I emerged from an overgrown path, full of fallen birch branches and reeds, onto a small sandy bluff above the bank of the Tagliamento. The river ran a cool green-blue that changed shades as clouds periodically covered the winter sun. It was chilly but not cold. The sound of farm equipment echoed over the opposite riverbank and a single engine plane passed by overhead. This weekend, the village of Latisana is celebrating the festival of San Martino. As T's mom tells us, traditionally this festival marked the time when farmers (il contadini) had sold their autumn harvests and had some spending money. They would celebrate as lavishly as they could. Most women were married around this time, when their families could afford to purchase cloth, lace and housewares for dowries.

I sat on a mushroom-speckled birch log and watched the slow moving water. A strikingly blue bird - perhaps an Eurasian Blue Tit - landed on a branch near the beach and darted away. A small flock of pigeons skidded to the water’s edge, dipped their beaks in the river for a split second, and took off again. They returned at least five times in the same configuration.

Yesterday, as T and I returned to Italy from Rijeka, last week seemed like a blur- a blur that felt very similar to the smog-fog of Sarajevo and its surrounding villages. At some distance to the Balkans, I can now visualise the histories, weathers, archives and monuments that I visited in the last week with a little more sharpness and clarity, like the circuitous and sandy curves of the Tagliamento.