75 Kilometers to Go

With 75 kilometers to go, I recline in the passenger's side while Settimio manouvres his Mercedes-Benz along streets leading to Rome. The beautifully belted notes of Pavarotti are too loud to fall asleep to so I keep my eyes open and my mouth shut, still trying to ignore the sour smell of sulphur lingering on my skin. I want comfort, but instead find my feet in wet, gritty shoes and my hair in tangles, matted against the back of my head. The opera continues. I count down the markers back into the city, replaying the events of my Halloween and how we got to Tivoli...

Alle dieci...
I knock on my landlady's door to inquire about the time of our departure. She ushers me in for an espresso while we wait for her friends to arrive with cars to leave the city. She is an older lady and so I expect that her friends will be in their late thirties. The weather is unpleasant. When we go outside to meet them the sky spits on our heads and laughs wind against the face, a little sting, just to be cheeky. We have coffee together, now 8 in total, and go on our way.

Alle undici...
Three vehicles make the evacuation from the city. I'm in the car with Settimio, who speaks no English, and Marco, who speaks for both of them. Marco translates enough small talk to fill the ride to my landlady's favorite country restaurant. The season becomes more autumn as we move deeper into the countryside. Trees turn to yellow with a few deep pops of red, splattered almost accidentally across the landscape.

Al mezzogiorno...
We enter a dining hall and sit at a table for ten, wondering if we should have brought two more friends. The courses are all ordered for me. Fresh, local prosciutto to start and warm toast with homemade extra virgin olive oil. For the first course, polenta, fettuccine with a light and creamy mushroom sauce, and pasta bolognese. For my second course, I have rosemary chicken, golden potatoes, and broccoli. We polish uncountable bottles of local wine, and follow up the meal with espresso, limoncello, and some take dessert. By now we are feeling good and comfortable. Conversation shifts to local hot springs, which I'm sure always sounds like a good idea after you've stuffed yourself silly.

Alle tre o quatto....
By three or four we've already stopped by my landlady's country home to pick up towels, which is always a funny word in Italian: l'asciugamano. We head to the Acque Albule, hot sulphur springs in the town of Tivoli, the waters of Virgil and Strado, once home to the extravagant Agrippa Baths. We strip down and join the locals, hiding from the cold wind in the warm sulphurous waters bubbling up from beneath the earth's crust. We scrub our skin clean with the mud and relax. I think, this is what we live for, moments like these. I find myself sharing in a tradition of the ancients, and somehow feel more connected to both the past and present. Bobbing in the various pools is like entering a time warp. A man 600 years old rests against the edge, that gritty mud caked deep in the wrinkles of his face, wrinkles he will take with him when he leaves, not because of his age, but because he has pruned his skin soaking in the water so long. Night falls and the winds grow ever colder. Red wine, not blood, moves through the veins and when we finally step out of the baths the actual temperature cannot be felt.