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In Dante's Country

© Billy Marshall Stoneking

The store in Petroio was small but had everything I needed. Wine, wurst, candle and cannelloni. I bought as much as I could stuff into my backpack and headed down to the village's small piazza to rest before the long trek back. I was in terrible physical condition at the start of my time in Italy, but would soon become quite fit owing to all the walking I'd be doing. The complete journey from Trove to Petroio and back again took nearly three hours. Had the store opened early, I could've left in early morning before it was so hot, but I usually left at about nine when the heat was already quite intense, and by the time I returned it was nearly 100.

After the first couple of weeks, I began to enjoy my sojourns into Petroio. By the bridge at the foot of the town, there was always an old man, leaning against the bridge, cane in hand, taking the air. We got into the habit of nodding to one another and saying Buongiorno whenever we'd meet. It was always a highlight of the trip, finding him there. I often wondered what he thought about me - who I was and what I was doing there. I seemed so out of place, as though some big, omnipotent hand had stuck me, willy-nilly, into the landscape.

If nothing else, walking gave me time to think, and what I kept thinking was "what they hell am I doing here"... It wasn't going to be easy to stay, and yet the idea of leaving, without giving it a chance, seemed weak and cowardly.

How I survived... hour by hour, day by day, has been lost to me. I spent much of time naked, indoors and out, and read as much as I could - Moby Dick and Dante Aligheri. But mostly, I sat and thought about my life and busied myself with the little things, completely conscious of each movement - of how a jug is filled, or a stove is lit - appreciating in these simple actions life's fragility as well as its endurance.

Eventually, I settled into a kind of life. Though my loneliness was always with me, I discovered I could hold it at bay through a kind of inspired diligence to routine. Outside, I washed all my clothes by hand and pegged them up to dry, marvelling at how quickly and easily the task was done. Trips into the village were best when commenced early, and the return trip was made easier after a spell under the trees in Petroio's small park. On Thursdays, I'd walk up to the main road and flag the bus to Sinalunga and spend the day at the outdoor markets. Amazing how much can be done when there is nothing to do! Some evenings, coming back from a walk, I'd spy one of the Bindi brothers on a tractor and we'd wave or nod to one another, and I'd think of his life and of his parents and grandparents and great-grandparents who had been nourished by this land, and how much richer their lives had been because of their essential connection to the earth. And I felt blind and helpless and ashamed, that I - who had learned so much - was unable to be simply happy, to take delight in my own nothingness.