Italy was the country of life. The cobblestones were old, the buildings youthful, and the sun shone proudly over it all. The architecture itself was spicy, and the people zesty. There was constant noise in the streets, a lot of it laughter and joyful greetings, even some singing floating down from the windows above, and the occasional salesman barking out his wares. The air smelled like freshly baked bread and softly bubbling pasta sauce. Visitors often found themselves hungry at all hours of the day. Not that there was anything wrong with that; there was nothing bad to be said about the food. The cities thrummed with life; deep in the stones, and light in the hearts of its people.
But not today. In a certain city living under the sun, they had been abandoned by it. Truly it was the kind of bad weather that even The Beatles couldn’t remedy. Grey clouds had fallen upon the Italian city like a heavy blanket and the tallest buildings seemed to shrink down from their ominous presence. Perhaps they were just disgruntled. The rain falling from the sky had already soaked their festive structures to the bone, painting their bright hues a more subdued color. The rain was hard and vengeful, as if it thought the Italians had had it good for far too long. Weather may be indifferent, but bad weather is definitely personal.
The people within the buildings were restless. It might be an enjoyable pastime to savor a hot beverage inside a toasty house while the chilly rain pattered outside, but not for Italians. They were people who liked to live with the doors and windows flung wide open, as if ready to invite the rest of the world in for dinner. They were endowed with a slice of Roman spirit. But not today. Fathers sat edgily on couches, trying to watch TV without glancing out the window to see if the rain had stopped. Mothers worked while singing restrained songs behind their lips. Children rolled around on the floors in absolute boredom, and created hell for their helpless parents. The majority of the populace looked wistfully outside every few minutes, whether they realized they were doing it or not. They couldn’t help but think that the rain made their lovely city look as drab as a New York sidewalk.
The spaces between the cobblestones were filled with water waiting to splash people on the sidewalks when lonely cars passed by. But there weren’t many today, so the water lapped innocently against the stone. The streets were as empty as a ghost town. Even the tourists weren’t out and about. A few regulars sat inside a warmly lit café, sipping at their coffees and making passive conversation with their partners. They were mostly thinking about the patio furniture they usually occupied underneath the awning of their coffeeshop.
The café regulars suddenly perked up from their drooping conversations and were fixated with something outside. A stranger had appeared, as if materializing from the rain itself. The coffee goers elbowed their friends and snorted about the idiot who was walking about in such weather. “Probably American,” they gibed. With a few chuckles they watched him walk by until he had turned the corner and was gone. They sighed, and ordered another round of coffee, hoping to delay their return home through the rain. Perhaps because they didn’t want to get soaked, but it is more likely they didn’t want to fall victim to their own slander. It was a matter of pride.
The stranger, however, walked on in the rain. He was unaware of the Italians poking fun at his misfortune, nor would he care if he did. He was just trying to make his way home. The traveler walked up a famous street that led to a famous cathedral in the famous city. He was indifferent to his sudden pilgrimage, and merely headed for the stairs that weren’t far from his destination.
These stairs were the most lifeless bit of the Italian city. Any color they might have possessed in the past was now gone, what remained was an exhausted iron hue. The heavy stone had been walked on by so many travelers, so many people seeing the world, that there were shallow hollows where the stone had been worn away by eager footsteps. There were no more excited adventurers, no more quests, and no more shine of a new day. The stairs merely stood as a new hurdle, as they extended a fatiguing one hundred steps upward. The Christians, of course, had decided it would best to have their cathedral on top of a hill, despite the cost to their followers.
The stranger eyed the stairs cautiously, but only paused a moment before tackling their slothful steps. He only had to keep moving. It was all he had to do. As he trudged onward, his worn baseball cap dripped rain into his eyes. The water had already soaked through his waterproof coat, and he might as well have been walking around in socks for all that his shoes were doing. He carried a backpack that seemed too big for him, and his hands hung limply at his sides while he trekked on. It wasn’t long before the stairs had started to make his breath heavy. Every step he took sunk into the stair hollows, like they were too tired to support his weight. It just made the going extra hard.
The traveler’s pace got slower and slower as he continued, and on one particularly wet step his foot slipped. His knee came down on the unforgiving stone with a muffled crack. He drew in a sharp breath and moaned quietly as he held his leg to himself and curled up in an awkward ball. It was a few minutes before the throbbing began to abate, and he slowly sat up on the step. The walls on each side of him were closing in. The stairs extended into infinity. The rain was chilling his bones. He placed his face in his hands, and agonized silently for a long time.
If anyone had seen him sitting there, their hearts would have gone out to him, but they would do nothing. Only he could get himself up those steps. Eventually he rubbed his face and looked up. There was only the empty streets and the steady rain. One of his hands fell into the hollows worn by centuries of feet. With a sigh and his face set like stone, he stood up and started on his way again. This time he watched his feet carefully, and took several breaks in his climb. Despite this, there was a knife in his ribs, and a terrible ache in his feet. The going was hard, but not endless.
His successful gain of the summit would have been a great moment of triumph, had not he broken out in a fit of coughing when he reached the top. After a moment, and still whooping quietly, he began to look around the street he had emerged on. Every single cobblestone, weathered doorway, and chipped brick was familiar to him. At the far end was the impressive cathedral, but it wasn’t what he was looking for. Three doors down on the left was one that seemed to stand out more than all the rest, and what he made a beeline to. There was a moment of hesitation before he brought his fist down on the door. Only a few seconds later, the door was flung open, washing him in a bath of heat, and there was a cry of joy that warmed him to his core. It’s oh so nice to come home.