FIB: Isola del Giglio
When one thinks of “island” I think one envisions the sway of palm trees as lazily they sway in a sultry salt-studded breeze. When one thinks of a Tuscan island, well, I don’t know? what do you think? I think of water with texture like silk with depths of a blue somewhere between sky and death; with water like a set gem of aquamarine whose ripples are prisms dancing on shallow yellow sands, light pure white, in discontented circles they dance. When my flesh strikes through yellow-blue, white-turquoise to suspend above lavender curved rocks or mounded sands, I dance my suspension dance and pretend I’ve been flipped into the hazy hot sky.
On the island of Isola del Giglio there are some palm trees, some ochre Mediterranean rocks and lots of Italians on vacation, some meduse, some seafood and late-night drinks, but all in all, there’s not much. The sound of water lapping the shore: that’s an island, not much.
Many go to islands to “get away from it all,” some fall in with the great Italian tradition, to get a sun tan, abbronzatura, still others party, but most relax. Relaxation was in the Creator’s mind when he grumbled, “Let there be land floating off of the land!” He must have thought, “I foretell stress and islands will relieve it.” Life slows. Water of an angelic tint, it laps upon the shore, vacation goers in bathing suits, my how funny we all look! lazily bobbing and listlessly lying prone! Up on the hills stand the trees still lush from spring’s heavy rains. Out there the Mar Tirreno —where the sun slips into its own golden glove— flows always becoming and being, to seas to oceans. It must be a waterfall out there! or water-full, maybe. . .
So, if you’re ever somewhere near the Tuscan coast, go check it out: Isola del Giglio.
FIB is the usually regular series: Fridays in Bracciano.
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