Rome in September. The Spanish Steps were packed, so we looked at them from the bottom first and then climbed.
The first thing I did at the top was turn around and take a picture facing down. The stairs, the crowd, the street below. Documenting the climb. Proof of the effort.
Then I sat in the shade across from the top of the steps, and that is when I saw it. The skyline. Right there the whole time, while I was busy keeping score of how far I had come. I had proof of every stair and barely a glance at what was above them.
I started our Italy trip looking down. The cobblestones, the map, my own feet, the next thing on the list. These streets are uneven and old, and looking down is how you stay upright on them, so it feels like good sense the whole time you are doing it, even on streets that don’t require such concentration.
A woman gets very good at this. Watch the ground, watch the step in front of you. Keep score of how far you have come. All of it useful, all of it aimed at the floor.
Meanwhile the city keeps everything it built above eye level.
Later that afternoon I looked up at the obelisk at the top of the steps, and there is a tree growing out the side of it. Halfway up. Straight out from the stone, turning toward the sun. Small, though big enough that I could not walk past it once I had seen it.
I stood there asking how. It found a crack and took it.