Hidden in the Hills. By John von Daler

                I'll search here, I thought. This must be where she has seen them.

The Roads around #Ravello 12. (Final Chapter) by John von Daler

                    After many hours of this melodious dalliance I realized that I had promised the prioress to return for dinner. Standing up from our playground I could hardly see the hag, the sun having disappeared in the direction of Bari. But I was able to ascertain that her make-up wasn’t what it had been. Now any connoisseur knows that you do not fault the artist that his colors run, especially if you have had your fingers on his work, so I kept quiet. But suddenly the hag looked me directly in the eye.

The Roads around #Ravello 11. (Serialized Story in 12 Parts) by John von Daler

                       I turned in surprise and delight to see the room itself. There was not much to see. Ah, but quantity has never been my bedfellow. Directly across from the window was a huge fourposter with four or five plump, satin pillows. Sitting on the bed clad only in a gown was the hag, her face as hideous as I remembered from the square, but her body like the body of a mermaid without the tail. Her breasts under the silk were like small pears from the San Cataldo gardens, her arms beckoned delicately, ”Take me, take me, take me!”

The Roads around #Ravello 10. (Serialized Story in 12 Parts) by John von Daler

                      I looked incredulously at her as she stood up painfully and halted towards an alley at the side of the square. Not knowing consciously what to do, I allowed my unconscious mind to guide me. I followed her into the alley. Without looking back she turned the corner in the shadows and went down a slightly narrower alley. I followed. She rounded yet another corner into a still smaller way. I followed still. She entered a causeway only as wide as my shoulders. I continued behind her.

The Roads around #Ravello 9. (Serialized Story in 12 Parts) by John von Daler

                   In the window I saw the contours, in the discreet pink hues of the morning light, the uniform... of ... a cleaning woman. As she leaned out the window waving her cleaning cloth to rid it of the dust from the window sill she looked questioningly towards me and nudged a flower pot from the sill out of the window and it fell thirty meters to the courtyard below. Her face told many tales of childbirth, poverty and death and as I lowered my violin to the continuing strains of the sonata I saluted her, saying the only words I know in Italian, ”Mamma, Mia!”

The Roads around #Ravello 8. (Serialized Story in 12 Parts) by John von Daler

                   I unpacked my violin, rosining the bow with extra care, and found a position directly in front of the tower window but in a blessed shadow out of the incredibly hot sun.

The Roads around #Ravello 7. (Serialized Story in 12 Parts) by John von Daler

                       Inside the low-ceilinged room which was empty except for one chair, one table and a glass, I sat down at the table, turned to look out the window at Scala and upon returning my gaze to the table I found that my glass had been filled with the dark, Ravello wine. I drank of it and to my surprise heard a woman’s voice, cackling like a hag out of Macbeth, ”Welcome to Ravello, my pretty! What makes you haste this way my little violinist on the wings of song?”

The Roads around #Ravello 6. (Serialized Story in 12 Parts) by John von Daler

                   Springing down past vineyards and pastures we followed one steep stairway after another. Always, just as I was to gain in on her, I would reach a road crossing and would have to wait for the careening local bus, or a small

truck filled with olives, or a donkey carrying garbage. When I could resume the chase she would have regained her lead and I would have to strain myself to stay within reach.

The Roads around #Ravello 5. (Serialized Story in 12 Parts) by John von Daler

                     Having arranged these matters I then took my leave of Francesca, promising to return in time for our dinner. Taking my violin under my arm, I sped through the garden to the secret door at the end of a narrow path and finding the bottle of Ravello Wine of Darkness which I had for a rather large payment gotten Mario to conceal for me in the high grass outside the door, I strode down the road towards Scala and towards my goal in Ravello.

The Roads around #Ravello 4. (Serialized Story in 12 Parts) by John von Daler

                       The following morning I made haste to put my well-formulated plan in action.

The Roads around #Ravello 3. (Serialized Story in 12 Parts) by John von Daler

        I must confess to being a not unknowledgeable follower of the aristocracy of love, Messeurs Don Juan, Casanova and de Sade. In the spirit of their philosophies I have frolicked my way through many a rainbow-colored affair, and I have numerous flesh wounds not only from dueling with disgruntled lovers but also from the nails and teeth of amorous women in the throes of deciding whether no means yes or yes means no. The prospect of yet another conquest which I would and could initiate without the least possibility of disappointing my father’s former mistress seemed like a splendid way to end what until now had been an extremely boring season.

The Roads around #Ravello 2. (Serialized Story in 12 Parts) by John von Daler

                On the edge of the mountain in Scala, just there where the sun disappears in the afternoon, an old cloister can be found. It is called San Cataldo. An ancient order of secular nuns has for centuries carried on a secret life in these massive halls. The aristocratic families of Napoli, when scandals have threatened and the mores of their daughters have been questioned, has often sent these proud women to Scala to weather the storms of society and to regain the poise of their natural status.

The Roads around #Ravello 1. (Serialized Story in 12 Parts) by John von Daler

                  If you have traveled extensively, you may have heard of the Bay of Amalfi in Southern Italy. Here, nestled at the base of the thousand year old cliffs, the little village of Amalfi has plied its two trades, fishing and papermaking, since our lord came to earth.

Lingering on. By John von Daler

                      Tonight the Danish summer, like some naughty teenager, had decided to behave itself just this once. Through the green trees and shrubbery, its light blue hues shining playfully, the twilight brought out the yellows, reds, purples, and pinks of thousands of tulips. Their buds, mirrored in the many lighted pools, gleamed back at the evening sky in spectacular innocence. Guests in Tivoli strolled through the lushness occasionally uttering soft words, but mostly walking in silence, their arms around each other, their real lives suspended, their minds at ease.