have traipsed around the world and absorbed all cultures and all knowledge. I imagine that since that was not possible for her she was thrilled that I could do it for her. With this responsibility of living the life she could not I had to share all adventures of mine with her in a way she could enjoy as fully as possible. That would be to open all my senses and not just my eyes, and absorb every nuance. Then translate each feeling, smell, and sound into words as descriptive as possible.
For those of you who like to use your eyes only and would rather just look at pictures, this blog will be weird. But for those of my friends that like to read, please follow this blog with a mind to only using your eyes on the words to SEE this corner of Italy.
The walk is difficult as my feet stumble over broken concrete that can change to cobblestone in just a few meters only to change once again to a type of stone brick. I can feel every stone through the thin soles of my sandals. It makes me wonder how those women in high heels can walk on this. It becomes very obvious the path is close the street, not being as wide as one at home. The breeze of the cars and trucks passing me is nice but can catch me off guard if I also stumble on the stones. In the cities I hear the constant honking of the horns, so much a joke in the travel shows and movies filmed in Italy. But here in Garda the occasional horn is far away.
During a lull in the traffic I hear a familiar sound of a bicycle chain. The well maintained brakes do not squeak as it stops. It is the Postman making his daily deliveries. His simple basket on the handlebars is filled with news for those living in this village.
The fence or rather wall that frames my walk is only elbow height. It’s core seems to be stone of the mountains in these parts. But a myriad of plants have covered their host to where the wall is now a hedge. The smell easily transitions from the heady sweet Jasmine to a dusty rancid of a weed type white flower. The familiar fragrance of roses drift by and I later find more of this aroma as I pass trimmed walled miniature gardens that welcome visitors into the homes of local folk.
The heavy humid air is filled with sounds of bugs as well. The drone of a locust/cycada and powerful horseflies and bees. makes me hope the spiders are full of captured dinners.
On the other side of the wall I hear a sound so common at home that it strikes me funny. A Rooster crows to those who will heed his call of interest in the other chickens. All wander the overgrown field that is dotted with Olive trees. If you look hard you can just see the top of one of them. They don't hold still.
The region is known for the Olives and it becomes apparent when every green space you can find these trees, now in early summer, already laden with the green fruit. Hard and no larger than a pinky fingernail it makes one wonder how they will be harvested when the trees are found in no formal orchard as at home. It becomes apparent that the experienced hands of the Italians will be picking these and pressing them into the luscious oils we enjoy at home. It also makes me know why the true Italian olive oils, on the shelf at the supermarket, seems to cost so much.
My walk takes me by a creek? I can’t call it a river but it probably is in the springtime when the snows in the Dolimites melt. But now in today’s heat the water bakes the algae and makes a slimey brown fur on the terraced creek bed. The colors are interesting and inspire my brain to file away these blends of gold & brown for a later project.
More water is found at the end of my walk. This time it is the lake and the stroll on the promenade is filled with conversations of others that have sought the coolness under the trees or the park benches scattered along the 2k long harbor of Garda. The benches all face a grey lake, though the sun is brilliant and the sky is blue the lake from my angle appears a dark grey. A loud engine roars past taking tourists across the lake on the Hydrofoil boat. It skims across the grey liquid road like a water skeeter.
My ear catches the now familiar guttural sentences of German and more often now the British with so many dialects. Some on the benches near me want to feed the myriad of ducks that waddle up the steps from the lake and look or rather beg for meals from the sympathetic or gullible humans.
The twangs of strings being tuned startle me and have me quickly looking about to find a street musician preparing his violin for a lakeside serenade. What could bring this walk to a more fitting end?
Italy has a flavor, smell and feel of it’s own. I am glad I got these moments to reflect and see it through my mother’s eyes.
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