Il parco della
Porta San Marco
Relaxing in my soggiorno on a couch with a makeshift floral duvet limply hanging over the arching arms where the real color resembling split-pea soup spills out around the sides, I watch the afternoon Tuscan sun burn through the thin white lace curtains and blaze across the floor illuminating the room. The light warms the space of the room, but the cozy atmosphere the sun’s rays provide inside the room are nothing to be fooled by. Every few seconds or so the windows begin to rattle as the thin piece of glass shakes between the golden oak frames. The transparent pane deceptively tries to allow the warmth to shine in, heating the multicolored stone floor, yet the wind beckons from the outside with a force. I prepare myself for the chilling wind and stiff air outside that not even the strong sun can protect me from, and I grab my red ribbed jacket and exit the house bounding down the stairs.
The ascent begins at the base of the Collina San Marco where the narrow stems of grass-stain green bamboo trees of the driveway direct the sunlight onto my right shoulder. The corridor of trees covered with masses of green leaves provides some initial protection from the cool winds. The exit from the quiet driveway leads to a sidewalk crowded by people and parked cars, which converges with the bustling highway just beyond.
Today the wind is absolutely piercing. The strong gusts rip directly through my mesh shorts, jacket, and even my shoes. The explosions of air cause the trees above me to tremble, dropping softball-sized pinecones that fall through the stiff air before cracking upon the asphalt. Leaves and pine needles swirl in whirlwinds and as they rise, dancing into the wild sky, before dropping lifelessly to the ground as the flurry changes its direction. The forceful bursts of frigid air rip the limbs from my body, and the climb up the collina presses on with each stride.
At regular intervals the cars roar past me, but today the approaching strain of motors scaling the hill cannot be heard because the powerful wind has drowned out all other sounds. Like packs of wolves, the cars zoom by in threes, fours, or fives, and after they disappear around the next curve there is peace once again.
My pace quickens and I push forward as I break into a straight stretch of road bathed in sunlight where the thick orange sun blinds me. The last curve is flanked by parked cars on the left and an ancient brick city wall on the right. Dark purple and green ivy hangs limply from the burnt-Siena brick in uneven patterns, dipping down thirty meters with one vine only to zigzag back up the wall with the next creeper. The Porta San Marco and its quaint parco lie directly at the crest of the collina. Winding around the last bend, the Porta and its parco now loom above my head, but within moments, and a few grueling lunges, the Porta San Marco comes into view. The Porta San Marco opens its bocca, and the radiant Tuscan sun at my back illuminates the throat of the city. The asphalt gives way to an uneven gray stone road, which continues meandering inside the city walls.
I turn around and stop. Puffs of cold breath shoot from my mouth like smoke from a cannon, the crisp air burns my lungs, and my muscles ache in the frozen atmosphere. It may just be an illusion but the Tuscan sun warms my face, and the stunning panorama flaunts the expansive countryside. Vivid green hills topped with trees roll into the distance and fade among the mists. Perched among the hills are massive yellow villas with grass-green shutters, which jut into the cloudless blue sky. Everything is still. The traffic seems to cease for long intervals now, and the countryside captivates all my attention. Soft chirps of birds intermixed with sounds of children playing on the distant calcio pitch can be heard in the freshly hushed atmosphere. Below my path twists and slithers its way through the trees and hillsides in and out of my current sightline. The parco almost seems to protect me from the coldness outside. Under tall trees, the slowly setting sun hits me directly in the chest and welcomingly warms me. The hot white sun burns through the low tree branches and casts long shadows, their silhouettes blazed upon the ground like boney reflections of reality. My body stands petrified, as the landscape appears so perfectly picturesque.
But my frigid body is jumpstarted into action by the pounding of my still warm heart, and I make a quick step to my left, down the stairs below the gate, and back into the buzzing of the traffic along the street. And the descent of Collina San Marco begins.