Lying in the tall meadow, grasshoppers leapfrogging up my leg, I look to the sky salted with stars and smile. An aromatic blend of Nutella and narcissus perfumes the air as new friends and I sit Indian style in our provincial piazza singing drunken lyrics, munching on crackers, sharing stories and laughing.

We students have abandoned our exhausting routines of lab work and reporting in the small Cagli town below for a night atop Monte Petrano. Monte Petrano is one of three peaks towering over Cagli in the Marche region of Italy. A ten kilometer trek upwards, Monte Petrano reaches its highest peak at 1108 meters.

We start our journey in the town square, stuffing ourselves and our supplies in a two door macchina heading north for the hills.
 
  The steep, snaking path with sliced edges reminds me of San Francisco's curvy Lombard Street in reverse. Twisting, turning, winding, weaving up and up and up some more. My lungs tighten in the thinner air making each breath a struggle. I can hear the gears underneath my feet grind and ache with each rising slant. The driver jerks the wheel right to avoid a passing car and forces my face--thud--against the window.

As I try to peel my skin off the glass, I open my eyes to find an epic view of Apennine Mountains--range upon range of rolling hills and dusty brush. The distant layers appearing as mere shadows of the previous.

Beyond the darkness of the shady tree-lined road, we finally reach the top. The blinding sun reflecting off of golden fields and flowers agitate my eyes like an itch stuck inside. I rub them with the backside of my hand to get the sting out and open. It was beautiful.

Like a postcard of the midwest, there was nothing but fields and sparse trees. And sky. Blue cloudless overwhelming sky. Like little kids let out for recess, we throw our bags to the ground and run around in the open space. Jumping, skipping, chasing, spinning. We were 8 all over again.
    Purple and pink hues paint the faces around me as the sun sets in the background. Working together, we assemble the three tents beside a tree and eat cold pizza slices with warm wine. The wind grows stronger in the darker hours and begins playing with my hair like a maestro conducting an orchestra. Our tents smack and whir with the wind, threatening to unhinge from their stakes and fly into the night.

I shoo away the grass and flies tickling my ankles. Far away, a dog's bark is carried off with the wind. Exhausted and beaten from the new conditions, we search for a nearby restaurant.

Text and Web Design by Katie Foster

Photography by Jason Gorsuch and Katie Swartz

Inside, the empty tables and scuffed white walls are depressing. Three old men, with weathered faces, stare as we stroll in for gelato e vino bianca. Recognizing our foreign tongue, one asks in perfect English, "Where are you from?"

"America," we answer shyly through smiles.

Excited to practice the language, he begins telling us about his adventures in Africa. The restaurant walls are covered in sepia-toned and worn photographs of his younger self beside wild animals and land. After getting lost in a museum of his memories, we finally leave for a slumber under the stars.

In the hazy glow of early morning, we all stumble from our tents, sleepy-eyed and yawning, and sit for a last look at the panoramic views of vast meadow and distant towns.

"I think I see Cagli down there."

A world away, a life of responsibilities, hectic schedules and deadlines awaits our return. From our vantage point, however, life is simple. Meditating in our ways, we stare out at the scenery and enjoy the escape from barreling motorcycle engines, piercing church bells and noisy street cleaners. Up here it is quiet. Up here it is peaceful. Up here will soon be a faint memory.

I will miss these days.