the turn-offs towards the little coastal towns were better suited for motorcycles than 4 wheeled vehicles, or even our little, rented VW Polo. Down and around hairpin curves, each of which threatened to rise up by its elbows and hurl us onto the rocks below, the little seaside ports always just around the next curve.

We found empty, cobbled streets, gorgeous vistas of snowy hillsides, abandoned stone towers, and an enjoyable glimpse of how hard life in the Middle Ages must have been during times of inclement weather. As the February wind picked up from the valley and chilled us through our winter coats we retreated to a meal of warm minestrone and whole grain bread, and I found myself wishing for the comfort of a roaring wood fire.

As we circled up into the mountains of Abruzzo the air thinned and the November sun streamed unabated through the passes and over the rock laid bare by passing time and the elements. Occasional villages of damp stone homes with tile roofs clung miserably to hillsides; along the valley floors tight flocks of sheep tracked sheperds to corrals unseen. The mountains' sense of permance made even more ephemeral all that was human in the region: humankind seemed a burden the mountains would bear grudgingly while never actually succumbing to the intrusion. In a world where modern society had made little progress since the Middle Ages, my clock ran backwards like an inverse altimeter, taking me back to a simpler time.