The Gryffin

note: this was an assignment for my creative writing class. I had to describe Perugia using sensory details, and this is what I came up with!

perugia crouches like some ancient elegant creature on the the hip of a jeweled valley. it breathes pearly mist upward to wash over the city walls in the morning, and silver olive trees lurk behind it and then burst forward when it is lifted by the sun, still cold in the january mornings. the light washes over medieval brick walls, illuminating centuries of dirt and dust that has become embedded in the stone, leavings of etruscan lives that have become further settled in the skin of the earth. at sunset the ruddy light spills like ripe berries over the walls, staining everything pink and copper and gold. the gryffin settles in for the night as purple sweeps over its back, pinpricks of stars of cities across the valley wink in companionship to their brother city, comfortable in the knowledge that it will wake in the morning to spread its wings over the valley once again, casting shadows on the thighs and knees of umbria.

in the veins of the city, the alleyways, one’s nose will fill with smell of the cold and damp of an italian winter. blue woodsmoke drifts over the walls, blends with the threads of garlic and onion coming from a nearby kitchen. the apartments smell of dust, the washing machine that hasn’t been opened in about five months, and the pizza place down the street. it’s the mingling odors of present, everyday life and the shades of ancients who walked where people are now strolling along hand in hand or alone with a takeaway pizza box. there’s a greek place on the corner that always smells faintly of fried fish; the owner stands outside in a blue membrane of cigarette smoke, if he’s greek, maybe he’s wondering how he got from his dry and sun-burnt homeland to this mist-shrouded creature to the north. if he’s wondering he doesn’t say anything. the city closes its eyes and inhales the scent of just woken humans and the smell of leftover dreams on their pillows, the new bread and cornetti, spirals of steam off coffee that curl like smoke.

if you stick your tongue out, the freshness of the mist settles and soothes; one can taste the oncoming rain in the air sure as sugar. someone’s home cooking is thickly pouring from a window two floors above, tart red wine and a hint of basil, something that sticks to your bones in that good traditional italian way that your mother inherited by way of a smear of flour on her cheek from the fresh pasta and then passed on. there might be a hint of romance in the air, not the kind between two people but between a person and a city that lives and breathes, there’s a taste of longing for time travel in the back of their throats. in the morning perugia opens its golden eyes and tastes of honey that spreads over the walls.

protruding from the fog like the bow of a ship, perugia’s eastern ear leans toward assisi, another glowing receptacle of the sun and its song. a cacophony of sounds parade through its streets, sung awake by doves and cars that clatter on the cobblestones. there’s a woman shouting across the square as she hangs her laundry, it snaps in the breeze and shutters clap their hands. the city has awakened and with it its people, moving through its veins to the heart of it where a fountain chatters on warm days. its voice is notably absent when the chill of winter sets in, but no one wants to hear the crack of 4th century stone. a man catcalls a woman and her heels stalk on the stone, an ominous, furious cracking that she wishes was lashing across his face. a car horn shrieks annoyance at a tourist dashing across the streets with seconds to spare. nighttime brings with it the bright young things, dressed up in their glitter and lipstick, loud and drunk on youth and wine and independence. cheers erupt, yellow and bright, from some pub where a group has gathered to watch a football game. 

there is this way of worshipping old things, a delicate form of fingertip worship: pressing the very end of your fingers to a stone at the very edge, the very corner of a wall or a building without the knowledge of the last human to lay hands upon it. for all you know, you could be layering your handprint on top of one that has been there for centuries, untouched. the walls hold onto the cold, they grasp it with gryffin’s talons and let it spread over the souls that pass through the sun drenched archway into the shadowed alleys where secrets of the ages have come to roost. perhaps the grip of the talons lingers on yours shoulders. but we are touching the innermost nerves of the city, a hive, we can feel its skin and its veins vibrating with life. and this. this is the way we worship our city, by pressing our hands to its walls and letting it absorb our skin cells along with the billions of others. this. is how we live here.