On Looking at Everything But a Sunset
I am lucky enough to have arrived at a beautiful town on the west coast of Italy this afternoon. I am extremely lucky to be on this trip with my friends at all, but I try and note each individual wonder as often as I can remember. There was a beautiful pull of expectation in the final train of the three we took to get there. Tunnels, long, dark and seemingly unending. Then a flash of light for just a second. I looked out the window to my left in anticipation and waited. Another one – a sparkle of blue water that shone just as brilliantly and lasted half as long. My friends had been wise to tell me little of this town, the sheer act of arriving here was spectacle enough.
The waters finally settled into view and we grabbed our overstuffed bags, loading our backs and standing like baby camels do, rushing through the just-opened door of the train. It occurred to me for a second just how particularly special this train station was. Never before in England, not even so far on our trip through Italy, have I seen them serve as anything more than a building carrying out its utilitarian purpose, but that almost seemed secondary here. It was like a point in space and time so beautiful that a train station had been conjured into existence around it, if only so its adoring public could be brought to marvel with their (our) oohs and aahs.
Once we had regained our composure and knowledge of the burdensome travel paraphernalia strapped to our backs, we set off in search of our place to stay. Minutes later we arrived, a fact that had us even more excited. Once settled in by our lovely host, we immediately unsettled ourselves and walked the same short walk, this time pushing further, into the blue. It was a perfect storm in that there was none – the weather, the locale, the companions – all pitch-perfect. We sat and swam and I cut my hands on sharp stones and all and none of it mattered. It felt to me like a memory being created, for which my only job was to let it happen however it was going to happen. I’m something of a determinist, and this was a rare day during which I felt comfortable, even good with that fact.
After a day of eating deliciously deep-fried and maritime-themed local fish, we settled on some rocks at the mouth of the little bay we had invaded just a few long hours ago. My hands and feet held the memory of those scratches and scrapes, but I felt no protest in as we marched along the mammoth stones we now perched on. We had all moved around, shifting positions, the other two planting their eyes as neatly west as they could manage. I couldn’t see the fuss, though. I’ve seen sunsets before, glimpses of this one as we approached it too, but what interested me far more to take in was everything else. The locals setting out candles for the Sunday festivities. The tanned tourists marching out of the gelateria with heavy cones. The gorgeousness of nature and the town that surrounded me. All for me to see courtesy of that waning sunlight, of course.