After a sweltering morning at the post office and an afternoon tortured by the smiling name tags and bright, wordy posters of the info fair, it was 5:30 p.m., a time when the sun hung suspended in indecision—too high for rest, too low to offer purpose.
I was tired—but not yet tired enough to surrender. Without deciding, my feet slipped off the stone path into the whispering, golden grass between Villa Natalia and Villa Ulivi, waiting for the sunset’s final statement that now, I could retreat. Unlike the crowded moments of the day, no one else was in the field—only wind, fresh-cut grass, the unpatterned dirt that unsettled my stomach, and the constant buzz of mosquitoes, foreshadowing the itch and sting soon to follow. It wasn’t a peaceful silence, but at least it came with the unfiltered sun and the pale, natural yellow crowning every blade of grass.

I lay down on the grass. Before I could even open my eyes to greet the sunlight, my bare legs felt stiff and scratchy—not exactly painful, but far from comfortable. Then came the mosquitoes, their bass-like low buzz told me what I already expected was coming. Surprisingly, the first few stings were easy to ignore, but then the itchy feeling spread unconsciously—from my legs to my arms, my fingers, even the edge of my ears. Under the sunburn, my whole body had turned into a surface just waiting to react. I thought about going back to the villa, but I stayed, only because I was hoping the itchy moment would still unfold certain meaning—at least a beautiful scene worth photographing or writing down in my diary.

Amidst the sea of gold and green, my eyes were captured by the farthest, yet the most unique part of the field—two olive trees swaying in the breeze. They weren’t what you’d call “picture-perfect”—no symmetry lines, no elegance. Honestly, next to those tall, serious trees standing like soldiers, these ones felt more like me—chubby and humorous. Their thick branches tangled like limbs in an awkward hug, and their leaves quivered like the hair of drunken hippies, laughing at their own jokes and waving lazily at me, as if to say, You’re not so different from us.

I moved closer to them, driven not by meaning, but by familiarity. I sat beneath the fatter one—if it didn’t mind being called that. For a moment, the sun backed off, and I watched it slide away, slow and heavy. Somewhere in that small, thoughtless motion—of sitting, of breathing—the sting of the grass faded, as well as the itch, once sharp and insistent. The mosquitoes still hummed their anthem with antiquated basses and violins, but I no longer hated them. They were part of it—the grass, the trees, the sun, and even the discomfort belonged.