Tomorrow is Sunday and the Feast of Our Lady of Lubriano, known among people in the area as La Infiorata. For the past 250 years, on the sixth Sunday after Easter, Lubriano's residents have been celebrating by covering their one and only street with flower petals, transforming the charcoal granite main street into a dizzy artist's palette. Spring blossoms will decorate the paving for a quarter mile from the 11th century church of San Giovanni Battista to the 17th century chapel of Santa Maria del Poggio. From year to year the priest and people will come and go but constancy remains in La Infiorata. The colors of spring, like a river, flow through time.

The autostrada far below me in the Tiber Valley transports, almost supersonically, a mass of humanity between Rome and Florence. People are rushing past but here we are in in ancient Latium, sandwiched between Umbria and Tuscany. No one stops here. The occasional tour bus skirts the edge of our village, slowing slightly to look across the valley at the stunning view of Civita di Bagnoregio. Just last week another chunk of this town disintegrated into the valley below, lending credence to its name "The Dying City". Most tourists here have come by way of Rick Steves' guidebook.

How lucky we are to be here ahead of the advance guard of tourists. It is almost impossible to think that none of them know about this beautiful hamlet and its spectacular location. Three years ago, my husband David and I bought part of a 16th century Jesuit monastery. We have it in condominio with a retired Italian couple, the Medoris. The fast talking, highly-energetic wife tells me, I think I discern, that tomorrow our two families are responsible for entirely covering our 60 feet of combined road frontage with petals and blossoms. We have never been here in May before. The Medoris are one of the four big families in town. They can call in brothers, sisters, children, nieces, and cousins living in the general area as re-enforcements to scour the surrounding hills for buds and blossoms. We, on the other hand, would have to call five different cities in the US for a troop deployment of la famiglia.

Our daughter is visiting with her small children. She is in Florence for the day but will be back tomorrow. David will not pick flowers. So my army of flower pickers consists of me, my ten and eight year-old grandsons and my five year-old grandaughter. The boys are most enthusiastic and help all day but little Anna is more interested in climbing the trees than picking blossoms. By lunch I realise it is time to cheat. I hasten down to the little garden shop which is about to close in an hour. I negotiate with them to buy all their flowers. (This is apparently a big no-no as no-one else seems to be in the garden shop.) The signora agrees and for 20 euro sells me armfuls of flowers that on Monday will be past their sell-by date. Included in this armful are about 150 Gerber daisies. The colors are stunning, half the basket load is coral and the other half is burgundy. With my stress level down, we return to our blossom-filled back garden and fragrantly pluck away at apple blossoms, cherry blossoms, and garnet rose bushes. At dusk we are done, physically that is. The petal scents turn the house into a perfume factory.

Mrs Medori has informed me we will meet in the street, with baskets of flowers, at 9.30am sharp. We will then chalk out our design onto the streets pavers piu veloce. At 10am the street will be closed to traffic. All flower laying begins. At 10.45 it is molto importante that all is done. And at 11am sharp the long religious procession will walk barefoot over our artwork.

Angst accompanies me all night. It seems impossible to strew that many flowers in that amount of space in a complicated design in that short time. My only solace is that the street narrows exactly where our house is and at this point is only eight feet wide. At 9.30am a cannon sounds in the valley obviously telling the community that the Festa is ON -- the clouds are ominous, but there is no rain delay.

I start by chalking my part of the street. Being no artist I cheat again. I draw giant circles with the aid of a broom stick in hand at the center and the children's jump rope. The neighbors look quite mystified by my make-shift compass. My angst disappears when a contingent of seven Medoris appear with huge laundry baskets full of petals of cherry pink, sunshine yellow and magenta red. Mrs Medori is la Maestra and conducts the concerto of flower flingers. She has chalked the word 'LOVE', which I thought cute and kind seeing she speaks no English at all.