The sun is quite insistent this afternoon, but a cool and blustery wind still makes my terrace a delightful place. Lounging under the dense canopy made by the creeper that comes from the terrace of the neighboring house, I am watching its luscious orange flowers sway and shiver in the wind. Even between gusts, the bees have hard time grabbing onto them. Absorbed by the sparkle of sunlight on the bouncy flowers and leaves, I unexpectedly stumble upon a thought of sorts: after five full years in this house, I still do not know the creeper’s name in any language whatsoever. After a few quick thoughts about the best way to learn it, I smile dismissively at this sudden flurry of mental activity. Truly, the creeper’s name is none of my business.

Addendum (April 13, 2009)

I am walking down Borgo with Alexandra and Philip Wilson, who own several houses just beyond the Gothic Gate at the end of my street. “Have you ever been at my place?” I ask Alexandra when we reach my door. “No,” she says, “and I would like to see it!” When we come to the terrace, I point at the creeper on its southern side: “The first shoots appeared only a couple of days ago.” And then I mention that I still do not know the plant’s name after all these years. “It has trumpet-like, meaty, orange-red flowers,” I add. “Ah,” chuckles Philip, “that should be Bignonia!” I rush to my computer as soon as my guests leave. And Bignonia it is, too. Bignonia capreolata, to be a bit more precise. One of its English names is Crossvine. What a lucky visit!