Show me the importance of everything.

The astounding sound of the clock tower’s bells never ceases to make me close my eyes and appreciate each tone no matter how many times I hear it sing to us every day. Whether you’re in bed, walking about the streets of Conegliano, or squeezing in some internet time, it shocks you to attention, bids you to listen to its stories, and then fades away softly as if it were saying “We’ll chat again later my friend, don’t forget about me, Ciao.”

The sun had reached its highest point in the sky when we awoke yesterday morning (aka-champagne tends to make you sleep late). We had another “class” where we discussed more sociocultural dynamics and our perspectives on the intricacies of life here and in Canada. Following the discussion we were sent off exploring with the instruction to observe and feel everything around us. This served to be more of a natural reaction as opposed to an assignment involving conscious efforts.

The group decided to attend supper at Casa de George where the specialty of the day was a fresh pasta and sauce sprinkled with tiny morsels of ground, fresh lamb. The way the owner presented the dishes was an experience in itself, (it was as though he was singing us a story of food) and soon we were all sold on his primo prepared meal. The table was quickly filled with glasses of wonderful red wine and baskets of soft, out of the over bread.  When the pasta arrived, as delicious as it was I’m sure, I discovered that I was not partial to the lamb and one of the waitresses immediately asked if I would like to order something else instead; how often would such a gesture of generosity happen in Canada?

Italians take so much pride in their food which allows for them to standardize that their customer must ALWAYS be happy. I was quickly served a fresh dish of spaghetti and meat sauce and the pasta was so neoteric that tiny fragments of it stuck to my fork as I twirled it round and round until I was sure I couldn’t fit another bite.  Next came dessert, and anyone who knows me at all, knows that I cannot turn down dessert. I ordered the most moist, rich piece of tiramisu and enjoyed it all down to its very last morsel.

We gave a thousand thanks to the chef and went off to the local cafe in the piazza where an everlasting supply of proseccto was served by two Italian friends who have taken it upon themselves to make sure we enjoy every second of Conegliano; they’ve got a rather easy task, honestly. We accompanied them to a local bar where we were greeted by a friendly pub owner named Francesco who loved Canadians and immediately poured us more proseccto on the house. We stayed and chatted with locals until 3:30am when we departed and strolled back to the convent, barefoot over the cool cobblestones of Conegliano.

The quiet was incrediable, astounding even. You don’t need to hear anything to appreciate the beauty that surrounds you. Whether it’s marble walkways or the cobblestone roads, the tiny creatures that come out at night, or the occasional sound of music (which seems to appear out of nowhere); there is always an awareness of the rich character of every little thing in Conegliano.

As I closed the gates to the convent and said goodnight to friends, I made my way to the bed that was calling me to rest and went to sleep with visions of how I would experience Venice in the morning.