Any thoughts?  A series of both is growing.  The plan, for now, to exhibit them in pairs and wait to see what develops.

In “Sabbatical,” one of my all-time favorite poems, Julia Randall writes about the hated cleanup, focusing at one point on the logic of keeping a piano, despite its having one lame key joint. The line that comes back to me (and I dearly hope I have remembered it word for word) goes like this:

I don’t think it was laziness always to repeat the same sonata.

If these adventures are our sabbaticals, they leave us to wonder often if Spoleto is our strictly repeated sonata. Sunday, from start to finish, the verdict was a resounding vote for a small, precious, polished gem. Little to nothing all day long was the same: the list (as I start it) would bore you.

Suffice it to say, that long and winding road leads us to the doorway of Osteria del Trivio, our Sunday evening haunt for classic Italian eating. Last week, when the owner wasn’t there to greet us, we worried. But again tonight, with him MIA, a full-fledged dread has firmly settled in. Between the half-closed window and the open door, which says more?

The Photo opts, intended here, fall victim to the Wi-Fi bug.

Deciding after where to wander, we stumbled upon the super Duomo. But in this non-Euclidean city, all roads and lanes and stairways and alleys lead eventually from the hill town’s top to its bottom, or in the reverse motion (from bottom to top), depending on whether you are coming or going, or just out for a stroll. So the Duomo, rising up in the piazza in all its magnificent gold and glory, came as no surprise.

The treat, our gee-wiz moment, stood out against the backdrop of the monument. In a converted building, next to the bulbous human figure of a statue, one little sign draws us into an exhibition of watercolors. Rebecca, the budding artist, is delighted at the thought of unbidden treasure. I, no less excited, am likewise chalking up the experience to one beauty of slow travel: the unexpected pleasure. Inside, with the exception of the seasons, the artist has treated mostly two subjects.

Flowers and buildings, their contours and architectures, again (mostly) in a limited pallet of colors. One purple building, one brown rose: the two that return most often to my mind’s eye. Together with a purple “Fog.” And the sequence of the seasons in more conventional tones. We both wanted to ask, how much (for these beauties)? It was not our Italian, trust me, that kept the question (or card) in its beholder.

Looking now at her brochure, I’m hoping to find a website to post with her works. Looking back on our visit, I am struck by the many lessons learned: 1) that I have to learn Italian; 2) that Fabiola, amid the babel of tongues, was so gracious as a travel guide and so passionate about her art; 3) that I have to study more and more about these unknown towns nearby; and 4) that I must turn away from the fear of driving a foreign car.

P.S. Again, the same message: photos hung up in the ether.

From the outside, signs of a church are few: two small crosses, barely                in view (and the same for the belfry that takes some craning to see.)              Traces of a wide fresco of five figures (however religious they appear)              topped off by a hut-like cover: crude in form as re-used stone is dear.

Once inside, a single nave, atop the raised floor, gives the game away.              As do the many frescoes, however damaged, shout what they portray:              the Blessed Mother and Child is everywhere, with crucifixions galore.                Over by the crypt, though, a martyred St. Becket fights a political war.

Tough rhymes give way to a weak photo shoot. Can’t blame it on the (new) camera nor criticize the scaffolding: without that work, Chiesa dei SS. Giovanni e Paolo (XII sec.)  would still be closed. And I still wondering about what it holds out for vagrant contrarians on a Sunday in a foreign country.

P.S.  Illustrative photos, however lame, were meant to supplement these words.  They are still hanging fire somewhere between the Wi-Fi and this upgraded(sic) operating system.  Post later, if the gods ordain.

Thanks be to the operating system upgrade,

Which has degraded my access to the Wi-Fi.

Except in times of drought, rain (at home) is little more than headlights and wipers.

Afoot in these hill towns, after the eclectic weekly market (What fun!), it is so much more:

• a heavy bag of groceries in each hand, with no remainder for the umbrella, on the trek back from the Euro Spin (grocery)
• a sudden burst of wind, throwing open a bathroom window and a terrace door, with plenty of rain along for the ride
• one thunderous clap of thunder after another after another (if you will forgive the redundant measures of frequency and force)
• double sheets of rain, which eerily shroud the hillside above our terrace in blankets of fog