It was the year I had moved to northern Italy for my scientific work. I had left the urban bustle of Montreal behind, and my new surroundings could not differ more. The Dolomiti mountains formed a backdrop to every scene I played in - almost a painted theatrical set. They filled the sky with their seemingly edgeless presence and -- I noticed -- led me to walk taller, eyes on them and their changing light, rather than on my shoes. Throughout the seasons, the whites and greens of the mountains tumbled into the vineyards that flanked the Adige river, such that there was not a single bare spot in the scenery, and I was in constant awe of how small all the houses and all the people seemed in comparison. It is strange to think of how my work was the same, but I was different. My days in Trentino were tethered to this landscape - my senses, moods and feelings riding on the rhythm of everyday life in the small town. The resounding church-bells sliced each of my days into half-hours, the rush of the Adige river filled my ear, and the clear air somehow led to clearer thinking. For those months, getting to my home involved turning left at the vineyard - paying attention to the street sign was absolutely unnecessary. I enjoyed every single day of being that small dot amid rows and rows of vines, at the foot of towering mountains. But, one spring afternoon, the awe and gratitude I felt just stopped me in my tracks on my routine walk back home. I smiled and recorded the scene, so I wouldn't forget it, so I wouldn't forget my way.
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