Wind swept, stone struck, ringed walls. Flat plain below with patch work of yellow fields. It’s the feast of Corpus Christi and a Eucharistic procession flows through the ancient hill town. Plaster is missing in patches revealing 800 year old stonework. Every glance is a Fantasy photo, a James Bond movie setting. The sun is hot, my calves are burning on the steep inclines, but a cool wind sweeps down through the cave-like alleys to bring refreshment. Shop keepers sit at their small doorways, like hobbits. The cafe’s line their table and chairs out along the stone walls, and cover them with cloth, silver, and class wear. Leather and craft shops brings their rack out in the cobbled streets. Everything is fine, solid and lasting in this stone fantasy-town.

June 18, 2017

Food and Freedom

The Father gives himself completely and intimately to us and yet does not impose his way. He walks with us but does not chose our steps. He breaks bread with us, sustains and accompanies us, but we often don’t recognize Him. He is the way and he is on the way with us. We discover him in the breaking of the bread and he sets us free.

Sunday, June 18

The roof is made of rounded heavy orange clay tiles. They are lichen stained in patches of green,grey and black. The shutters and doors are heavy oak with iron bars to reinforce. The stone walls are 2 feet thick and rise up from the earth forming a kind of cave entrance into the hillside. There are no screens. The bedroom window opens out to steep olive groves rolling down like waves toward the flat yellow valley below. The wind surges and whistles through the hard scape and the heavy shutters bang on the stone. The House and land merge together into one. I am living in the earth, in stone, wood, clay and glass, made by man from the earth. The sun burns above and bakes below,  but these dense walls of stone and the broad limbs of the trees are holding back it furry. A cooling breeze moves within the house, refreshing my spirit.

 

June 18, 2017

Milky grey and white, opaque yet translucent, patches of pink, black spider veins and grey strands and bands.

Hard edged, cornerstones, yet soft worn curves and carvings. Impervious yet porous.

Gorgeous open facing and changing hue and mood with the light of day. Rain soaked becoming the color of human skin.

Absorbing, revealing and concealing the stains and stresses. The marble face of time.

June 16, 2017

“The house of God”

St. Ambrose baptized St Augustine

4 doctors of the church sat in the chair here and preached here.

52 pillars, one for each week.

3400 statues, most of any church in the world.

4th largest church in the world by volume.

Artisans from France, Swiss, Germany came to work in marble.

Total project 600 years to Complete.

135 spires on the roof. Each with a stature of a martre on top.

Napoleon was coronated here in 1805

The relic of the holy Nail is housed above the suboreum

Candolia marble from N itay. Changes colors. In rain it turns the color of human skin.

Each spire is different. All the grill and Latrice work is different. Each stone flower unique. No repetition.

The message of the Duomo:

God is in the details

Man reflects the glory of God in his creative energy. And nature reflects the same in its infinite variety, detail, and singularity.

June 16,2017

Everyone and everything spills out into the street at night. Chairs, tables, glasses, bottles, cigarettes, scooters, bikes, everything. Some side walks are blocked and you have to walk out into the street among the moving cars and scooters to get past. The building walls are pealing, chipped, and cracked. The tram tracks cut through the cobblestone streets and the above wires weaving through the mix overhead. Sepia light, humid haze, mustard and terra-cotta walls, dirty stone. Streets reflecting auto lights. Music from the bars drifting out into the open and mingling with the beautiful language. A feramonal steam is rises off a rich stew of humanity.

June 15, 2017

Alyson and I arrived on a Sunny Saturday morning. We held hands in the back seat of the taxi. I was so happy to see her returning to a city she loves, and I just love to hear the sound of her voice when she speaks in French.

We drop our bags at the hotel and set foot on the street. Jet lag comes in waves, and I feel like Im on a boat rocking, the ground is spongy, not solid. My eyes are dry and burning slightly from the cabin air and the tears from watching the inflight movies. I feel a slight tremble in my hands.

Our hotel room is only slightly larger than a double bed. The windows open wide with no screens or bars, inviting in the street below. As we swoon in an out of sleep, trying to nap off our jet lag, the sound of scooters, clinking of plates in the brasserie, and women’s heals on the cobble stones fade in and out.

 

June 10, 2017

Everyone is looking up, looking through lenses at towers and monuments. Snapping images, getting a record. I was here. I saw it too! I saw it just like you. I am alive and here too.

But I’m tired of looking up, exhausted by grand symbols ,events, and crowds, so I look down, and discover the gorgeous Paris streets. These warm, worn stones have supported millions feet stepping through time. The same stones have supported the rich and the poor alike. Absorbing history, holding in its heat by day and breathing it out at night.

The softer mortar has receded around the cobbled stones making them stand out, separated by time. They are well worn, uneven under sole yet making a deep impression on the soul.

 

Jun 10, 2017

A little jewel in the south far away from New York is an authentic New York experience. Joeys is only open four hours a day and no weekends. It’s in a run down industrial park with no other restaurants within  miles. The line wraps around the building. When I reached the counter there was Joey, his wife and two adult children feeding the masses. I hesitated for about two seconds not sure about the pepperoni or the plain and Joey shouts for all to hear, “Come on you’ve been in line for hours and you don’t know what you want?” He didn’t wait for my response, just shouted to his daughter “give em one of each”.

I sat down to wait for my slices and just watched the drama unfold. The daughter was doing everything and it looked like she had eight arms like an octopus, throwing slices in ovens, sprinkling oregano on other slices, serving up salad and pasta simultaneously. Sweat pouring down her face, mascara smeared from the corner of her eyes. she had a ghoulish look about her but she kept a forced smile pasted on permanently while calling everybody “hon”, hon just wait Hun, Its coming hun. The mother stood by the cash register and punched keys, she seemed detached, and had clearly given up control to her daughter.   The son stood in the back staring into his iPhone looking like a deadbeat, do nothing.

A family of six sitting next to me received their 24 inch cheese pie. Steam rising, cheese still in a loose and watery state. I wondered if they would wait three or four minutes until it was perfect for eating or just dive in and and burn the crap out of their mouth’s. It’s amazing to watch human nature, of course they could not wait, they grabbed at slices, pulling them from the mother pie, leaving the cheese behind, and holding up empty crust, and then feverishly trying to scoop the hot heaps and ropes of mozzarella back on to the pie.

All the while Joey is behind the counter cracking jokes and putting on a bit of an act for the whole restaurant. As small sampling of his one liners: “I’m supposed to be retired and look at me sweating my ass off at 65”. “There must be a better way”  “Ah Whadaya gona do”, “hey everybody we have no waitresses but we still take tips here behind the counter”

Finally my two slices came and I could taste my  my old town in NJ, and yes I burned my mouth  but somehow it was worth it.