Santa Maria di Castellebate

The busy streets were glazed over with a glossy sheet of fresh rain, as we happily made our way through the little foreign town.

The evening set in briskly, and the quiet homes were lit with warm, toned, and inviting candle light.

Frosty windows glowed with amber flames coming from the roasting hearths, as the chimneys puffed clouds of smokey, touchable air, like grandfather’s pipe.

And we gloved our hands to keep out the cold, shoving them into the very bottoms of our worn pockets.

The bright horns of passing cars beeped in the distance, and the vivacious allegro of fiddles could be heard from the crowded dance floors and smokey taverns.

The late night ships, riding humbly into the harbor, could be heard just above the pulling tide beneath, the waters breathing and washing the shore, carrying and playfully splashing along the bows. The ocean sang.

We stopped to listen in reverence, along the cobbled street, as the engulfed cathedral hummed with haunting chants, ringing endlessly along the stone walls, and carrying out through the hushed village.

Faces in awe, eyes closed as each passerby paused to hear the harmonies and aching melodies fill them, causing them to tremble.

Young lovers held hands as they brushed past us, and innocently, blissfully danced along the stony paths when in admiration of the humble places.

There was no worry, no care but all to see, and little time to do so.

We reveled in the wonder of the evening, so filled with mystery and romance, abundant in the showers of rain-made beauty, and starlight shone graciously among the infant trees, kissing their verdant peaks.

All was still.

Evening winds had cleared and left the narrow allies and walkways motionless, afraid to move for fear of disturbing sacred tranquility, and asking nothing of earth.

And all of creation was eager to welcome us into the quaint village, the faraway haven where not dwelled but constant memories and stories so deeply stirred into the earth’s soil, that we could not help but walk along them.

We became part of them.

And as we walked, as we let ourselves be lost in the stories and foreign fables; we left behind part of ourselves.

Parts left to slowly fade and conform to the mysterious ways of where we walked.

The quiet oasis we would see but once, and remember forever.