ANACAPRI

So many things on the island of Capri were smaller than usual. The roads, for instance, would not have fit a normal-sized car in a million years. Instead, the arm-length lanes are occupied by scooters, toy-sized trucks and people making their journey on foot. As one vehicle attempts to pass another, an onlooker might feel a slight flutter of anxiety, the distances between the two often equating to a hair's breadth.

The island itself is tiny too. The perfect size for family of Crusoes or Robinsons to explore after a shipwreck.

However, Capri also manages to seem larger than life. Like a tree - upon first glance it seems passive and sleepy. Yet, look a little closer, and it is teeming with spiders, bees, ladybugs and birds, who all make their homes in a tree, as do mosses and creeping vines.

As a tree is brimming with life, so Capri is brimming with energy, colour, and absurdity.

“Mild winters and cool summers temper its climate,
the shores are lapped by the waters
of a harmless sea.
Peace untroubled reigns there,
and life is leisurely and calm,
with quiet undisturbed,
and sleep unbroken.”

— STATIUS - 2ND CENTURY AD

RELIGIOUS ROME

“The world, and whatever that be which we call the heavens, by the vault of which all things are enclosed, we must conceive to be a deity, to be eternal, without bounds.”

— PLINY THE ELDER - BOOK II

The very fabric of Rome is woven with religion. For, it was Romulus who, in c. 753 BC, consulted the gods for the divine approval of a new foundation, carefully laying out the pomerium - the sacred boundary of the new city. 

And ever since its sacred creation, Rome has stood at the epicenter of the religious western world. As time has passed, columned temples have given way to Christian duomos; and a plethora of gods and priestesses have been replaced by the Lord and his clergy. Yet, Rome still remains the epicenter. 

And it was religion that brought me to Rome in the first place. It was a worship of old paintings in obscure churches. But religion keeps pulling me back. Back to stay in a convent at the behest of my father-in-law, and to hear the Pope speak about faith and love. Back to sketch paintings of prophets and virgins. Back to walk between the ruins and tap into the pagan energies that waft among the tumbled white stones. 

Although I do not belong to any one religion, I am forever immersed in the divinity of the world and her histories.

ROMA

ON AN EVENING IN ROMA

The summer-heat slowed walking paces to a stroll, and we took any opportunity to stop by a fountain and dip our scarves in, to wipe away sweat and then wrap the cooling fabric around our necks. The only respite for those mid-day-scorchers was a nap on shaded grass, or a gelato (or five). Then, as the evening began to cool the pavements, a special thing would happen... A large pizza-moon would rise over the city, urged on by a slight breeze, and vendors would appear on the ancient bridges selling grilled corn and butter. Memories of the clamorous art dealers, and of an impromptu fight in one small side street drifted through my mind, but in the evening everything seemed calm. All that existed was the hand of my partner in my own, my two feet walking, and each moment unfurling. Sometimes, during that week-long dream, I would hum the song that was on everybody's minds:

“Como e’ bella ce’ la luna brille e’ strette
Strette como e’ tutta bella a passegiare
Sotto il cielo di Roma

How beautiful is the moonlight
Close together, embraced
Going around, take a walk
Under the sky of Roma”

— DEAN MARTIN

A WEEK-LONG DREAM

Waking at five in the morning in a small convent on the edge of the city, then walking through the pre-dawn streets between the small delivery vans and the fruit sellers who open their doors so early.

The smell of sunscreen, and the knowledge that it is going get very, very hot!

Navigating the dusty suburbs using the flow of the river Tiber.

Cool wind between my toes, shoes off, legs swinging, sitting on a stone fence and watching the children of Trastevere kick around a deflated soccer ball.

Lines of laundry strung between windows in cramped alleyways..

Pink petals that fluttered down from vines above, and landed in my gelato.

Prickly pears and burnt sienna walls.

A storm of sorts brewing at lunch, with a bump against a table leading to a full blown fighting match in Italian swear-words. 

Lights drawn over the water from the dome of St Peters.

Riding that rattling, jangling bus every morning and every evening, and sometimes falling asleep before the suspension would snap us awake again.

A view over the umbrella trees.

The scooter drivers that live by their own rule-book.

Napping in an orange grove, the occasional thud of an orange falling to the ground.

Hilarious tan lines caused by socks. 

A vendor selling roasted chestnuts, his small paper cones piled into in an impossibly tall tower.

The disparity of the rich and the poor - a woman in heels talks on her phone while beside her a beggar-lady prostrates herself to the mercy of the public.

Offerings of flowers and hand-written notes in each tiny chapel.

Three men yelling as they try to heave a refrigerator into a truck without a ramp.

A quiet moment in the Piazza Navona, ringed by terraces that will later be filled with merry-wine-toasts.