oh amy jane

from September: i.  A lone bus rattles it way up a winding hill that leads to our home for the next couple of days. As I can see it rounding the bend and passing an ancient cathedral about two miles from here, I settle down to write a few more words. My fellow is already tying his shoes, eager to explore. I'm still wading through jet lag, a blur of new sights and a language already pulling its bow tightly around my heart.  Buongiorno, our neighbors call up to us. Up here, the air is clean and soft. Portofino hugs the coastline which I can see from our bedroom window, pine green shutters pressed against the house to let in the whisper of a breeze. Outside, a silvery cat plays with grape vines, tossing the stems back and forth, as if they were strings. Our host has left us some white clusters to try and the fruit is heavy with sweetness and sun. ii. Everything seems to move at its own pace in this fishing village. Shop owners sit outside of their establishments, c...

from September. I'm waiting for this olive oil to start snapping in my pan before I toss in some basil. Outside the window of our small apartment, the sky is melting into the cut-side of an apricot. Siena, where we've made our home for the last four days or so, is just beginning to wake up. Italy has taken us pleasantly by surprise in that way. You never quite know which shops will be open or if they'll even roll open their doors before eight in the evening, but one thing you can always count on, is the streets flooding to life after dark. What a strange, beautiful miracle. Every corner, basking in the soft glow of light. A hum of conversation wherever you go. In the piazza, cafe's are spilling their lilting music. Cigarettes dangle from the fingers of strangers, along with scoops of gelato in cones, bowls. My husband says we are to get gelato every night, so when I say, surprise me with a flavor, he selects one that resembles nougat. I don't order any othe...