The doorway to the sala at Andrea Palladio's Villa Godi, a couple of days ago.
I am in Italy. I like Italy. I like the Italians. A lot. Right now, down in the evening street, outside my hotel room, the Italians are babbling way, with mellifluous unintelligibility. If there is Muzak in Heaven - it might be this: people chattering quietly and happily in a poetic southern language you don't understand.