Crooked spine. Bent neck. Crumpled t-shirt plus hand equals pillow. This bus ride is less than comfortable. Sleep seems like the only option. I make an attempt. The silence on the bus speaks volumes about the eventful weekends had by all in Rome. Centuries of history conquered. Pictures taken. Stories, moments, and memories from the past weekend in an unfamiliar city reflected in the plexiglass pane. I gaze out at the hills of Italy. My thoughts hidden behind my sunglasses. Eyes close. Dreams ensue.

Dreams in Cagli are different. There is no pressure to dream. Clouds of thought drift through the sky, free floating through my mind.

I sit straight up in bed. My heart racing. Ears attuned to the slightest creak. The sun filters through the slats of the blinds. Someone has turned on the lights and given the"Cut!" command to my dreams.

My bed squeaks and squawks as I attempt to get out of it. I straighten. I stretch. Another Sunday drinking cappucino and eating gelato.

Then there it is. A fighter jet roars overhead, bringing with it images of 9/11. Crumbling towers, the white soot covered city, tears and futile searches in the rubble. Then later, desert warfare. Statues in Baghdad torn down.

The roar of the jet shakes the glass panes of my window. This sound doesn't blend with the church bells, the smell of cappucino, the sweet taste of Sange di Guida and the melodious conversations in the cafes and ristorantes. Even Cagli is no fortress against the chaos of the world outside.

Too small to appear on a standard tourist map of Italy, Cagli is surrounded by medieval walls built centuries ago to withstand war and weather. Now they're cracked and crumbling. Scattered stones on a worn walkway.