Month: April 2016

It rained today. Sad for the gelato and tasting events that are happening all over town. There are nevertheless plenty of visitors, but rain makes it logistically difficult, if not impossible, pleasurably to eat gelato. Fortunately, tomorrow is a national holiday and the weather is predicted to be sunny, so there will be another chance.

I took a walk despite the showers. I intended to visit my favorite gelato shop, L’Officina del Gelato – notwithstanding the pavilions all over town featuring flavors and types from all over Italy – and I felt a bit righteous about it, too. But within two minutes of leaving the house, the shower turned into a torrent, so instead I wandered. Later as the rain calmed, I redirected my feet towards l’Officina, but by the time I arrived the storm was again tumultuous.

The gelato shop is located close by La Torre del Moro, and this morning friends had pointed out an exhibit on AmerIndian culture upstairs in the adjunct Palazzo dei Sette, only open Sundays from two to five. So, as I was directly in front of the entrance, I squeezed my way in through the crowds sheltering from the downpour.

Earlier, I also noticed a large poster advertising another exhibit, paintings by a fellow named Marco Gizzi. The poster features an almost life-sized portrait of a man in chain mail, helmet, emblazoned livery, with a cudgel resting on his shoulder. The image is stunning, but the cudgel seems so real I felt its weight, the covering on the shield is slashed and torn, and I was lead to imagining battles fought. A few seconds of contemplating the reality and purpose of those medieval trappings left me cold, or at least ambivalent about attending the exhibit.

Having twisted through the throng I found the stairs and followed the signs that read “Mostra” confident I was about to see an exhibit in Orvieto on AmerIndian culture. Cool. I love unexpected, unlikely mashups. When I arrived, however, I had entered Signor Gizzi’s exhibit instead; a long series of rooms – quite large and comfortable, if a little ragged – with four or five works hung in each. The first room had nothing heraldic in it, so I shrugged and started with the painting immediately to my left.

One of the many unthinking prejudices I’m saddled with is to instantly categorize hyper or super realism as banal. All technique, I tell myself as if I could somehow rival it, where’s the soul, the purpose? How is this different from creative photography? Within about thirty seconds, that bit of arrogance got a well-deserved slap down.

The first painting was of a copper coffee canister. Not all of it is in frame. It is dented and poked, shiny and scoured, parts of it covered with a patina. There is a trace of dust and coffee grounds sitting on the top edge of its metal “Caffè” label. The effect of its standing out from the canvas is stunning, wonderfully confusing, paradoxical, and irrational. It is set against a plain colored background, which lends its illusory dimensionally an even stronger impact. I was immediately drawn in, not by the novelty of its proffered illusion, but by the power of it. I strolled to the next painting and the next, and each drew me in further.

I believe there is a kind of sub-genre of painting that shows the back of a canvas as its subject, I remember seeing those somewhere before. Signor Gizzi pulls off some mean magic with his contribution. I was never quite able fully to accept that the painting was not a reversed canvas, only that a butterfly had landed on the upper half forced me to capitulate. It is simultaneously confounding, provocative, and delightful. It also took a strong effort of self-control not to touch it, my visual sense wanted help in determining exactly what was going on.

Following, there were a number of canvases with pomegranates – one with a wasp, some with leaves, others broken open next to a skull not always human. Tea kettles, tea pots. Gourds and pumpkins. A piece of white drapery with a fly resting on it. Each dares the viewer to discern what illusion does to our visual perception, each encourages us to make an effort to become more visually acute, to appreciate detail and color and form in ways — new ways — that relate to the world outside but are also distinct from it.

The third room held the soldiers, six of them. The couple of warriors without helmets I would later realize are self-portraits, and from the hands and the stature of the other figures, it would therefore seem that all of them are. The craft is as startling as in any of Gizzi’s other works. The effect, at least for me, is somewhat different. The poster downstairs, as true as it is, doesn’t have the impact of the original. The reaction it began in me was tripled, quadrupled – multiplied – in the presence of the paintings. They are gorgeous, disturbing, provocative, graceful. Each suit of armor and livery – so lovingly detailed, so confident, so elegant – is designed for two purposes, only; to prevent and inflict a messy death.  The tension between that and the pristine clarity of the work tears holes in my comfortable mind.

More still lives followed. (Interestingly, the Italian name for a still life is natura morta.) All are surprising, enlivening, impossible. Gizzi mixes painterly conventions with startling realism in subtle and pleasantly confusing ways.

I was thrilled. I’m going back.

I wandered out, revisiting a few of my favorite pieces. The two men I had passed on the way in were still in the outer room. I approached the one at the table, “Excuse my horrible Italian, but I have to say that was some of the most amazing work I have ever seen. Not just the…” He interrupted and pointed to the other man, who, with the force of the first man’s index finger, became one of the knights two rooms distant suddenly brought to life. “Congratulations, sir. The technique, of course, but composition, choice of objects, placement on canvas, framing, all of it. Extraordinary!” I went on for a bit too long. Gizzi shuffled, glowed, and shook my hand as many times as I offered it.

The first man picked up a catalog from a stack on his table and offered it in my direction. I glanced around for a sign, a cash box, any indication of how much I should pay for this gorgeous publication. He noticed, waved his hand, and flapped the book at me again. I accepted with a little bow and pressed it to my chest like an eager schoolboy might with his first textbook of the year.

“Auguri!” I said to the artist. “I can’t say anymore.” “Thanks,” he replied. “No, thank you!” and so we went back and forth for a few rounds before I managed to jumble back downstairs. Art of all kinds teaches us to see, to perceive with greater appreciation. Life on the street shown more vividly and with a fresh particularity for my experience in those rooms under La Torre del Moro. So it really is mine to give thanks. But I’ll overlook Gizzi’s error – for now.

First time gardening since August. Oh. My. Goodness.

One of the attractions of over-wintering in Orvieto was that I would, without really thinking about it, walk for miles a day right through to spring, and therefore be ready for any digging that might ensue. Okay, to be fair, it did help a bit. But I somehow neglected to factor in that yard work uses a very different set of muscles than long walks do.

The garden I’m moving into (with house attached) was, shall we say, rather neglected. I’m not sure for how long. I guess that would depend on what is meant by “neglect.” If it means that whatever plants might come up were allowed to grow until they died on their own, then it was perhaps neglected for a year or two. If it means that nothing went into the ground that wasn’t already there, up that estimate to five or six years. The earth wasn’t packed – it’s fairly light soil, probably because it’s volcanic/organic and had been assiduously tended for, oh, say twelve hundred years before the last six – but it felt neglected. Ah! That’s what I mean by neglected, it just felt that way.

Daniele, who I hired last week to paint, grew up with Massimo – the real estate agent who improvisationally found me the place – in the neighboring town of Porano. (see Etruscan Wood for details) He’s doing a great job, I like his taste, we share a sense of color and of boredom with “classico” white. Massimo told me that Daniele is also a muratore, loosely translated, a mason. I want to pave part of the yard in pieces of stone or brick; the section under the apricot tree. The light is dappled, it’s a northeastern exposure, it’ll be lovely. So, on our first meeting, and after we’d discussed paint, I asked Daniele about the terrazzo.

He hunched and stammered and I completed his sentence for him; not really a muratore, but sort of one? He nodded, but willing to look at the job. A couple of days ago he came to me with a plan. His father really is a first-rate muratore, they discussed it and proposed to frame the terrazzo with used cotto set in concrete so as to reflect the existing walkways, fill what lies in the middle with good sand, tamp and wet it alternately until the sand has seated itself, then lay large pieces of “brick” over it. The house is a rental. That way if or when I move, I can take what lies in the middle with me. Good thinking.

Today, Daniele covered everything in the house that might get splattered, removed doors and electrical plates, scraped and filled and treated, and began to paint. I worked in the yard for much of the day, and every hour or two we’d take a spontaneous conversation break. Great for building vocabulary, because we’re talking mostly about tools and paint and walls and pavement, with economic comparisons between Pennsylvania, Orvieto, and Porano thrown in for good measure.

Come afternoon, it was time for me to visit the fortuitously just-reopened ferramenta (hardware store) about a half mile to the south, but still sopra – on the Rock. I’ve been going in pretty regularly over the past week. The guy who opened it knows his stock, what it’s for, and how to use it. He is quickly learning that I don’t have the things I need to put together a garden or repair what might go wrong inside a house. I’m quickly learning that, as with the pharmacists here, he’s more than a dispenser of product – he’s hands on.

I ask for my first tool, a shovel. He shows me a selection of blades and handles. I choose. He hands both to me and points to where I have to drive the nail. Sorry, say I, I have no nails. Nor a hammer. He offers to assemble the shovel. Today, a similar scenario played out over a pickaxe, a rake, and an extension for the garden hose I bought this morning. He gave me advice on how to fix the filling mechanism for the upstairs toilet, which eventually boiled down to “take it apart and bring it in, I’ll show you what to do.” (That didn’t have to happen, by the way – Daniele fixed it on his own.)

I returned to the house carrying the new pickaxe and rake slung over my shoulder. I tried carrying them under my arm, but clearly the classical method is more efficacious, and it cuts a much better figure. I walked towards Via della Pertiche though the part of town that was host to orchards, vineyards, and gardens until the early 1950’s when many of those were filled with incongruous apartment buildings (they have since aged into something slightly more harmonious.) Walking with new tools, just assembled by the guy who sold them to me, though those streets with smaller gardens and orchards still intact, was like stepping onto a temporal treadmill. I stood still while walking because the earth rotated beneath me. (I know it’s not really like that, but allow me the whimsy.)

Then followed digging and raking, and using muscles for the fourth day in a row for which I had forgotten the intended function. By then, Daniele had put some color on the walls. The universal first gasp of “it’s so much darker than I thought it would be” escaped from my mouth before I had a moment to think. And the universal response of “it will dry lighter” was returned in tennis pro fashion. We talked paint. Daniele showed me pictures of others of his jobs. Beautiful work I cannot afford. When and if I move, perhaps I’ll hire him again, taking the imbianchino with me just like the pavers.

Awhile later, as he calls it a day and prepares to leave, he joins me in the garden and we discuss the size and shape of the future terrazzo. I ask if he could maybe use the cotto tiles I’d dug up earlier in the day for the border. He briefly inspects them and tells me that of course we can. Using them will save money. Well, I reply, mostly it’s because they’re beautiful. He agrees, they are.

“And to find the best large pieces for the middle, we should take a look at what’s available off the Rock.” In Scalo, I ask? “Oh, sure, in Scalo, Sferracavalo (also at the base of the cliff) but why not go to Bagnoregio, and there’s a great place in Lubriano, too, and a few others. The further we get from Orvieto, the cheaper they’ll be. Plus, it’ll be fun to look. We’ll go together until we find the right stuff.” I look at his tiny Fiat 500 parked on the lower terrace, imagine a quarter ton of brick in the back, and grimace. “Don’t worry,” he assures me, “I can borrow a Jeep.”

This morning Claudia suggested that she and Enrico could take me to antique fairs in the area, see if we can’t discover a few gems for appealingly low prices. Massimo, who is stupid busy, offered to take me to paint stores and furniture stores when I first took the house; I thanked him but declined, I’d feel stupid guilty for adding to his duties. Andrea has been beyond kind as the guy who takes and makes first-time phone calls for me, and accompanies me to procure new items not available sopra.

I reflected on all these lovely people on my walk home this evening, and it was a bit like settling into a warm bath after a hard day of digging. That metaphor was also an appealing projected reality, but as I don’t have a tub I collapsed onto the sofa instead, resisted falling asleep, and forgot all about the lecture/presentation on classical music that – although it is designed specifically for children – I enjoyed so much before the musicologist who gives it took a break for Easter. Oh well, I’ll catch the next one.

This morning after reading email, I’m reminded by my calendar that it’s time to check the Playwrights’ Center for submission opportunities. That usually takes about twenty minutes.

The first op I notice is a recently posted appeal for ten minute plays, they’ll accept up to three of them, and they are due tonight. The time delay gives me a bit of an advantage, but what the heck, I only have three ten minute plays total so at least there’ll be no time wasted in selection. I may as well do it immediately, get the day off to a good start.

I have learned this; always check a script before sending. Never mind that I last revised all three of these plays about three weeks ago, two months before that, and six weeks before that. Each revision was prompted by my horror (horror, I tell you!) at what I had been convinced was pretty good after the previous revision. Each gap between revisions represented a ton of writing, and learning, and changing priorities, and those are all positive things. But come on, three weeks? What major shifts could have occurred in three weeks? Better check them anyway.

Four hours and multiple revisions later I get up, stiff, bleary-eyed, and oddly discouraged, and it’s only eleven o’clock. I keep thinking I’ll eventually arrive at a point where I can trust myself as a writer. That something will seem to stay finished. Apparently not. I send the three plays as instructed, and continue what I began at quarter to seven – cataloging opportunities.

Oh, my goodness. Well over half the opportunities I look at read more or less like this:

“Small, underfunded community theatre in Grand Rapids seeks plays by female child playwrights who were born in Michigan and whose father is a dog owner, to celebrate the theatre’s 125^th season in the same location. Scripts of exactly 12.5 pages, 12 point type, Times New Roman, blind copies with all author information stripped out, and only from email addresses that do not have a .com or .net extension, please!

“Our theme this year is ROARING, so have fun exploring ROARING! Send us your best work. We will try to find someone who can read, but they will review only the first 800 scripts received, so submit early!

“Each script must be accompanied by a completed twelve-page online application form, a bio of no more than thirteen words (Open Office) a three-page synopsis (Word) a character list (PDF) production history (WordStar) half-page creative resume (Excel ’97) and a letter of recommendation from an agent, your lawyer, or an ex-lover (longhand).

“No plays that include use of an egg beater, please!

“All characters must be between 34 and 43.5 years of age, and should collectively represent a racial and spiritual cross section of the population of the Midwestern US. Maximum average cast size, 3.76. No profanity that the typical resident of Grand Rapids may find too familiar. All plays must be bold, relevant, provocative, thoughtful, and obscure (but not dense! No dense material, please!)

“A reader’s fee of $35 per play must be paid online, and approved by our business manager, before you submit. Diner’s Club cards, only! Members of Dramatists Guild pay twice. Winning playwright receives $10 and a invitation to attend opening night at half price (guests pay full); no travel, lodging, meals, or haircut expense will be covered. Perms are negotiable. Good luck!”

By the time noon drags around I’m worn out, discouraged, and glum.

I walk to my recently rented house on Via delle Pertiche to suss out paint colors and spend a little time weeding the garden. No water yet. The agent said in three days, four days ago. The painter said it would take three weeks. Someone else told me I’d have to go to some office to fill out forms. What can you do in a new rental without water? You can’t clean, you can’t plant, you can’t invite the fellow over who inspects the hot-water heating system. I weed, get tireder, come back to the apartment and take a very short nap. I water the plants on my terrace in Via Pecorelli, just because I can.

An hour passes. I understand very clearly that I need to walk. The town will fix me right up if I just allow it access. I’m ready for a snack, but the kitchen is ten feet away and it takes awhile to summon up the energy. I snack. I sit back down. I check the weather about eight times. Still nice out according to my phone. I sing a made up song about having to take a walk. What finally gets me downstairs is the bag of plastic and metal recyclables that needs to be binned.

I stride out the gate in the direction opposite from my intended route on the Anello. Two cats run up to me on the corrective path back – greet me like they know I need to pet them. Then the sleek black and white dog across the street runs to the gate and we have an extended session of sniffs, wet nose sensations, scratches, and nuzzles. He too seems to be saying “Don’t let it get you down bub, it’s only a stupid play.”

On the way down to the Anello, the first glimpse of the valley through the ruins of Porta Vivaria is transfixing. Greens I have not seen before, and I have seen green. Trees that a week ago were nearly naked, are fully clothed in silken foliage. Colors pop out from everywhere, slap me in the face, rough me up, and tickle my belly.

I take a short version of the walk; the wind is picking up and a bit on the chill side. As I emerge from Porta Romana, I run into one of my two or three American friends in Orvieto, Roy. He’s opening his garage to go somewhere, and tells me that when his routine is interrupted, he frequently leaves town with the garage door open and his house keys still in it. He knows this because the keys are always there when he returns.

I head towards Via del Duomo. The previous tenant at my new rental tears around a corner in an overlarge car and nearly runs me over. We both apologize. I savor the irony of the “what if” part of that moment. He needs to slow down, generally, but the fact that he just about plowed me into Via Lattanzi annoys me less that the size of the car he drives.

Taking Via Luca Signorelli to Via del Duomo, Claudia pulls along side in her little red Ford. Just finishing a week of sixty-five students in residence, she is. Ciao! A dopo! Tanti impegni! And she smiles, waves, and pulls away. Turning right takes me past Giovanni and Vera’s. Giovanni is seated majestically in the rear of the shop. We smile, nod, and wave.

On towards the Duomo, just feel like paying homage to its splendor. Once in the piazza I notice that the little ex-church across the way is open for a “WEEKend ART” exhibit. I attended the one in December and was thrilled by the quality of the work, so I cross the square to check it out. Magnificent, moving, provocative black and white paintings of the female form, clothed and nude, wonderful detail, stunning light, and a glorious tension that’s kind of sexual but goes beyond in a way that’s difficult to describe. Manuela Montenero.

Taking the back way towards Teatro Mancinelli, then up Corso towards La Torre del Moro. The evening passeggiata is beginning to stir. Familiar faces pass, some greetings are exchanged. The sun hits the streets at a blinding, but golden, angle. The flower market is filled with exotics. I yearn for water. (But I have to weed first, anyway, so relax.) Turning off Piazza Sant’Andrea there is Ubaldini alimentari, but it’s late, so even though I need cheese I’ll get it tomorrow. Wait! Stop! That’s a habit from somewhere else in some other time zone. Go. In. Now. Cheese. Three kinds.

More cats to honor and court as I continue on to Via Pecorelli.

This evening I hear from Massimo, the real estate agent. The utilities don’t get turned off, he tells me. He takes a dated picture of the meters, then when the account is moved to my name, the bill is apportioned accordingly. To use any of them, including water, turn handles and flip switches at the house.

Life here is not, on the whole, at all similar to a submissions opportunity. It’s only that everyone seems to think it is.

Piano a piano is a useful phrase. Prosaically it translates as “bit by bit, little by little, step by step.” But literally it can be thought as “level by level” or “gently, gently.”

My lifelong habit is to rush, especially to rush into the untried and unfamiliar. Even worse, to rush through a process once entered so I can prove to myself that I will survive the new, accomplish that for which I have no experience, am able to finish a project more or less like an adult. I have the capacity to turn everything into a project. Goals must be set, timelines established, deadlines put firmly into place. If an effort is not organized within an inch of its life, why do it at all?

The irony is, of course, that the more I rush to organize, the less organized everything is. Organization, the word itself, would seem to rise from the idea of “having been made organic.” Organisms don’t rush. They grow in their own time and of their own accord. Piano a piano. 

So, I have a house to clean, paint, and furnish. I have a garden to clear, plant, and nourish. I have business to conclude, plays to write, a language to learn, walks to take, a culture to explore, and a body to keep healthy! Yikes!!

Piano a piano. What marvelous choices. What deliciously savorable experiences lie ahead.

Today, Andrea accompanies me – with his car, which I drive – to the Mercatone, Orvieto’s version of a megastore located on a practically invisible alley in Scalo. The proprietor meets us at the door, having invited us back yesterday to speak with the furnishings expert today about a proper bedroom set for my new house. We exchange news and pleasantries. Andrea keeps conversation going when I am unable, which is most of the time. The proprietor explains how and why his front window display has shifted (they had to clean the floor, it’d been weeks) and hails a fellow just arrived (the furnishings expert.) I am introduced as the man looking for a bed and an armoire. We have an appointment.

We all go upstairs to the expert’s desk. The expert, despite his lofty title, is relaxed, charming, funny. He wears bright blue-rimmed glasses. He checks catalogs, describes my choices.  We discuss the stressed proportions of the bedroom I mean to populate with the items I seek. I ask for prices, he quotes them.  He breaks the news gently that the cost of a bed is just for the structure. The mattress and rete are extra.

He takes me out to the warehouse so I can see mattresses in person. We pull a couple from a vertical pile and throw them onto the floor for a comparison test. I fall onto the first. It’s a mattress. I don’t get the subtle shades of mattresses. It’s not uncomfortable, therefore just fine. I fall onto a second, fancier, and more expensive unit. I admit that I can’t really tell the difference. Everyone laughs.

We return to the desk on the second floor and look at armoires in the expert’s catalog. We compare the real armoire in the display with the various drawings in the catalog. Nothing quite fits, but one almost does, so I settle on that. It’s all been pleasant, even fun, but it’s still shopping and I want this over with.

While the expert is creating his order form, I look over at the display of bed and armoire I’m about to purchase. The bed I like; elegant, simple lines, and a pleasant color. The armoire is okay, but boring. The end tables are worse. I imagine the armoire I’ve just ordered as looking more like the end tables than the armoire on display. I begin to feel queasy. It’s a lot of money, normal to be sure, but normal is enough to make me nervous.

Piano a piano. “You know what? I’m going to take the bed now – mattress. underpinnings, and all – and stop there. Okay? I mean, it’s a month before you can deliver the armoire, and I leave in a month, may not be back for two or three past that. If I still need an armoire in August, I’ll wait a month for it then.” Okay, he smiles, nods; no problem. And he means it. He’s not being nice nor is his mild and agreeable response a sales tactic. “Good,” he says, “I’ll be here. There’s no rush.”

We visit an office on the ground floor where two gentlemen, one of them with bright red-rimmed glasses, collaborate in rendering a sales slip from the expert’s order form. That done, one of them walks me out to the counter so I can pay. There, a tall young man – with a face of such strange but genuine beauty that he is difficult to look at – is learning the craft of accepting payment. The gentleman with the glasses steps him through the process. The young man’s Etruscan features shift and crinkle, smile and joke. For a moment, he reminds me of an old friend who died ten years ago.

Transaction completed, the young man turns, grins and says “Thank you!” He then shrugs and says in Italian, “That’s the only English I have, I hope it’s enough.” Everyone laughs.

It happened suddenly.

I ran into a friend on the street and mentioned I might be looking for a rental in Orvieto. He sent me contact info for a friend of his, a realtor. I wrote, told him what I might be interested in. He showed me a small house, the stone equivalent of a hut in a garden. I had friends look at it, we shared opinions. The next morning I told the realtor I’d take it. All in four days.

I cannot honestly say that moving in this direction has been without plagues of doubt. My heart says “yes” to this change. My head criticizes me for being too quick, too spur-of-the-moment, too impulsive, for complicating matters for myself and everyone in my life. For not looking at the bigger picture. For trusting what feels right over analyzing what should be best.

In the Hindu tradition, the last third of life is ideally spent as a forest dweller. You leave behind the activities of middle age that focused on responsibility, proving yourself worthy, and finding a place within the community. You retreat to live in a hut. You reflect on your deeper nature. You begin to intuit an identity not founded in time and place. You seek to peel away the veneer of personality so as to become acquainted with a consciousness not focused on crafting masks and projecting them outwards.

A decade ago I would listen to descriptions of the forest retreat and scoff; it seemed unlikely and not necessarily all that appealing. Now, I seem to have fallen into the very life I scoffed at and doubted.

Orvieto is not a forest, of course, except perhaps one of stone. I’m not physically isolated from the world, I’m rocked daily by the tides of community, visitors, and school children in great, noisy throngs. I hear languages around me that sound familiar but are not any that I know. Even English sometimes is mysterious and strange, rising and falling in shattering consonants, punctuated by “yeah” and “sure” and “I know,” but without other words I recognize. Colors and rhythms and movements mix, and a broad spectrum of human characteristics, corporeal and otherwise, crowds this place.

Those other crowds – the other wise – they come from temporal zones far away. They stood on these same bluffs, observed the ancestors of the birds that I observed yesterday, wondered at the shapes of the surrounding hills, the green fields, the gently changing colors of the olive groves. For hundreds of years they traipsed these streets, padded through alleys substantially unchanged in the time-gap that lies between us. Despite the occasional gas meter, traffic sign, and window screen, in essence we enjoy identical views. As with the visitor in space, the visitor in time dresses differently than I do, speaks another language, has other expectations and conceptions of life, aspires to diverse achievements. But we share this city. We share time on a rock.

When I mused to a friend here, almost a year ago, that I might like to spend more time on this rock, he warned that Orvieto can be “very isolated.” That didn’t scare me. That I was supposed to be put off by isolation, did scare me a little. Am I really that weak, I wondered? That a bit of isolation should put me off? Is Orvieto’s short winter between the first week of January and the last week of March really so lonely, so dull, so deprived of stimulation? Should I be threatened by tranquility?

My reaction to lonely, dull, and isolated over the past six months has provided inklings of forest life. Lonely? My choice. Dull? Not with the crowds, large and small, dense and light, all filled with children discovering what magic a wobbling step is, a stone is, a ray of sunlight is. This is isolation? Bring it on. But the language does isolate, as do the webs of relationship that bind this town. A friend born elsewhere, but who has lived here since she was two, is – as another “immigrant” from the South told me – not an Orvietana. Those are genre of isolation that can be quite severe, but is isolation really so bad?

Time spent in the forest is meant to interrupt barriers, upturn assumptions, to calm nervous habits. The isolation required to effect those changes can be brutal, will blossom suddenly sweet, is damned challenging. I watch my mind’s adventures. They’re endless, often fascinating, seldom necessary. I don’t mean to say that thought isn’t useful, but I do mean that random, unfocused, uninvited, and tumultuous thought is exactly as attractive and desirable as it sounds. When I stop – instead of walking and talking to myself, even if silently – and look, listen, feel, and wonder, the Etruscans raise their eyes, birds sing the same songs they sang then, trees vibrate one to the other, and all our roots mingle and remember.

Today a flock of tourists was climbing the hill on Corso as I descended towards my work-in-progress home. They were a cross-section of the world. I took a moment to notice and was stunned by their beauty. A lovely, hefty, rosy black woman caught my eye. We shared a smile of the ages, bumped souls, and moved on.

The dogs across the street, the cats down the block, the baker, the checker, the produce lady, and the barista. We’re all connected by mingling roots. If I walk through town distracted, I see nothing but distraction around me. When I’m content to enjoy the beauty of my fellow rock-dwellers, native or transient, their beauty grows unbearably vivid. When we meet eye-to-eye, centuries of fortification crumble at our feet, we dance like the ancients, we augur the moment through the flight of birds, and we watch the miracle of the slowly shifting valley, together, eyes damp with recognition.

Then in the middle of a stone piazza, the forest crowds in around us. Protectively. A green embrace.

“You’ll have to open a bank account.”

Words more dreadful have never been spoken. I feel more or less the same regards any requirement that involves signing pieces of paper, but the reputation of Italian banks has seeped into my brain for years and nothing about it has been appealing. Many banks add to those negative impressions with entry systems worthy of the CIA, teller windows ready to withstand an assault from Daesh, and rate schedules that make filing instructions for the IRS seem childish. I don’t want to do it.

But when I’m out of the country, I’ll need to pay utility bills so there’s no choice.

I begin by asking everyone I know for recommendations. Most point to a single institution, so that’s where I go. Good first impression, the entryway is security relaxed. Second impression, the young woman leaning against it speaks English.

“No one is in right now who can open an account for you.” Okay, I’ll come back later. “But wait, let me take you to meet the branch manager.”

What? I’m an American, so obviously I’m going to invest millions on the spot?

I wish to open a checking account, I say. “Domestic or foreign?” I have no idea. Smiles between the branch manager and the other chap in the room. I don’t know what distinguishes one account from the other. “Do you have an ID card?” Like Italian? Sure. Here. “Are you registered?” Like with the anagrafe, yep, about two months ago, but no certificate yet. “Why do you want to open a checking account?” To pay rent and utilities. “Do you have a business card?” he says, reaching out his hand. I look at his hand and, Harpo Marx-like, shake it. He looks at his hand, looks at me. “Okay, I’ll give you one of mine.” He searches in his drawer. No cards. He glances at the other chap, who explores another drawer. No cards. They shrug. Oh yeah! We moved them. One is found and delivered. “No one is here who can open an account right now, come back after two-thirty.” Thanks, I’ll be back in two hours. “No, two-thirty.” The young woman explains that I meant two thirty. I meant two hours, but having no idea of the time, I agree; two-thirty.

When I arrive back at three, a gentleman is seated at a previously empty desk, and as the young woman is not in sight, I approach him and explain that I wish to open a checking account. He smiles, offers me a chair. “Domestic or foreign?” I again plead ignorance. My cards and papers are put onto the desk. He looks through them. “Why do you wish to open a checking account?” I panic just a bit, this being the second person who has asked what seems like a placeholder of a question; to pay rent, I say. “That’s it?” That’s all I can think of at the moment.

This well-spoken, very kind gentlemen then proceeds with a well-reasoned and detailed argument in favor of not opening a checking account. He compares the costs of wire transfers, bancomat charges, and account fees. When I pose questions, he immediately phones someone for an accurate answer. This goes on for what seems like twenty minutes. At the end, I’m convinced. I shouldn’t open a checking account. What a waste of money that would be! And for nothing!

At the end of this discussion, and after I promise to “investigate” alternatives – a word perhaps not often used in banks here because he chuckles and repeats it, saying that would be a very wise idea – he sums up our conversation, a summation I don’t quite get on the first pass. He calls someone on the phone to send him the translator. While we wait, he repeats his final points and I totally understand him, so when the young woman arrives he reports that I have understood, and that we have agreed I will not be opening a checking account unless further investigation deems it absolutely necessary.

The young woman demurs. “He spoke with the branch manager earlier.” The authoritative and confident man I had just spent twenty minutes with now smiles broadly, and offers that he may have misinterpreted my situation. The young woman suggests he call the branch manager and ask him to join our conversation. While the gentleman does this, she sits next to me, smiles conspiratorially, and says in English “There are certain people you must know do not understand everything.” Her eyes indicate the gentleman behind the desk. “Do you understand that we must not talk about certain people?” I nod, having now been cast in a spy movie. “You need to open an account.” This seems very final, so I nod again, indicating that I see her point and it is as obvious a fact as the sunrise.

The branch manager joins us. He speaks more rapidly than before. The gentleman behind the desk grins more and more broadly, nodding as he does. The branch manager slows down a notch and I catch “…he also has to pay utilities.” There is a moment of hushed recognition. The young woman glances at me again, indicating that the deed has been done, we have survived a hazardous journey, all obstacles have been traversed thanks to sterling leadership.

The branch manager departs. The young woman and the gentlemen explain that it will take at least a day, possibly more, to prepare the paperwork. It is Tuesday. “Please to come back on Thursday morning, all will be ready.” I rise uncertainly, thank them profusely, and weave out the door, once again drunk with confusion.

For the next twenty-four hours I replay the scene. Was the gentleman correct, after all, just beaten into submission by authority? Or was it only that I forgot to tell him about the crucial factor of utilities payments? When, at the end of the interview, the young woman handed me a slip of paper with the gentleman’s contact info on it, and all but winked at me while she explained that I could contact him at any time by phone or email, was she offering me a way out, just don’t tell the branch manager?

Scenarios rise and vanish. I imagine the language I would use to email the gentleman, tacitly acknowledging my part in the conspiracy to maintain his position, while simultaneously seeming to be neutral. I fear I had fallen into a corporate trap, one so complex that I would never quite understand its nature or function.

Wednesday morning, I glance at my phone to find the gentleman had called five times within fifteen minutes. I’m heading out anyway, and dread phone conversations, so I stop at the bank. “Ah! I just called you! How convenient!” I explain that my ringer had been off. “Do you have your social security card with you?” I have never carried my social security card in my life. It’s made of paper less sturdy than your typical bus ticket, carrying it is assured destruction. No, but I’ll find something with my number on it. “Excellent!” I locate a Medicare card, and it is deemed sufficiently official. There are more near winks and smiles and nods. I realize that I kind of like the guy, so dismiss the previous day’s confusion as cultural.

Thursday morning I return for the paperwork. I have signed fewer times buying a house than I do for that checking account. More instructions, more questions, more explanations. I notice the gentleman’s hands. Strong, short fingers – like my father’s – worn nails, dirt embedded here and there. I want to ask if he’s a gardener, but fear it will come so out of left field that another linguistic tangle will result, so I suspend my curiosity.

The young woman joins us to make sure I comprehend the subtle obligations attached to owning a checking account. That sounds snarky, and I do not intend it, for she reveals to me, among other mysteries, that I need deposit nothing into the account to make it active. I register surprise. The gentleman poses a hypothetical example. Suppose I were put a million euro into the account. (I look around to see if the branch manager is hiding somewhere, listening. Not that I can tell.) Then I come in to draw a check for a half million. It will be honored, of course. But suppose I have deposited only one euro. No cash, no carry. So why should the bank care if I have money in my account? If I don’t have money, they don’t give me any. Very simple.

I have one more question. Do I get any checks? He looks past me towards the entrance, smiles, finishes the interview without addressing the question, and stands to put on his jacket. The young woman explains about checks, in English, basically saying that if I need one, come in and ask. “But why would you ever need a check?” The gentleman rushes to meet his friends who have just entered. The young woman asks me to return on Friday for my bankcard. On my way out I see the gentleman with a man and a woman, all of them smiling, laughing, and bustling off to lunch. At 11:15? Maybe for coffee, then lunch.

Friday. More paper, more signatures, and a colorful bankcard to use on my account with no money in it. Hands are shaken. It feels as though our having survived the last four mornings together means now we will have reason to greet on the street. Indeed, the whole dance of the checking account seems, at this moment, to have had no other purpose; the bankcard is but a byproduct of a meaningful cultural ritual.

As I leave the building I notice the door handles pictured above.