That Glare in Italy

(c) 2010 F. Bruce Abel


We settled into our seats on the 10:30 AM bullet train from Rome to Venice, to get off at Firenze, or Florence. A decade was to end at midnight. In virtually every seat facing me, as I looked down the semi-private car, was a beautiful woman, unaccompanied, dressed impeccably. Soon the car was asleep with only me looking at the snoring beauties, mouths agape, aquiline noses breathing in and out.

In Florence the beauties walked with boyfriends, as they had in Rome, hindered by the heavy rain from pausing every 50 yards to exchange kisses and embraces.

The ultimate in beauty is to be increasingly surprised by refined pleasure. For example, the off-day of New Year's Day allowed us to realize that Il Guelfo Bianco is a walking museum as well as hotel, and architectural display of its own. The initial handout booklet bested all our other guidebooks. The attention to detail on the growing and handling of each item of food on the breakfast menu bespoke of pride in studied excellence au prepatore.

There was that glare that Becca experienced on the train which portended... exactly what? Nolo comprendre. The cloud just below the surface of the gellular eye.