I used a new shampoo this morning - it had the perfume of a freshly picked peach.
Outside the rain was bucketing down, as it had been for the past fortnight.
That brief waft of peach perfume lifted a weather induced gloom and
put a smile back on my face as I reflected on the taste experience of lifetime.
That first bite of a giant sized peach, on the stone steps of the Church of Saint Domenico, at the top of the main Piazza, Perugia, Italy, May 2004.
That moment I felt sure that Saint Domenico, the patron saint of Astronomers,had purposely steered me here for an as yet to be disclosed reason.
The skin of that over-sized unforgettable peach had taken on the muted pink and golden hues of an early sunset. Surely nothing so big could deliver the flavour that its external appearance so teasingly promised. Just one bite proved that it could.
The nectar, sublimely sweet; the juice oozed through my teeth saturated my mouth and lips and trickled slowly through my outstretched fingers and down my bare arms.
Unannounced, out of the corner of my left eye, I caught sight of an exquisite object, a dainty rosary made of tiny ruby coloured wooden beads with a delicate silver Crucifix, its fragile anchor.
Lost, friendless and waiting to be found.
What was its history, who had loved and cherished it, were they upset to have lost it? With a furtive glance sideways and one subtle scoop downwards, it was mine.
A souvenir of sorts that’s been pricking my conscience ever since.
After ten days of walking in the rolling hills of Tuscany I headed for Umbria arriving at the station in Perugia a hilltop town, in the very centre of the Italian Peninsula,a seventy minute train trip from Terontola in Tuscany.
Italian trains run on timetables of their own making. Different gauges mean several uncouplings and changes of train per journey.
Passengers go along on this ‘pot luck’ mystery ride, uncomplaining, and with little expectation of an on-time arrival.
Umbria is earthy - rich in natural beauty; craggy mountains, unkempt landscapes, harsh gorges, wild woods, sweeping hills, fertile plains and arable farmlands.
Perugia is its sparkling gem built atop Roman ruins, sitting on an ugly speckled carpet of light industrial sprawl(food companies and textile manufacturers) at its base.
The bus from the station takes new arrivals on a short ride to an escalator that transports them and their luggage to the main Piazza.
This modern escalator system is in marked contrast to the several steep flights of uneven stone stairs the locals use to access their shoe box size homes in equally narrow shoe box size streets.
In this predominately Catholic country students from every creed and of every colour become honorary Italian citizens for the summer. They come to the Italian University, a centuries old institution, to learn the Italian language. In step the locals they
gravitate to the main Piazza late every afternoon to embrace the daily ritual of the Promenade. It’s that time of the day when families ‘step out’ to be seen and to exchange pleasantries.
Pre pubescent teenagers, self conscious to be seen with what they consider to be their ‘caught in a time warp’ parents, dream idly of Rome and well beyond.
Post pubescent couples, with the blessing of their parents, stroll arm in arm, stopping off at a colourful Gelateria to buy a fruity gelato before continuing on their Promenade.
Franciscan monks (the order was established by St Francis of Assisi)in their plain brown habits, wander the main Corso on their way to Vespers. Their dress is simple(they live, sleep and are buried in it),their demeanour serious, their stance humble.
True to the founder of their Order they have taken the oath of piety and poverty with a commitment to serve the poor and the less fortunate.
The local dogs, their pedigrees indistinguishable after centuries of in-breeding,also pay court to the sunset ‘promenade’. Unfortunately they have no consideration as to where they do their business and in the warm summer months the narrow, cobbled,
grassless, treeless back alleyways take on the distinctive smell of fresh excrement.
The Piazza buzzes with excitement; the cafes serve local Italian beers and wines;there’s espresso that you could stand a spoon up in; trays of yummy pastries, and marvellous ceramic platters groaning with fresh olives, cheeses and ample slices of pancetta and fresh bread - the classic anti pasto plate.
My insatiable curiosity took me on an unscheduled journey to trace the origin of these platters. Naively with this mission in mind I boarded what turned out to be a ninety minute bus trip to the ancient walled town of Gubbio, the home of gorgeous ceramics.
A pretty but winding drive through a deep gorge with grandiose mountains closing in on either side. Don’t do this trip alone though - there I was heading for the hills on a local bus with only a grumpy faced bus driver and three craggy locals as companions
- none of whom spoke a word of English. No one knew where I was - I could have disappeared into the black hole of history without a trace.
The designs of the ceramics are modelled on ancient shapes and patterns; the brilliant colours reflecting the strong earthy tones of the mineral deposits found in the surrounding mountains.
Had I done my homework I would have found out that most of the ceramics in Gubbio are so big that it would require a shipping container and a ten ton truck to transport them out.
Sadly there was no room on the local bus for these monuments to beauty and style.
Not to be put off, once back in Perugia I scoured the back streets
in search of a less cumbersome reminder returning triumphantly to the hotel with my very own piece of Umbrian earth – a white ceramic jug embellished with a bunch of grapes and a full blown rose. The significance of the rose - rose bushes are planted at the end of each row of vines to ensure a fruitful harvest
Unlike the ‘only on loan’ Rosary, the jug became my rightful property. It sits on display in my suburban kitchen ready to decant the next bottle of Italian Red.
Time to leave Perugia to its ancient past and head reluctantly back to the present.The train trip to Rome was made in the company of thirty three brown robed Franciscan monks,yes, the same Monks that I’d passed on the Corso in Perugia.
What should have been a short two hour journey turned into a four hour travail.There was no eye contact made during the three unscheduled stops for three gauge changes.
From under lowered brows thirty three pairs of eyes watched me hump my 20kg suitcase not once, not twice but three times into and out of the carriage. What happened to their vow of caring and compassion? What would the Holly Father have said about their lack of consideration for others?
Maybe they had been simultaneously visited by a sense of injustice
and I had been identified as the one guilty of transporting an icon from its spiritual home to worldly parts unknown.
A moment of silent self confession ensued followed by an unspoken vow - to return the ‘borrowed’ icon to the steps of Saint Domenico before I meet my maker.
I’ll go back to enjoy the fruits of this arable land, to share in and embrace the history of this core of civilization and above all, to return the delicate ruby red Rosary to its spiritual home.
Only then will I consider my journey done.
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