Our apartment is small — in terms of our home in the Texas Hill Country — but spacious. Can that be? Extremely high ceilings, as well as less is more furnishings, help. The rooms are large, the artwork original, the rooftop views out of each window, charming.

If I had my own things, this is a place where I could hang my hat for a very long time. I really don’t need as much space as we have. But I do need soft squishy furniture. Everything here is firm.  Bed.  Pillows. Couch. Chairs.

Music, Music Everywhere

I love the sounds that waft up to the sunroom through the open doors. The first day we were here we thought a musician lived in the apartment across from the sunroom.  Opening the sliding glass doors to let in the fresh Italian air, the melodic strains of a trumpet wafted up from below. Later, a violin. Still later, a piano. We were impressed — a multi-talented neighbor — not quite.

Yesterday Michael was looking for pane (bread) for our dinner and he noticed a small Bottega in the same direction the music was coming from.

After descending our sixty-four steps, walking out the heavy wooden doors onto the street, and turning the corner to find the pane we were seeking, we discovered there is a large music school right in back of us.

The Sounds of Lucca

So, what else do we hear up here in our bird’s nest? Horses hooves, footsteps, laughter, garbage trucks, singing, the occasional airplane, doves. Automobiles — rarely. Along with all this discordant harmony, the music is a constant.

On the other side of the apartment, our bedroom faces via St. Andrea — the path to one of the main attractions in Lucca — the Guinigi Tower. Besides the wide variety of specialty shops, multi-storied apartments line both sides of the street.  Looking out the window it seems that if you reach out far enough, you can actually touch the roofline of the building across the street.

The first night we arrived we heard what sounded like an argument out our bedroom window. Windows were open everywhere.  And the lady across the way was not happy.  Her voice escalated from slightly annoyed to very annoyed to full-blown anger. The man’s voice was a low drone — possibly thinking about the neighbors?  The woman was obviously in such a state that she wasn’t aware of sound carrying or more likely just didn’t care.  Anyone in Lucca with their windows open heard her, and they probably understood what she was saying; we could only guess.

Last night as I lay in bed reading, the sounds of a dinner party emanated from the same window. The strains of Happy Birthday sung in Italian by a multitude of voices at 11:07 pm cinched the fact.