The night before I bought an abandoned house in the Tuscan hills, I couldn't sleep. For one thing, the church bells near the hotel rang not only the hour but sent out a few bonus clangs for quarter and half hours as well. I was about to get rope burn from churning on rough cotton sheets. It was summer in Cortona, the driest July in memory. Even the night couldn't cool down stony streets torched all day by the fierce sun.
I sat up and wrote in my notebook, I am about to buy a house in a foreign country. Why have I gotten myself into this? Make a list! This is all I could come up with: It is so. The bells — four, five, six. And as we know from the poet John Donne, they toll for thee. Remembering that somber thought, I quickly scrawled in my notebook: And
