{"id":19480,"date":"2025-02-13T07:58:43","date_gmt":"2025-02-13T11:58:43","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/?p=19480"},"modified":"2025-02-13T07:58:45","modified_gmt":"2025-02-13T11:58:45","slug":"italo-calvino-the-garden-of-stubborn-cats","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/short-stories\/italo-calvino-the-garden-of-stubborn-cats\/19480\/","title":{"rendered":"Italo Calvino: The Garden of Stubborn Cats"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

Synopsis: The Garden of Stubborn Cats<\/strong> is a short story by Italo Calvino, published in 1963 as part of Marcovaldo, or The Seasons in the City<\/em>. The story follows Marcovaldo, a humble worker who, on his solitary walks, begins to observe the secret world of urban cats. Following a tabby cat, he discovers a city hidden between walls and rooftops, a feline territory that survives in the interstices of modernity. His curiosity leads him to a mysterious garden, the last refuge of animals in a city in constant transformation, where humans and cats seem to wage a silent battle for space and time.<\/p>\n\n\n

\n
\n
\"Italo<\/figure>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n

The Garden of Stubborn Cats<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

Italo Calvino
 (Full story)<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The city of cats and the city of men exist one inside the other, but they are not the same city. Few cats recall the time when there was no distinction: the streets and squares of men were also streets and squares of cats, and the lawns, courtyards, balconies, and fountains: you lived in a broad and various space. But for several generations now domestic felines have been prisoners of an uninhabitable city: the streets are uninterruptedly overrun by the mortal traffic of cat-crushing automobiles; in every square foot of terrain where once a garden extended or a vacant lot or the ruins of an old demolition, now condominiums loom up, welfare housing, brand-new skyscrapers; every entrance is crammed by parked cars; the courtyards, one by one, have been roofed by reinforced concrete and transformed into garages or movie houses or storerooms or workshops. And where a rolling plateau of low roofs once extended, copings, terraces, water tanks, balconies, skylights, corrugated-iron sheds, now one general superstructure rises wherever structures can rise; the intermediate differences in height, between the low ground of the street and the supernal heaven of the penthouses disappear; the cat of a recent litter seeks in vain the itinerary of its fathers, the point from which to make the soft leap from balustrade to cornice to drainpipe, or for the quick climb on the rooftiles.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But in this vertical city, in this compressed city where all voids tend to fill up and every block of cement tends to mingle with other blocks of cement, a kind of counter-city opens, a negative city, that consists of empty slices between wall and wall, of the minimal distances ordained by the building regulations between two constructions, between the rear of one construction and the rear of the next; it is a city of cavities, wells, air conduits, driveways, inner yards, accesses to basements, like a network of dry canals on a planet of stucco and tar, and it is through this network, grazing the walls, that the ancient cat population still scurries.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

On occasion, to pass the time, Marcovaldo would follow a cat. It was during the work-break, between noon and three, when all the personnel except Marcovaldo went home to eat, and he \u2013 who brought his lunch in his bag \u2013 laid his place among the packing-cases in the warehouse, chewed his snack, smoked a half-cigar, and wandered around, alone and idle, waiting for work to resume. In those hours, a cat that peeped in at a window was always welcome company, and a guide for new explorations. He had made friends with a tabby, well-fed, a blue ribbon around its neck, surely living with some well-to-do family. This tabby shared with Marcovaldo the habit of an afternoon stroll right after lunch; and naturally a friendship sprang up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Following his tabby friend, Marcovaldo had started looking at places as if through the round eyes of a cat and even if these places were the usual environs of his firm he saw them in a different light, as settings for cattish stories, with connections practicable only by light, velvety paws. Though from the outside the neighborhood seemed poor in cats, every day on his rounds Marcovaldo made the acquaintance of some new face, and a miau, a hiss, a stiffening of fur on an arched back was enough for him to sense ties and intrigues and rivalries among them. At those moments he thought he had already penetrated the secrecy of the felines\u2019 society: and then he felt himself scrutinized by pupils that became slits, under the surveillance of the antennae of taut whiskers, and all the cats around him sat impassive as sphinxes, the pink triangle of their noses convergent on the black triangles of their lips, and the only things that moved were the tips of the ears, with a vibrant jerk like radar. They reached the end of a narrow passage, between squalid blank walls; and, looking around, Marcovaldo saw that the cats that had led him this far had vanished, all of them together, no telling in which direction, even his tabby friend, and they had left him alone. Their realm had territories, ceremonies, customs that it was not yet granted to him to discover.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

On the other hand, from the cat city there opened unsuspected peep-holes onto the city of men: and one day the same tabby led him to discover the great Biarritz Restaurant.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Anyone wishing to see the Biarritz Restaurant had only to assume the posture of a cat, that is, proceed on all fours. Cat and man, in this fashion, walked around a kind of dome, at whose foot some low, rectangular little windows opened. Following the tabby\u2019s example, Marcovaldo looked down. They were transoms through which the luxurious hall received air and light. To the sound of gypsy violins, partridges and quails swirled by on silver dishes balanced by the white-gloved fingers of waiters in tailcoats. Or, more precisely, above the partridges and quails the dishes whirled, and above the dishes the white gloves, and poised on the waiters\u2019 patent-leather shoes, the gleaming parquet floor, from which hung dwarf potted palms and table-cloths and crystal and buckets like bells with the champagne bottle for their clapper: everything was turned upside-down because Marcovaldo, for fear of being seen, wouldn\u2019t stick his head inside the window and confined himself to looking at the reversed reflection of the room in the tilted pane.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But it was not so much the windows of the dining-room as those of the kitchens that interested the cat: looking through the former you saw, distant and somehow transfigured, what in the kitchens presented itself \u2013 quite concrete and within paw\u2019s reach \u2013 as a plucked bird or a fresh fish. And it was towards the kitchens, in fact, that the tabby wanted to lead Marcovaldo, either through a gesture of altruistic friendship or rather because it counted on the man\u2019s help for one of its raids. Marcovaldo, however, was reluctant to leave his belvedere over the main room: first, as he was fascinated by the luxury of the place, and then because something down there had riveted his attention. To such an extent that, overcoming his fear of being seen, he kept peeking in, with his head in the transom.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In the midst of the room, directly under that pane, there was a little glass fish-tank, a kind of aquarium, where some fat trout were swimming. A special customer approached, a man with a shiny bald pate, black suit, black beard. An old waiter in tailcoat followed him, carrying a little net as if he were going to catch butterflies. The gentleman in black looked at the trout with a grave, intent air; then he raised one hand and with a slow, solemn gesture singled out a fish. The waiter dipped the net into the tank, pursued the appointed trout, captured it, headed for the kitchens, holding out in front of him, like a lance, the net in which the fish wriggled. The gentleman in black, solemn as a magistrate who has handed down a capital sentence, went to take his seat and wait for the return of the trout, saut\u00e9ed \u201c\u00e0 la meuni\u00e8re\u201d.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

If I found a way to drop a line from up here and make one of those trout bite, Marcovaldo thought, I couldn\u2019t be accused of theft; at worst, of fishing in an unauthorized place. And ignoring the miaus that called him towards the kitchen, he went to collect his fishing tackle.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Nobody in the crowded dining-room of the Biarritz saw the long, fine line, armed with hook and bait, as it slowly dropped into the tank. The fish saw the bait, and flung themselves on it. In the fray one trout managed to bite the worm: and immediately it began to rise, rise, emerge from the water, a silvery flash, it darted up high, over the laid tables and the trolleys of hors d\u2019oeuvres, over the blue flames of the cr\u00eapes Suzette, until it vanished into the heavens of the transom.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Marcovaldo had yanked the rod with the brisk snap of the expert fisherman, so the fish landed behind his back. The trout had barely touched the ground when the cat sprang. What little life the trout still had was lost between the tabby\u2019s teeth. Marcovaldo, who had abandoned his line at that moment to run and grab the fish, saw it snatched from under his nose, hook and all. He was quick to put one foot on the rod, but the snatch had been so strong that the rod was all the man had left, while the tabby ran off with the fish, pulling the line after it. Treacherous kitty! It had vanished.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But this time it wouldn\u2019t escape him: there was that long line trailing after him and showing the way he had taken. Though he had lost sight of the cat, Marcovaldo followed the end of the line: there it was, running along a wall; it climbed a parapet, wound through a doorway, was swallowed up by a basement . . . Marcovaldo, venturing into more and more cattish places, climbed roofs, straddled railings, always managed to catch a glimpse \u2013 perhaps only a second before it disappeared \u2013 of that moving trace that indicated the thief s path.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Now the line played out down a sidewalk, in the midst of the traffic, and Marcovaldo, running after it, almost managed to grab it. He flung himself down on his belly: there, he grabbed it! He managed to seize one end of the line before it slipped between the bars of a gate.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Beyond a half-rusted gate and two bits of wall buried under climbing plants, there was a little rank garden, with a small, abandoned-looking building at the far end of it. A carpet of dry leaves covered the path, and dry leaves lay everywhere under the boughs of the two plane-trees, forming actually some little mounds in the yard. A layer of leaves was yellowing in the green water of a pool. Enormous buildings rose all around, skyscrapers with thousands of windows, like so many eyes trained disapprovingly on that little square patch with two trees, a few tiles, and all those yellow leaves, surviving right in the middle of an area of great traffic.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And in this garden, perched on the capitals and balustrades, lying on the dry leaves of the flower-beds, climbing on the trunks of the trees or on the drainpipes, motionless on their four paws, their tails making a question-mark, seated to wash their faces, there were tiger cats, black cats, white cats, calico cats, tabbies, angoras, Persians, house cats and stray cats, perfumed cats and mangy cats. Marcovaldo realized he had finally reached the heart of the cats\u2019 realm, their secret island. And, in his emotion, he almost forgot his fish.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It had remained, that fish, hanging by the line from the branch of a tree, out of reach of the cats\u2019 leaps; it must have dropped from its kidnapper\u2019s mouth at some clumsy movement, perhaps as it was defended from the others, or perhaps displayed as an extraordinary prize. The line had got tangled, and Marcovaldo, tug as he would, couldn\u2019t manage to yank it loose. A furious battle had meanwhile been joined among the cats, to reach that unreachable fish, or rather to win the right to try and reach it. Each wanted to prevent the others from leaping: they hurled themselves on one another, they tangled in mid-air, they rolled around clutching each other, and finally a general war broke out in a whirl of dry, crackling leaves.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

After many futile yanks, Marcovaldo now felt the line was free, but he took care not to pull it: the trout would have fallen right in the midst of that infuriated scrimmage of felines.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was at this moment that, from the top of the walls of the garden, a strange rain began to fall: fish bones, heads, tails, even bits of lung and lights. Immediately the cats\u2019 attention was distracted from the suspended trout and they flung themselves on the new delicacies. To Marcovaldo, this seemed the right moment to pull the line and regain his fish. But, before he had time to act, from a blind of the little villa, two yellow, skinny hands darted out: one was brandishing scissors; the other, a frying-pan. The hand with the scissors was raised above the trout, the hand with the frying-pan was thrust under it. The scissors cut the line, the trout fell into the pan; hands, scissors and pan withdrew, the blind closed: all in the space of a second. Marcovaldo was totally bewildered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAre you also a cat-lover?\u201d A voice at his back made him turn round. He was surrounded by little old women, some of them ancient, wearing old-fashioned hats on their heads; others, younger, but with the look of spinsters; and all were carrying in their hands or their bags packages of left-over meat or fish, and some even had little pans of milk. \u201cWill you help me throw this package over the fence, for those poor creatures?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

All the ladies, cat-lovers, gathered at this hour around the garden of dry leaves to take food to their prot\u00e9g\u00e9s.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCan you tell me why they are all here, these cats?\u201d Marcovaldo enquired.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhere else could they go? This garden is all they have left! Cats come here from other neighborhoods, too, from miles and miles around . . .\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnd birds, as well,\u201d another lady added. \u201cThey\u2019re forced to live by the hundreds and hundreds on these few trees . . .\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnd the frogs, they\u2019re all in that pool, and at night they never stop croaking . . . You can hear them even on the eighth floor of the buildings around here.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWho does this villa belong to anyway?\u201d Marcovaldo asked. Now, outside the gate, there weren\u2019t just the cat-loving ladies but also other people: the man from the gas pump opposite, the apprentices from a mechanic\u2019s shop, the postman, the grocer, some passers-by. And none of them, men and women, had to be asked twice: all wanted to have their say, as always when a mysterious and controversial subject comes up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt belongs to a Marchesa. She lives there, but you never see her . . .\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cShe\u2019s been offered millions and millions, by developers, for this little patch of land, but she won\u2019t sell . . .\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat would she do with millions, an old woman all alone in the world? She wants to hold on to her house, even if it\u2019s falling to pieces, rather than be forced to move . . .\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s the only undeveloped bit of land in the downtown area . . . Its value goes up every year . . . They\u2019ve made her offers \u2013\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOffers! That\u2019s not all. Threats, intimidation, persecution . . . You don\u2019t know the half of it! Those contractors!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBut she holds out. She\u2019s held out for years . . .\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cShe\u2019s a saint. Without her, where would those poor animals go?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cA lot she cares about the animals, the old miser! Have you ever seen her give them anything to eat?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHow can she feed the cats when she doesn\u2019t have food for herself? She\u2019s the last descendant of a ruined family!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cShe hates cats. I\u2019ve seen her chasing them and hitting them with an umbrella!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBecause they were tearing up her flowerbeds!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat flowerbeds? I\u2019ve never seen anything in this garden but a great crop of weeds!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Marcovaldo realized that with regard to the old Marchesa opinions were sharply divided: some saw her as an angelic being, others as an egoist and a miser.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s the same with the birds; she never gives them a crumb!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cShe gives them hospitality. Isn\u2019t that plenty?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLike she gives the mosquitoes, you mean. They all come from here, from that pool. In the summertime the mosquitoes eat us alive, and it\u2019s all the fault of that Marchesa!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnd the mice? This villa is a mine of mice. Under the dead leaves they have their burrows, and at night they come out . . .\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAs far as the mice go, the cats take care of them . . .\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOh, you and your cats! If we had to rely on them . . .\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhy? Have you got something to say against cats?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Here the discussion degenerated into a general quarrel.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe authorities should do something: confiscate the villa!\u201d one man cried.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat gives them the right?\u201d another protested.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIn a modern neighborhood like ours, a mouse-nest like this . . . it should be forbidden . . .\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhy, I picked my apartment precisely because it overlooked this little bit of green . . .\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGreen, hell! Think of the fine skyscraper they could build here!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Marcovaldo would have liked to add something of his own, but he couldn\u2019t get a word in. Finally, all in one breath, he exclaimed: \u201cThe Marchesa stole a trout from me!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The unexpected news supplied fresh ammunition to the old woman\u2019s enemies, but her defenders exploited it as proof of the indigence to which the unfortunate noblewoman was reduced. Both sides agreed that Marcovaldo should go and knock at her door to demand an explanation.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It wasn\u2019t clear whether the gate was locked or unlocked; in any case, it opened, after a push, with a mournful creak. Marcovaldo picked his way among the leaves and cats, climbed the steps to the porch, knocked hard at the entrance.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

At a window (the very one where the frying-pan had appeared), the blind was raised slightly and in one corner a round, pale blue eye was seen, and a clump of hair dyed an undefinable color, and a dry skinny hand. A voice was heard, asking: \u201cWho is it? Who\u2019s at the door?\u201d, the words accompanied by a cloud smelling of fried oil.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s me, Marchesa. The trout man,\u201d Marcovaldo explained, \u201cI don\u2019t mean to trouble you. I only wanted to tell you, in case you didn\u2019t know that the trout was stolen from me, by that cat, and I\u2019m the one who caught it, in fact the line . . .\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThose cats! It\u2019s always those cats . . .\u201d the Marchesa said, from behind the shutter, with a shrill, somewhat nasal voice. \u201cAll my troubles come from the cats! Nobody knows what I go through! Prisoner night and day of those horrid beasts! And with all the refuse people throw over the walls, to spite me!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBut my trout . . .\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYour trout! What am I supposed to know about your trout!\u201d The Marchesa\u2019s voice became almost a scream, as if she wanted to drown out the sizzle of the oil in the pan, which came through the window along with the aroma of fried fish. \u201cHow can I make sense of anything, with all the stuff that rains into my house?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI understand, but did you take the trout or didn\u2019t you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhen I think of all the damage I suffer because of the cats! Ah, fine state of affairs! I\u2019m not responsible for anything! I can\u2019t tell you what I\u2019ve lost! Thanks to those cats, who\u2019ve occupied house and garden for years! My life at the mercy of those animals! Go and find the owners! Make them pay damages! Damages? A whole life destroyed! A prisoner here, unable to move a step!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cExcuse me for asking: but who\u2019s forcing you to stay?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

From the crack in the blind there appeared sometimes a round, pale blue eye, sometimes a mouth with two protruding teeth; for a moment the whole face was visible, and to Marcovaldo it seemed, bewilderingly, the face of a cat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThey keep me prisoner, they do, those cats! Oh, I\u2019d be glad to leave! What wouldn\u2019t I give for a little apartment all my own, in a nice clean modern building! But I can\u2019t go out . . . They follow me, they block my path, they trip me up!\u201d The voice became a whisper, as if to confide a secret. \u201cThey\u2019re afraid I\u2019ll sell the lot . . . They won\u2019t leave me . . . won\u2019t allow me . . . When the builders come to offer me a contract, you should see them, those cats! They get in the way, pull out their claws, they even chased a lawyer off! Once I had the contract right here, I was about to sign it, and they dived in through the window, knocked over the inkwell, tore up all the pages . . .\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

All of a sudden Marcovaldo remembered the time, the shipping department, the boss. He tiptoed off over the dried leaves, as the voice continued to come through the slats of the blind, enfolded in that cloud apparently from the oil of a frying-pan. \u201cThey even scratched me . . . I still have the scar . . . All alone here at the mercy of these demons . . .\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Winter came. A blossoming of white flakes decked the branches and capitals and the cats\u2019 tails. Under the snow, the dry leaves dissolved into mush. The cats were rarely seen, the cat-lovers even less; the packages of fish-bones were consigned only to cats who came to the door. Nobody, for quite a while, had seen anything of the Marchesa. No smoke came now from the chimney-pot of the villa.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

One snowy day, the garden was again full of cats, who had returned as if it were spring, and they were miauing as if on a moonlight night. The neighbors realized that something had happened: they went and knocked at the Marchesa\u2019s door. She didn\u2019t answer: she was dead.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In the spring, instead of the garden, there was a huge building site that a contractor had set up. The steam shovels dug down to great depths to make room for the foundations, cement poured into the iron armatures, a very high crane passed beams to the workmen who were making the scaffoldings. But how could they get on with their work? Cats walked along all the planks, they made bricks fall and upset buckets of mortar, they fought in the midst of the piles of sand. When you started to raise an armature, you found a cat perched on the top of it, hissing fiercely. More treacherous pusses climbed onto the masons\u2019 backs as if to purr, and there was no getting rid of them. And the birds continued making their nests in all the trestles, the cab of the crane looked like an aviary . . . And you couldn\u2019t dip up a bucket of water that wasn\u2019t full of frogs, croaking and hopping . . .<\/p>\n\n\n\n

THE END<\/p>\n\n\n\n\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The Garden of Stubborn Cats is a short story by Italo Calvino, published in 1963 as part of Marcovaldo, or The Seasons in the City. The story follows Marcovaldo, a humble worker who, on his solitary walks, begins to observe the secret world of urban cats. Following a tabby cat, he discovers a city hidden between walls and rooftops, a feline territory that survives in the interstices of modernity. His curiosity leads him to a mysterious garden, the last refuge of animals in a city in constant transformation, where humans and cats seem to wage a silent battle for space and time.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":19453,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"_kad_blocks_custom_css":"","_kad_blocks_head_custom_js":"","_kad_blocks_body_custom_js":"","_kad_blocks_footer_custom_js":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[559],"tags":[892,888,890],"class_list":["post-19480","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-short-stories","tag-cats","tag-italo-calvino-en","tag-italy","generate-columns","tablet-grid-50","mobile-grid-100","grid-parent","grid-33"],"acf":[],"taxonomy_info":{"category":[{"value":559,"label":"Short stories"}],"post_tag":[{"value":892,"label":"Cats"},{"value":888,"label":"Italo Calvino"},{"value":890,"label":"Italy"}]},"featured_image_src_large":["https:\/\/lecturia.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/02\/Italo-Calvino-La-ciudad-de-los-gatos-obstinados.webp",1024,1024,false],"author_info":{"display_name":"Juan Pablo Guevara","author_link":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/author\/spartakku\/"},"comment_info":"","category_info":[{"term_id":559,"name":"Short stories","slug":"short-stories","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":559,"taxonomy":"category","description":"","parent":0,"count":419,"filter":"raw","cat_ID":559,"category_count":419,"category_description":"","cat_name":"Short stories","category_nicename":"short-stories","category_parent":0}],"tag_info":[{"term_id":892,"name":"Cats","slug":"cats","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":892,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":11,"filter":"raw"},{"term_id":888,"name":"Italo Calvino","slug":"italo-calvino-en","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":888,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":1,"filter":"raw"},{"term_id":890,"name":"Italy","slug":"italy","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":890,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":1,"filter":"raw"}],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/19480","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=19480"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/19480\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/19453"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=19480"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=19480"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=19480"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}