The umbrellas of Cortona accept the Spring rain as it gently falls on the Piazza Repubblica. Bunogiorno said the baker when Henry passed by. He replied his own good morning also and kept walking in the April breeze.
Walking is the most acceptable form of getting from one place to the other in this Italian town. Sitting for moments on the clock tower steps enables Henry to go over his grocery list and to ponder the people in front of him. Yes, he needs olive oil, figs, blackberries, lemons, and water. The grocer will dop off those purchases at his front gate so he doesn’t have to carry it all home.
In his view are childrenragazzi playing with a blue ball, housewives with their gossip, old men smoking cigars, and the tourists. The morning sun is becoming high and it won’t be long before its heat makes people return home to sit in front of their fans. Or, if lucky enough, to sit in an air-conditioned room away from the sun.
Singing is heard from his left and he looks to see a group of three nuns who are arm in arm singing softly. What a sight! The Piazza Signorelli is now a museum and the Palazzo Laparelli is now a bank. The gelaterie shows pink tablecloths and Henry decides to have lunch there. The bruschetta there is especially delicious and the chocolate gelato is remarkable.
These medieval streets with stone sidewalks offer shops of every kind, including a hat, umbrella, and shoe shop, a perfumeria, Michael’s flower business, and one dry cleaner. The Saturday markets offer every variety of fresh produce that Italians eat every day including ripe tomatoes, cheeses, fresh herbs and spices, fruits. and coffees. The piazza is crowded, so Henry prefers doing his shopping any other day instead of a Saturday.
The owner of a gelato shop hurries toward a restaurant with a tray of ravioli. He sings an aria in tandem with his walk. Near the statue of Santa Margherita, the town dogs are already resting.
Proprietors of antique shops bid Henry a welcome as they know he especially likes Venetian glass or perfect stationery that the Italians are so gifted at making. Henry stops and decides to buy three boxes of stationery because he has been neglectful on writing to his American friends. He will do so this week.
The gold work in Cartona shops give insight to the Etruscan people and their love of adornment. There are coal shovels decorated with angels and devils. There are human figures covered in jewelry. Handles on desk drawers shaped like arms. Clocks of every size and description all ticking to some invisible deity. Henry enjoyed his browsing in these antique shops, but seldom buying because his home was already filled with chosen items of interest.
In this languid April morning, Henry walks slowly, but with purpose. He takes in every sound and movement. He likes being a part of this international passage He notes visitors from China, England, and Israel. Americans are seen, too, and usually wear shorts and gaudy shirts which the locals frown upon. “Americans should dress properly,” they say. “They should look like gentlemen and ladies instead of looking like a day at the beach, or a woodland picnic.”
Henry stops at the park to sit again on one of its benches and contemplate life. The day is slow and warm. The birds are raucous in their song. All seems quite contented. He reads the local newspaper. He drinks his hot tea. Yes, he muses, life in this small Italian town is quite lovely. I shall make my way home past the ruins of an 11th-Century church. The remains show it was made with regional stone and had a bell tower.
Out above the town are the hills of Tuscany. Beckoning. Welcoming. Old with stories to tell.