You Shall Never Be Full

By Shannon Cartier

I know I live in a beautiful part of the United States.  Home to a world-class resort and golf course, Coeur d’Alene, Idaho is a mecca for international tourists and celebrities, and part-time residents who keep second homes on the lake. Thousands of tourists infest the city each summer to partake in the region’s outdoor activities.

The history of the area dates back 130 or so years.  

Cagli’s history begins at least as far back as the 6th century.  (Ancient Roman bridges, anyone?)

I keep having an intrusive thought:  There’s just not enough film or digital storage space in existence to capture Italy.  I head out in the early morning intent on a brisk walk but I stop every 50 feet or so to take a picture.  I can’t wrap my mind or camera around what I’m seeing.  Is it simply because I’m not accustomed to the architecture, the narrow streets, the looming hills, and the age and accompanying history of the area?  

In the book, “Four Seasons in Rome,” Anthony Doerr writes a passage about how if we only had the opportunity once in our lifetime to observe extraordinarily beautiful events or objects, our minds would cave in.  The events might be indescribable because their beauty would transcend anything we see on a daily basis.  Consider mine caved. This is my experience in Italy.

I want to describe the sights, sounds, and smells of Italy.  I really do.  The thesaurus fails me.  Words don’t feel they are up to the task.  They beg for repose.

This is the best I can do:

Sounds from around the old town weave their way into the windows.  A band in the piazza suddenly sounds as if it is playing just outside the window.  A drum corps marches through town for unexplained reasons.  Men saunter through the piazza carrying jousting sticks.  Young girls paint their lips bright red as if ready to step onto a stage.  A medieval crossbow competition makes its weekend home in the courtyard of the school.  

Some places smell like sewer, others smell like flowers.  The toilets challenge what I think I know about basic plumbing and how they work.  I’ve never been so continuously sweaty.  My bath towel never dries.  Window screens aren’t really necessary.  Tile floors are little pieces of heaven under my swollen feet. Swollen from walking miles, miles that I really never realized I covered.

When my son calls, he is delighted by the ring he hears on his end.  He says it sounds like sirens. 

The old town makes me swoon with inspiring thoughts.  Transferring these thoughts onto screen is the challenge.

The country raises its glass full of vino rosso to me in a toast:  Drink in our country, but you shall never be full.