The museum did not open until 3pm, and so I people-watched for a while. A wedding was soon to begin, and I observed the finery of those gathering, and their behaviours. 

There is a nobility in the bearing of young Italian women. They wear emerald green, a difficult colour to be sure, with the confidence high cheekbones impart. It is a gossamer beauty. 

Italian men, too, know that style is a story told by the whole. Theirs is fitted, and fits. Sun glasses are neatly assigned to the high bridge of the nose. The rims rhyme with whatever else they might wear, including the ever-present cigarette lighter. 

The church bells, town-criers of Italy, have just rung out their work. It is three minutes past three. The portcullis gates of the Museo Civico Di Pordenone swing open. I settle my €1.50 coffee bill, and enter the museum. I am its only visitor. 

***

When I saw her first, I presumed Valentina was that museum employee I am most accustomed to; dressed in dark blue, sitting on a high seat; distracted; maybe dejected. 

She was otherwise. 

Valentina welcomed me, asked me where I was from, and spoke of her joy to live in Glasgow when she was a student. It was a time when she could eat shortcake without guilt. She still has a thick, woolly jumper from her time studying there. 

‘Shortbread?’, I wondered.

‘Butter’, she responded.

We both smirked. 

And so began a personal tour through her museum, delivered in English, Italian and sign-language. I had not asked for a tour. But Valentina wanted to give it to me.  

‘We love our little museum.’, she said, ‘It was a noble family’s house, and I think it feels like a home.’

Generations of Ricchieri patrons peered down upon us, as we ascended. They thrived during the Renaissance, and carried an extraordinary nose in their genes. It lacked the sharp elegance of Rome. Rather, the Ricchieri nose had all the bumps and bulbous scrapes of the pre-Alps. She pronounced this memorable appendage as their ‘noise’. Perhaps those noblemen would have agreed. 

***

When we arrived to the space with religious iconography and statues, my guide held back. Silence was the best way to explore this room. 

I came upon a statue of the young Madonna, kneeling in the moment of the Annunciation. 

The story of Mary is almost as remarkable as that of her famous son. I have felt drawn to her, over the years. 

Mary was the humblest of people, and she was chosen. The statue I now gazed upon celebrates the moment her story began. The archangel Gabriel announces news that will shape her life, and reshape the world. 

Mary pays a visit to her cousin, Elizabeth, and, according to Luke, expresses her feelings on learning that she will bear the son of God.

She uses words so profound that I remember them by heart, forty years after John Michael Talbot’s beautiful melody placed them in my ear.

‘My soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord, And my spirit exaults in God my saviour. For He has looked with mercy on my lowliness, And my name will be forever exalted. For the mighty God has done great things for me, And His mercy will reach from age to age. And holy is His name.’

***

We moved through a room which preserved the villa’s original outside walls, in their colourful majesty. There was such precision and choice in the detail. I took a picture so that I might study and enjoy it more closely afterwards. 

We passed a fresco etched with white spots, which demanded explanation. I half-understood that it was the result of people needing to protect themselves from the plague, by dint of studded tarpaulins covering the walls of their homes. It may have been something else entirely, but the tour guide had become more important than the tour.

I would not clip her flow. 

At length, we came to the end of her Museum’s rooms. She expressed an interest in coming to Ireland, as a follow-on from her Scottish adventure. I smiled. Her handshake was expressive, held at an angle which suited my height, more than hers. 

***

With my thoughts transported by the experience, I emerged into the bright light of the piazza. The beautifully clothed young women and men of Pordenone were no longer to be seen. A classic, white Fiat 500 cabriolet stood in the wide and empty space. Fresh flowers adorned its windscreen. Baby’s breath.

The wedding had begun.