I’m usually seeking the past in art and architecture, but the other day I went with some friends, who were also here in Italy, to a remote village called Seren del Grappa. They were there to find the cemetery and the graves of any people with the last name of my friend’s great grandmother who came from the village but had emigrated to America in 1905. We found many tombs with her family name and even some living people (we’d missed one by just two weeks; she died on November 11th), though they weren’t home when we buzzed them. On the way from the cemetery I took this picture of autumn leaves covered in frost, even though it was well past noon. In the sun all was warm, but in the shade it was frigid. To the north the rough heights of the Dolomites loomed with new snow upon them. Travel brings many pleasures, and many moments of beauty and contemplation. I always find that travel dramatically alters one’s sense of time, both short and long term. History is everywhere, time is everywhere. The seasons change. It was the first time I’d seen frost in years.