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I am a shy photographer. Rarely do I feel comfortable carrying my camera in a crowd. I take great pains to be invisible and to make myself less obvious. But—once I get lost in the process, once the light is right and I find something that captivates me—I forget to be self-conscious. I forget my story. I get lost.
May 21st had come and gone. I looked around and then I touched my toes. Yup. I was still here. The world didn't end. We survived yet another apocalyptic prediction. I learned in Grand Canyon that life on the brink is like a Technicolor movie. Maybe that's why these guys are always predicting the end of the world—they secretly enjoy the adrenaline buzz.
Bin Laden is dead. People went into the street and screamed. They chanted, "USA!" But the euphoria was short-lived. By the next day the world was shutting itself in again, preparing for retaliation, preparing for the worst. The men in flack jackets are back. An eye for an eye. Does this cycle ever end? It just seems to go on and on.
The fog was thick as we loaded our luggage into the cab. I was annoyed. I was annoyed that Bologna looked as beautiful as I'd ever seen it in this pearly, morning light. I was annoyed that I hadn't listened to Susie the day before and bought some dried, porcini mushrooms at that market. I was annoyed that this trip was ending and that I was going home. If only I had but one more day here—I could buy the mushrooms and then get some images of this amazing fog.
It was brisk and cold. It was the morning of the Feast of the Epiphany—he twelfth day of Christmas—the day that commemorates the Wise Men's visit to see Baby Jesus in the manger. The holidays in Italy extend to this day which is, perhaps the most festive of all that comprise the season. Part of the Epiphany's story includes an old woman who the Wise Men met on the way to the manger. They asked her for directions and then asked her to join them on their quest—but the old woman refused to go. After they left, she saw a great light in the sky and decided that finding the manger might be a good idea after all. But she got lost along the way. Sadly, she truly got lost—in an eternal sort of way. Now she's known as La Befana and, on the night of January 5th, she flies across the skies of Italy on a broom as she searches for the Baby Jesus. Luckily, for the children of Italy, she brings gifts to the young as in hopes of finally finding the manger. Her loss is Italy's gain as we quickly learned on this chilly day.
Bologna after dark has always frightened me. Alongside the deepening shade of afternoon, the shadow side of the city emerges. Once the sun sets and the vapor lamps are lit, the darkness reaches the city's core. A sinister element emerges. I've never felt in danger, like one might feel in an American city with its hidden guns. I've never been at risk. No, the Bologna version of darkness gives me nothing more than a good case of the chills.
“Bologna la grassa!” said the woman in the fur coat as she peered out the dirty, train window. Her head, covered by a matching, fur hat, swayed with the rocking of the car. Apparently she knew Bologna. And she knew it by one of the Bologna's many monikers—Bologna la grassa. Bologna the Fat.
It could not be so. Fifteen days in Venice seemed like a long time during the planning stages of this adventure. Fifteen days as a visitor in any city should be enough. There have been places—the memories are sadly indelible—that have worn on my psyche after a single night. Fifteen days in Venice in the dead of winter, it should have been enough. It wasn't.
We have met many times, he and I. In a tiny park, to adjacent to Basilica di Santa Maria della Salute, stands a statue of a bearded man. He is frozen in a terrified state, looking upwards to heaven. His arms are missing. His features are slowing being worn away by time, rain, and the gunk spewed out by industry and cruise ships. Every time I return to Venice I visit him—and wonder about him.
I rose early, as always, for my dawn walk in Venice. This was my time alone with the city, a time when I could inhale deeply the salty air, and search out the meager bits of golden light that might be found shimmering here-and-there, from time-to-time. Finding Venetian sun in late December would not be easy. The light was low and the alleys tall. I wound my way out into the open piazza at the front of the Santa Maria della Salute. The massive edifice cast its shadow upon me with the pull of its gravity. I looked up to the screaming angels—a baroque cacophony of heavy Catholicism. I wondered to myself how long it had been since my last confession.
