Deciding after where to wander, we stumbled upon the super Duomo. But in this non-Euclidean city, all roads and lanes and stairways and alleys lead eventually from the hill town’s top to its bottom, or in the reverse motion (from bottom to top), depending on whether you are coming or going, or just out for a stroll. So the Duomo, rising up in the piazza in all its magnificent gold and glory, came as no surprise.

The treat, our gee-wiz moment, stood out against the backdrop of the monument. In a converted building, next to the bulbous human figure of a statue, one little sign draws us into an exhibition of watercolors. Rebecca, the budding artist, is delighted at the thought of unbidden treasure. I, no less excited, am likewise chalking up the experience to one beauty of slow travel: the unexpected pleasure. Inside, with the exception of the seasons, the artist has treated mostly two subjects.

Flowers and buildings, their contours and architectures, again (mostly) in a limited pallet of colors. One purple building, one brown rose: the two that return most often to my mind’s eye. Together with a purple “Fog.” And the sequence of the seasons in more conventional tones. We both wanted to ask, how much (for these beauties)? It was not our Italian, trust me, that kept the question (or card) in its beholder.

Looking now at her brochure, I’m hoping to find a website to post with her works. Looking back on our visit, I am struck by the many lessons learned: 1) that I have to learn Italian; 2) that Fabiola, amid the babel of tongues, was so gracious as a travel guide and so passionate about her art; 3) that I have to study more and more about these unknown towns nearby; and 4) that I must turn away from the fear of driving a foreign car.

P.S. Again, the same message: photos hung up in the ether.