There is truly something phenomenal and uplifting for me in touching thousand year old walls. I imagine, who could have been here before me, what clothes they wore, how they talked and what were they talking about, how did they think, what problems they had. Surely not like us, nowadays. Then the sea, the lake, the Water: it always feels like I arrived home, maybe I was a siren in my previous life. And the mountains! The yellow, orange, bourdon: catching the eye, colours like no human can mix. Peaks yelling to the sky, enormuous heights and deep dark valleys. Jumping into life, so alive, makes me fell being local just a bit, as I am eating calzone on the street („For sure I will make this at home”), or drink strictly espressos only, as I eat tiramisu that melts in my mouth from a glass cup, also strictly in every hour, while the pizza’s dough is thinner, than the prosciutto on its top.
Meanwhile you are looking at the lake, covered with fog, a cloud sitting on the whole world, like Heaven just starts here, really. Someone’s bumping into me and says: „scusi, signorina”. Did you know, that you have to drink Aperol before the spagetthi? With prosecco and ice cubes. Ciao and il onto per favore, we want only a piccolo from the cheese, so that makes 6 euros for 20 dekagramms. Along with the beer, here you get a slice of pizza, chips and cheese with tomatoes on top of a baguette. Once you’re finished, they bring you more, and you do not have the feeling about the waiters, that you need to apologize because you picked their restaurant. In front of the castle Róbert Gergely plays the saxofon, so I can’t get „Emanuelle” out of my head for two days. An old man, who speaks Hungarian, makes the bracelets in Bassano, he speaks better Hungarian than you and I, and he remembers with tears in his eyes an old Hungarian friend of him. From the bridge another Hungarian tune is played by a violin, because San Zeno was crushed by the Hungarians when they were drifting, after that it became such a lovely place: yes, we are proud.
I am watching the crowd and the Italian women, I want to be like them, no doubt.
The way they tip toe on the Verona cobble stones in their high heels, they look so simple still noble, instead of being even a bit coquettish but they look amazingly elegant, stylish, so pulled together, not even one single pair of improper tights or cleavage. It seems like they were born like this, since it does not matter whether its a training-shoes-and-jeans outfit or a Louis Vuitton one: the point is simple harmony. And the cut fruit pieces are put in plastic cups, that come with small wooden sticks, I notice that this is missing at home, and I eat honey-sweet strawberries in almost-November.
In front of Juliet’s balcony, imagination and reality are mixing, it is so rousingly corny still I like it, I like Shakespeare, yes. I need to take something from here, I left part of my heart here anyway, (here as well, soon there will be none left), so I buy a scarf on the market: to remember You from now on on every single cold winter day, my love, Italy.