Momentary Blindness: The Orange Grove

I close my eyes and feel the warmth of the sun on my neck and shoulders.  A cool breeze blows through the orange grove and takes the edge off the heat, carrying the scent of cigarette smoke and citrus from a discarded orange peel near my bench.  It mixes with the distinct smell of pine trees, one that is lost amid the smells of bustling city streets but more prominent this far above them.  I feel something light brush against my foot, and realize it is a small clump of dead pine needles falling from the trees overhead.  I hear the rustle of feathers made by a pigeon that stops to rest near my bench.  The songs of various species of birds surround me.  Some of their coos and chirps come from nearby, while others come from farther away.  They call and answer each other in the midday sky.  I hear the crunch of pebbles made by the footsteps of passing strangers, and the excited exclamations of a group of young school children.  An authoritative voice that must belong to their chaperone or teacher commands them to quickly fill up their water bottles at the drinking fountain.  They chatter amongst each other—frantic, elated—nearly drowning out the muted dialogues of strangers on benches near mine.  They laugh and converse in a language whose intonations are now somewhat familiar to me, but the meaning of which I cannot even begin to comprehend.  This is just fine with me.  I consider myself lucky to be completely oblivious in such a beautiful place.   

Location: Orange Grove on the Aventine Hill

Date: May 28^th, 2015