There’s a sound of cars in the distance rushing behind me. It mixes with the sound of people in the park talking, the chirping and twittering of various birds, and the crunch of pebbles grinding against each other under the feet of passersby. Somewhere in front of me a fountain burbles. The different noises do not clash, but meld together to become abstract background noise, while, for some reason, I’m drawn to focus on the sound of the water overflowing. In this moment, I can easily imagine myself to be anywhere: standing, years ago, in the forest near my childhood home, lying on the green at Skidmore, or sitting on the boulders on the beach of the reservation across the bay in front of my house. The wheels of a stroller on the rough gravel ground, and an Italian woman harshly speaking, I assume on the phone as I could only hear one pair of footsteps, disrupts my peace. I notice a slight smell of exhaust, coming from the cars on the road behind me. A soft breeze picks up, bringing refreshingly cool air near my face, sweeping away the fumes. Still, while the fresh air is nice, it doesn’t compare to the air in many of the streets in Rome, perfumed by the numerous white star jasmine plants that grow along the walls and fences.
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