The pedestrian square — novel for traffic-weary American tourists. A space for festivities, for espresso, for conversation; free of smog and horns. As we saddled up to the cafe on the corner, a congregation grew in the center of the space.
I wondered aloud about the spectacle we were about to witness; perhaps Italy had emerged victorious in a football match? Maybe some kind of street performance was about to begin? I readied my camera, preparing to capture la vita di strada.
It became clear I’d misread the situation. The attire was black, the crowd dotted with young, morose faces; at odds with the idyllic Bari afternoon. “A girl was killed in a traffic accident” our waiter shared, with a slight grimace.
Though Italian funerals are typically public affairs, I couldn’t help but wince at our accidental intrusion. A Peroni break, or an entire vacation, felt frivolous and hollow surrounded by such sadness.
I wonder about this girl, unnamed to me. What might her life have been; what places would she have gone? How might she have spent this sun-soaked afternoon? What does it mean to sit next to grief, yet to be removed from it?
Later that evening, Oskar and I stumbled back into the same square. Young boys scampered mischievously across the stone, boxes in hand. With a bang, showers of sparks erupted to cheers — Italy had won a football match.
I left my camera hanging at my side.