A jog in Vitorchiano

“To awaken quite alone in a strange town is one of the pleasantest sensations in the world.” – Freya Stark

My iPod touch opens my eyes to the mamba, dancing me awake. The light filtering through the small window of my bedroom tells me it’s time to get up for a jog. I tell myself it’s 7:00 A.M. in Vitorchiano, Italy, midnight in O’Neill, Nebraska. I can sleep a little longer. But as I snuggle my head deeper into my pillow I think of the bird show outside my window. “My window”, I think with a sleepy grin. This is “my window” for seven days. Like an old friend calling on the other end of telephone, I pick myself up to answer the call. When I walk out of the cave-like bedroom, I open the window to hear birds singing their morning glory song. Swallows swoop circles inches away, then like an Olympic diver fly straight down for the gorge and flap back up again for air. I look to the upper left hand corner of the window to the spider webs gracefully swaying in the sunny breeze. Last evening, I had finally met the creator of this delicate lace: a sturdy spider with long, sassy legs. Upon seeing her I said, “Oh there you are,” and promptly named her Lucy. “She must still be sleeping,” I thought now.

I stay still, watching the birds and listening to the water below until the 7:15 bells chime, urging me to get moving. After getting dressed, I’m ready for my first jog in Vitorchiano. As I walk through the town, people stare at me with curious looks that say, “Who is this woman? She’s not from here. Look at her with an iPod stuck to her ears and keychain wrapped around her wrist. What is the word on her shirt? Creighton? What is that? Hhmmmmmm. Her dark hair and eyes make her look Mediterranean, but we haven’t seen her around here.” Even the cats look at me suspiciously. Soon enough I’m away from their gazes as I jog past the cemetery and onto a country road. I think it’s ironic that I’m listening to Jay-Z and Beyonce sing to me when I could listen to the sounds of nature, but I keep them in my ears to reassure me of home on this foreign land. I like the thought of running through the Italian countryside, but I wonder what could be lurching in the wild underbrush near the trail. Could vipers be waiting in there? Does Italy have bobcats like the one we found dead in a ditch near our farm in Nebraska? What’s this scat on the trail? Please, God, let it be from a wild cat and not something more vicious. Occasionally, I would yell out it triumph over tackling a big hill or just over the pure exhilaration from the fact that I am jogging on this dirt road in the middle of Italy. I’m sure upon hearing my hoops and hollers the poppies flushed a deeper red over frustration that I’d disturb guarded fields.

As I start back towards town, I wonder: How many birds could be sitting in the overhanging trees above? Do they have many bees here? While getting closer to my flat, I think: this jog is much like my adventure to Italy. I have so many questions about this place and so many questions of myself. I did not know what to expect, but I’m chugging through the experience. I’m living the process as I uncover the answers. I’m staying rooted in my home place, but gathering pieces of Italian life. When I unlock my door, I smile when I see my window. It pulls me in, so I can look out over the gorge to the other side of life and wonder what it’s like to live there.