Prologue to Beauty

LABORATORIO ARTIGIANALE
di Antonio Giornelli
Via Guelfa, 76

I flattened out the little piece of paper that lay scrunched up in my pockets for days. My heart skipped a little; I was safe. I have found shelter and dinner in the cozy hostel of St. Marco. I threw my duffel bag on the bunk bed and sat by the tall, paneled windows, laying out my clothes to dry. Tomorrow, I will find the artisanal shop and buy those two frames my father didn't get to buy and pray that they were open on Saturday. The red rooftop of the church of St. Marco blocked my view from the top of the hill but I decided to take it as a good omen of protection. Please, God, Marco, let the store be open during the designated times. It was already dark out and the thick clouds struggled to cover the far-reaching scope of the skies.

I have come here directed by the rough draft of a dream. I snuck my head to peak upwards at the long alleyways—those mysterious winding paths that trailed deep inside the hill with entrances illuminated by an eerie green light. It started to rain and the shopkeepers filled the narrow streets, blocking my path as they hurriedly entered the dangling purses on display and the bar tables and chairs outside. I ran my hand along the high walls and tried to capture a bird’s nest with my camera. I soon ran out of batteries. The mechanical rooftops clicked clumsily and the heavy rain drops pattered more loudly. I had forgotten my coat.

Little mistakes.

This I will reveal with utmost secrecy: I had missed my train stop because I couldn’t figure out how to open the bulky train doors and had been too embarrassed to ask. The train huffed slowly away with its stubborn doors sealed shut while the little village under the Tuscan sun waved past my eyes, becoming shuffled along with the bushes and trees closest to my sight. A few inches of glass always separate the thief from the diamond, the caged bird from freedom, the fool from the answer. I held my little dictionary up against my breast and quickly began flipping through the pages: “stazione.” Just in case: “sono perso.” I am lost. My ego groaned out loud: not yet...

I must point out that my mind had turned extra introspective during this solo trip, which may drive people insane if they don’t get along with all their Freudian spheres. In my case, the super-ego confronted the id in a rather cruel manner. You wanted adventure, didn’t you? You expected to get lost. You didn't even bring a guide book! Sometimes I wonder if you do it for the adrenaline rush. Some truth to that statement, but perhaps more of a testament to my laziness. I dumbly got off the next station, looking around for a bus that would lead me to the little town on the hill.

An elderly man approached me at Terontola, reading my traveler’s cluelessness and seeing through the underlying struggle of pride going on inside my head. He showed me where I could get bus tickets and kept me company until the bus arrived. “Sono studente a Roma...” “Sei giaponese?” “Si, mitad. Sono tambien Chilena.” The clue to being understood in Italy is to speak confidently in Spanish when you need to fill in the gaps. He nodded and smoked his pipe, looking ahead towards the mountains and observing that it will soon start to rain. I nodded and thought about my classmates in Siena and Venice. How different this place feels when you can’t speak English.

I hopped on the last bus to Cortona. You know, luck is the reason people don’t learn from mistakes; I heard the nagging voice inside my head scold me in the absence of company, but still I grinned like a kid who had gotten away with the cookie in her hand. Id: 1; super-ego: 0. I sat idly in the empty bus while I looked up at the hill we were nearing. It looked like a gigantic wedding cake. Tall, skinny trees and bushy olive trees scattered around the hill, and little domes and churches spread evenly outside of the town walls like frosting. I exchanged a few words with the driver who told me we were indeed going to Cortona and I was indeed a lucky girl. How is it that I know more strangers in a foreign country than I would on the streets of Seattle? I do not count the awkward chat on the public transit buses nor the drunken introductions at college parties. I remembered the extreme display of Italian hospitality we were shown when my father and I had gotten lost near Castiglione del Lago and the conversation Joel and I had with an older man while we were waiting at the bus stop near Lake Albano. I realized that not a day had gone by without some sort of exchange with the venders at the marketplace and the hidden grocery stores or the occasional unwelcomed attention from aggressive Italian men. I had learned to speak in a foreign country.