Passeggiata...a little walk

He didn't know how to speak Italian, but it was on his list of amazing things still left to do.  He had been there before, and was familiar with the concept of around sunset when young lovers would walk and converse...early stage romance when the jousting was designed to get to know one another, a laugh, a slight glance of a hand against a hand, the close-in streets purposefully pushing them together.

He remembered the scent of an Italian evening, the light humidity and the slight air of garlic and tomatoes and the lingering glaze of forever...the streets and the buildings seemed to have been there forever, so long ago that it was mind-numbing to consider.  It wasn't an old smell...rather, it was like the scent of a bookstore attic, where time passed so very slowly and we were just passers-by.

He remembered the noise from an Italian evening, the din of silverware against plates, the clank of glasses raised in toasts, the murmuring...the dialogue and the debate.  Italians gesticulated with their hands as they punctuated the evening air with emphasis...there was passion in the discussion, both sides weighing in...sometimes quietly, sometimes and more often than not loudly.  But mostly the echo of supper and food being shared, and conversation flowing as non-stop as the liquor in the glasses.

He remembered seeing the lovers, the ones slow walking, pausing often...mostly to turn and full-face each other.  The older couples walked beside each other, talking and barely turning...but the new loves were unable to glance at each other sideways...they had to turn and see the fullness of the other, the full-throated glimpse of somebody in front of them in an evening...blessed to be in this street, at this time, beneath a sky mottling in an evening.

The world was speeding by them, on Vespas and bicycles and activities and colors...the internet was pulsating in their pockets and reminding them of tomorrow's efforts and the weather and the scores in sports.  But in this street, this square thousands of years old they held a brief stare that felt like only a moment but mirrored a billion emotions bottled up from many years ago.

The ice in his glass was melting, the condensation wet and seeping off his drink and onto the table.  He wasn't in Italy.

But he thought about the full-face turn and the view of her and he was reminded of all those things that had been bottled up inside of him...not for one thousand years, but definitely feeling like something quite close to that.