The Duomo, with its massive bronze doors and frescoed dome, was a spectacular sight.Walking about the interior, gazing at the indescribable artistry of the place, Carter had been reminded of Giancarlo’s assertion that Italy had some of the most beautiful churches in the world. It was almost overwhelming, which he supposed had been precisely the intent.

At seeing the Leaning Tower for the first time in person, Carter had almost burst out laughing. On the one hand it was obviously a phenomenal piece of artwork. It resembled to him an enormous stack of elaborately decorated cakes. On the other hand, though, it looked completely ridiculous, like the sections of the cake were about to slide off. Standing so close to the Duomo, the tower lent a bit of human frailty to the scene, as if it were bowing before the glorious perfection of God. It had seemed somehow fitting.

In any case, Carter had supposed that it was only right that the tower be located on the Field of Miracles, for it was indeed a miracle that it had not yet toppled to the ground. Before returning to his hotel for his afternoon nap—taking one had already become a habit—he had snapped several pictures of it with his camera before asking a passing woman to snap one or two of him posing in just the right position so that it appeared he was holding up the tower with his hands.

Later that evening, after an early dinner, Carter had taken a stroll around town. The sun by then had fallen far behind the Duomo, and the shadows stretched long across the street as he had ambled along the sidewalk. He rather liked what he had seen so far of Pisa and had briefly considered staying an extra day to see some of the other sights, perhaps even to visit the university the old man on the train had mentioned. He had quickly dismissed the idea, however, for he found that he had been seized by an odd sense of impatience that kept growing stronger, prodding him to not linger too long in one place, but to keep moving on toward his ultimate destination. Inside, he had felt that the time was still not yet right for him to go to Abruzzo. All the same, he knew that it was drawing closer. And so, the following morning after breakfast, Carter had lugged his duffel bag back to the station, purchased a ticket, and boarded the next train to Florence.