Still searching for the Goethe epigraph to these photographs.
(Rebecca promises to translate it if I can just find it again.)
Meanwhile, a few of the multiplex of pixels I have expended.

Woke up. Some time before 7:00, and I heard:
It was pouring rain. The first thing that I did
Was to change beds and climb back into sleep.
Woke up. Some time before 9:00, and I wrote.

It now is overcast, trying it would seem to stop.
The market, we both wondered, does what on a day
Like the one that drove us away with such bluster.
Will the clouds to keep uncovering. News at 11:00.

Umberto is funny. Some nights, at the Osteria, he makes the rounds. But others, we don’t hear from him again once he has taken our order.

Tonight, the place was almost empty. Only one other couple, and they were finished well before 21:00 (early by Italian standards).

And so, Umberto arrives with “il problema.” That is, the figurative earthquake that has hit the tourist industry in Umbria.

Back and forth, between his English and our Italian, we review the media coverage and its aftershocks on the tourist economy.

Hotels and restaurants, like his, are hurting. Italian children return to school today. The season is over, finished.

From one media story, to others: a moment of remembrance for “9/11”; the flood of African immigrants, landing on Italian shores.

A sidebar on the Pope, with more political incorrectness from this avowed “old man,” follows. Our young waitress keeps stealing glances.

When I go to pay the check, Umberto is more than surprised by the length of our stay. Pleased, maybe, that we have braved the news.

Being the generous Italian, our waiter finished off the bottle into Rebecca’s glass.

Being the Davidson gentleman, I have seen a smaller share of windows to walls.

Being the erstwhile photojournalist, I am naturally drawn to take a closer look.

As the peace settles in over a day’s painting and writing, we wonder at the glory.