IL BAPTISMOIL BAPTISMO
JARED
Water tricked down, in spurts, from the drain. Cold, clear, refreshing. First the calves, then the forearms. Tiny bits of sand and salt dance down to and off my ankle into the basin. My pink slightly-burned shoulders can almost reach the stream of relief. Oh man, that’s cold. Brisk and thirst quenching, unaware I’m also convincing my own mouth to salivate. Suddenly, I’m hoping to drink from it. Can I? The pipe itself shows gracious signs of wear and mineralization. I’m not surprised, everything around here has that gracious ‘built for eternity’ engineering. Sunshine continues to break softly through the trees and onto my face, reminding me that this playful act is on full display.
I’m in Foggia, a small province in the Puglian region of Italy. How I wound up here is a whole other story. The dribble and trickle of perfectly transparent water from this unassuming fountain on the edge of church property is where two new friends and I have decided to rinse off after a day at the beach.