A street led across the Fiume Adige to a large and imposing building with Resurrecturis across its impressive gable. Upon presenting myself to the building I was greeted by huge iron gates. Inside was a large foyer, of sorts, liberally decorated with flowers in stands and family photos in frames. Clearly this was not a venue made to present well for conference delegates, as much of the town had been.

This was the Cimiterio Municipale, the town cemetery, on a scale I had never witnessed before.

I recall walking the miles of paths between rows of graves and family crypts. I admired the Latin belief in family. I had briefly encountered and nurtured its value when Mother was with us before she died. But to the Italians, French, Greek and other Mediterranean cultures this belief was as normal as midday lunch with three generations at the table.

Walking in silence amidst the uncalming quiet of this most vast of cemeteries I began to think more about the differences between the life I was used to and the essences of life in Italy. Passion, bravado, obvious and flaunted style, and open displays of affection are not easily dealt with in Anglo Saxon life. In Italy, and perhaps to a lesser extent in France and Spain, this is accepted – almost mandatory. It’s natural in a confounding way that uneases novices but lures them to unfamiliar revelry. An openness exists in Italy that seldom exists anywhere else. It’s an honesty of life and love that taunts, teases and overwhelms the senses to an extraordinary state that intoxicates the mind in a most welcome manner.

I love Italy and all it stands for. The decaying monuments, the suicidal driving, the general anarchy and the energetic gesturing in friendly debate. It’s easy to remember the food, the beautiful women, the wine and the culture. They are the postcards. It is the hard core of Italy that really arouses the senses. Just to watch it enlivens the spirit. It’s powerful. And by my reckoning, if anyone feels they’re lacking a little in life, a visit to Italy will awaken the pulse.

So for a second time, I had encountered Verona. She was more open this time, but she didn’t quite let me in, still. She’s a temptress who warrants seducing with infinite patience. All the foreplay in the world won’t open her up. That is, until she’s ready.