Il Vicolo: A Golden Hour on an Italian Cobblestone Street

The cobblestones are warm through the thin soles of my shoes, each one worn smooth by centuries of feet that scurried to and fro. But I walk slowly, enjoying the idea of walking where Romans once tread.

The summer sun invades from above, reaching in between the tall buildings and settling on my shoulders with a heavy hand. Light spills gold across the stone, and for a moment the whole cobblestone street seems to stand still under the brilliant rays.

The walls glow the color of old terracotta and honey, rust and apricot, and the faded rose of summer. Green shutters hang half open. Ivy climbs where it pleases.

The little bistro is busy, and the scent of tomatoes, roasted until they sweeten and collapse, drifts out to me. I imagine basil torn by hand and olive oil warming in a pan. It smells like a grandmother's Sunday, the kitchen waiting for the sounds of laughter.

Under the cream umbrellas, voices rise and fall in a language I only half understand. Mi dici… Ma dai… Piano, piano… I catch a word here and there, and it doesn't matter. The meaning arrives anyway, in gesture, in the clink of glasses, in the way a man leans back as if without a care.

I pull out a wicker chair and sit. No one asks where I'm going. No train is waiting, and there isn’t an agenda to complete. There is only the next small want: a coffee, perhaps, or nothing at all.

For one long, golden hour, I belong to no one but the light.

Che bello non dover essere altrove.

How lovely to not have to be anywhere else.

What would I do to be back there again?

What would YOU?