Photo by Jennifer Stewart
Call me an outlaw, but
I love washing on a line. I didn't always; growing up, it was something for the back yard, fenced in, unseen by the neighbours. Not for nothing did we live by the creed don't hang out your dirty washing. Not, of course, that we did that literally. Anyway when I visited Tuscany for the first time, all my social conditioning flew out the window at the sight of sheets
hanging on lines strung out across streets or from window to window,
nonchalantly billowing in the dappled breeze. Man, I loved that about Italy.
Armani came a close second.
Siena, late summer. I'd gone to visit the Duomo, to feel the grandeur, and watch the old women in black who kneel for hours muttering imprecations to the Virgin Mary, I’m sure of it.
Siena, late summer. I'd gone to visit the Duomo, to feel the grandeur, and watch the old women in black who kneel for hours muttering imprecations to the Virgin Mary, I’m sure of it.
"Madre, per favore, il mio sposo, mi ha fatto male per troppo tempo. Prendelo, prendelo, Le prego. Mi da qualche anni di liberta!" "Virgin mother, please, my husband, he's done me wrong for too long now. Take him away. Take him away. I beg you. Give me some years of liberty!"
Imagine: your philandering husband dies and you wear black for the rest of your life.
Actually, imagine he doesn't die and he drives you mad with heartbreak and suppressed rage at your own helplessness. Eventually the Virgin
Mary answers your prayers, takes him off your hands, and you can't even wear
colorful clothes to celebrate. No wonder they mutter darkly. I steeped myself in duomic grandeur and satiated my curiosity about the old
women until it became somewhat oppressive.
Hot-footing it outside, I gave fervent thanks to the powers that be that I'd shuffled off those Catholic prohibitions against divorce and disobeying your husband. To celebrate, I climbed the stairs which take you to the top of the part that was never finished, but which gives you the view anyway.
Hot-footing it outside, I gave fervent thanks to the powers that be that I'd shuffled off those Catholic prohibitions against divorce and disobeying your husband. To celebrate, I climbed the stairs which take you to the top of the part that was never finished, but which gives you the view anyway.
Italy fills your whole being in some unearthly way. I stood for a while, drinking it in,
Toscana in late summer. Bells rang for someone far across a valley.
Heart full, I descended the stairs to a small cafe, with a couple of
tables on the street. I sat down in the late summer sun, drinking my coffee,
nobody else in sight. The air was still and it was very quiet, early afternoon;
that time in Tuscany when everybody is doing whatever they do behind closed
shutters. Sleeping off a hearty lunch of pasta, gnocchi di patate, pollo
arrosto. Chianti. Pane. They eat more food in one meal than I do in a week, those
Italians; no wonder they need to sleep it off.
A solitary person or two strolled by. A small slinky black cat with a paw that was half white, half ginger, came up to me and stroked itself against my leg. I knew better than to lean down to it; that makes them run away, so I just let it do its thing. Replete, I. And there across the street was somebody's washing, hanging out of the window, waving in the slight breeze.
My my.
Sketch by Jennifer Stewart
A solitary person or two strolled by. A small slinky black cat with a paw that was half white, half ginger, came up to me and stroked itself against my leg. I knew better than to lean down to it; that makes them run away, so I just let it do its thing. Replete, I. And there across the street was somebody's washing, hanging out of the window, waving in the slight breeze.
My my.
