Italy in Review.

The early morning sun rises over the low mountains of the Supramonte region of Sardinia. Its warmth and light wake a sleeping dog, who is curled in front of an old stone farm house. The dog yawns and stretches before heading into the Mediterranean shrub forest in search of goats and cows to harass or lone hikers in need of company. The snow in the mountains is melting and where the underground rivers break to the surface, through eroding limestone, the water is running high.

On the mainland—in Roma—gypsies, street musicians and beggars move out of the alleys and into the main streets hoping some holiday cheer will be shared with them by passing tourists, nuns, students, and Romans.

In the ancient city of Matera an old woman, barely tall enough to lean on the short stone wall in front of her, looks out over the stone city and deep canyon where her ancestors lived and worked ceaselessly for the church and nobles who once ruled her city.

In Genova the junkies and prostitutes are awaking to another damp day in the streets after a long night of false pleasure and false passion.

High above Lago Maggiore in the southern Italian Alps, hikers are tightening their thick boots and preparing themselves for another day above treeline.

It is exam season and students all across the country are studying—hoping for high marks.

In the south migrant laborers, fresh from the shores of northern Africa are busy picking oranges and clementines. Slowly wearing down under the low wages and abuse of their mafia supervisors.

In countless small towns sheets of freshmade pasta and warm loaves of bread are laid out in store fronts below massive wheels of cheese and dried meats.

In Venice public workers assemble elevated boardwalks over the streets so tourists can photograph Saint Marcs square with dry feet. Gondolas rock gently in the rising tide waters and boats deliver goods to the hotels and restaurants of the city. In back alleys white egrets stalk small fish. Not far away huge cranes lower rubble and concrete into place as construction continues on the colossal flood protection project, MOSES, that many hope will stop the rising Adriatic.

An old farmer in the Po valley checks on his cows and the day's milk prices to see if either will help pay the month's mortgage. On the edge of his property a small stream runs dark brown with runoff from the nights heavy rain and snow melt. Downstream the river roars dark and earthy into the Po delta. Mixed with the dark mud of agricultural run off are countless pieces of litter and waste—destined for the beaches of the northern Adriatic.

A train worker in Milano blows her whistle as travelers push past one an other for a seat on their train ride home to see their families for the last festival of the season.

In Chioggia street vendors open their stands. They arrange their vegetables and countless species of fresh seafood. Large fishing boats arrive home from long nights working along the Adriatic coast. Store owners enter their banks, caffees, bars, supermarkets, shoe stores, and workshops. They hope the continuous flooding from the week before has not ruined their business—that their pumps kept pace with each night's rising waters.

In a piazza in the small town of Galaezza local men are building a gigantic effigy of the old year—la befana—an old woman, whose five meters will be burned in a joyful, though to me somewhat morbid, ceremony that night. She is a symbol of the old year and her sacrifice represents a new start. Across the street in a cold room with fading frescoes I awake and start a pot of coffee. It is so cold that I imagine the snow falling outside the window is in the room with me. I open an email and learn that one of my greatest friends and mentor has died.

George once told me that “life can be bore, a mess even, but it is a great adventure, ever ceaseless change, and constant challenge! And it can be fun.”

George's death, and more importantly his life, inspired in me the desire to understand change. How our environment and cultures change. The last four months in Italy have provided me with countless lessons in how the world can and does change.

For much of time I lived in Italy my home was in a city hostel on the island of Chioggia. Chioggia is city obsessed with fish. Everything about the city is related to the island's fishing past and present. The streets are lined with shops selling fishing boots, nets, and nautical gear. Its bars and caffees face the water ready for the pescatore(fisherman) in need of a hot or strong drink. The canals are lined with boats. Small ones that work the lagoon's shellfish aquaculture farms and big ones that pillage the waters of Croatia for species long depleted from Italian sea. Behind dusty widows are boat mechanics and net makers. The main canal is bordered with dry docks and fish processing plants and also the daily fish market, where on many occasions I counted nearly 30 species of fresh seafood, much of it still trying to wiggle itself towards the canal and a new chance at freedom.

Chioggia was a place were I developed a rhythm. I awoke to follow the tides, to see how the city lived with frequent flooding, the endless boat traffic, and scent of the lagoon. I lived with university students, who provided me an environment where all I heard for weeks on end was Italian—a language I now use in conversation and hear in my dreams. Two of the hardest things for me to deal with in Chioggia, and the reasons I finally left to explore other parts of Italy, were racism, and the disconnect with the fishery resources they all depended on for work. I saw immigrants denied access to food, spit on, and chased off the streets. After high water, when the streets were smeared with filth from the canals, I watched shop owners and fishermen use brooms and bleach to clean the pavement—sweeping a chemical slurry into the lagoon, only to head to the beach at low tide to collect mussels for dinner. I worry that for Chioggia change will come quickly when the already abused fisheries of the lagoon and Adriatic sea crash and the 1000 year history of fishing, the dialect, and the culture of the city are reduced to graying photos on postcards.

As much as I love the sea and water I was often drawn to the mountains—especially when I needed a little snow and solitude. And it was thus that one weekend I found myself coming down a long snowy trail above Lake Maggiore in northern Italy, wearing mountaineer boots that were a half size to small. In need of a break my friend and I decided to explore a deep cave, famous for its permanently frozen depths. Depths hiding a glacier—a glacier with ice dating backing nearly 2000 years. After climbing 15 meters down into the cave my boots meet a muddy bottom, at the base of some dirty snow. The last ten years of warmth in the Alps had erased the icy record of the previous 2000 years.

A few weeks ago I traveled to Sardinia. I backpacked through a region known to the Romans as Barbaria—a place with people so fierce and independent that the Roman military left them alone. The region is dotted with the crumbling ruins of castles dating back to the birth of Christ. Each night I stayed in small huts made of stone and juniper. For nearly 4,000 years structures identical to these were used by local shepherds to look over their herds and hunt for wild boar. Less than 50 years ago the last old man left his hut for the city and now a national park protects the artifacts of their ancient lifestyle. A lifestyle replaced by roads, trucks, and factories.

In 36 hours I fly to Dhaka, Bangladesh. Ceaseless change.

Brett