San Fabiano

This afternoon, having just heard about the death of David Foster Wallace, I went for a run/hike in San Fabiano, the area just outside Arezzo that is home to the villa. It's mostly farmland--grapes and olives on old, old estates--and the terrain is somewhere between hills and mountain foothills.

I got high up into the hills above the villa, on narrow dirt roads. At one point the ground under my feet was strangely reflective, and I realized that among the stones and pebbles were a bunch of old tiles. I have no clue what they were from: an ancient mosaic? a more recent renovation?

Meanwhile a storm was rolling into the valley.

The trees in the foreground are an olive grove. Far in the background on the left you can see the Arezzo Duomo--the high cathedral spire--and on the right you can see the villa, the yellow building a little closer.

I hiked most of the way out--getting to know the terrain--and ran back. Got well and properly rained on, and it felt fantastic.

Have I sorted out how I feel about DFW's death? Not even close. DFW was the inspiration, after all, for my first published essay, and--as much as I have heroes--one of mine. And though it isn't the same as losing a friend, it's hard to read his essays without feeling as though you've gotten to know him.

There has been far too much death this year. I know that as a clown I must deal with death routinely, and help other people laugh at it, but boy, that's a hard lesson sometimes.