Amicizia

I had an appointment with my dentist, Giuseppe, this afternoon. He needed to try the new crown he’s been working on, see how it fits so adjustments could be made before the grand installation next week. I adore Giuseppe, it always surprises me how much. We communicate, even though we barely speak. Today, without my verbally requesting it, communication resulted in his uncovering his mouth while he spoke. Taking down his hygienic mask turned out to be enormously helpful, a major breakthrough.

Giuseppe apologized for his English; “I’m studying French and it makes my mouth go in all the wrong directions.” I apologized for my Italian; “Your English suffers from your study of French, my Italian just suffers, no study necessary.” He smiled, understood it was a joke but I’m not sure the point and fabric of it actually landed.

When the day’s work was almost done, his little boy and wife came in. His wife speaks beautiful English, but after we exchanged a few words, she allowed my attempts at Italian to prevail. His boy and I demonstrated much the same relationship I have with Giuseppe. We smiled a lot, and tried to communicate in ways not available to us.

At one point earlier I did manage to tell Giuseppe that as he may have an Orvieto accent, I may have difficulty understanding him. He asked if I meant his English or Italian. I told him both. He laughed suddenly and grinned for a long time after. Interestingly enough, almost everything he said from then on was readily comprehensible to me. After Lisa, his wife, and I spoke for a few minutes, Giuseppe told her about our exchange, and I understood every word of that, too.

When I arrived home, my neighbor Marianna was on her balcony with her black Labrador puppy, Polgo. Polgo is, to me, the canine equivalent of Giuseppe; I adore him but rarely see him on the street. I yearn to scratch Polgo on the head and snout, tussle his ears, chuck him beneath the chin. He wags and wiggles and sticks his nose through the railings, and although I can be at his level while standing on my stairs, there is no way I can scratch his head from two meters away. So, today, I pulled out a little chair that resides under the balcony, stood on it, and stretching to my fullest ability, was able to touch his nose. He licked, I patted – it was something.

I made a purchase at the ferramenta day before yesterday. I was in a dazed frame of mind all afternoon, I don’t know why. Raffaele added up my tally on a piece of paper. Most shop keepers do that, not because they don’t have a cash register or aren’t going to issue a receipt, but so they can do what Raffaele did next. “Forty!” he exclaimed as he discarded the scrap that had figures adding up to forty-five. I thanked him and, as he had delivered everything already except the four screws held in my hand, I joked that the screws must be gold. No, he said earnestly, the screws are free.

His wife walked in with their new baby boy, in carriage. I said hello to her but neglected the baby, bid my farewells and scurried out. Raffaele was cheerful and gracious as ever, but he also seemed a bit disappointed. I like that family too much to let it stand, so today I went back for a couple of small items. I was able to thank Raffaele again for his advice, the delivery, and the discount, and huzzah! his wife and il bimbo nuovo were there, too. Reparations were made with joy and celebration.

Another source of huge, inexplicable affection are the people who work at the supermercato, Metà. I adore everyone there. I adore the energy they create, the camaraderie between them. I yearn to be able to joke with them the way they do with each other and with their friends. As it is, I’m lucky if I can comprehensibly ask where the ginger is hiding out.

But something occurred to me a few days ago when I went for provisions: when I focus on the friendship I wish we could have, I miss the one we have. The one we have is heart to heart, needs no particular language, clowning around, or cultural gestures to function. When a couple of the guys go past in their red Ape on a delivery, they honk and wave. My heart explodes, and – as honks are not available to me – I content myself with a wave.

And that last, I hope you know, is a metaphor for the tenor of life in this, my adopted town.

Now and Then

Italy had a kind of open house this past weekend. Nationally, over one thousand historic sites normally closed to the public, were, ostensibly, open for view courtesy of Fondo Ambiente Italiano, or FAI. Fourteen of those were in Orvieto.

“FAI” can be translated as “do it!” I chose to obey.

After a puzzling hour trying to navigate FAI’s vast, complicated, and beautiful website, I downloaded their app.  A few of the historic sites I found listed there stood out; prime among them, Palazzo Simoncelli-Caravajal on Via Malabranca.

One evening in October, 2000 (my first time studying in Orvieto) I strolled in the rain towards Piazza San Giovenale to take in the panorama. I had passed Simoncelli-Caravajal many times. In daylight, through closed windows, you can just barely make out bits of a frescoed ceiling on the piano nobile (in American, the second floor). However, on that night, lights were on, and the view from the street revealed a ceiling riotous with color; beautifully preserved trompe-l’oeil. The windows were open, and someone was playing ragtime on a very good piano.

I stood under my umbrella; rainfall in the medieval quarter, glances of a baroque ceiling, and the loping, heart-beating rhythms of Scott Joplin. The pianist moved from one theme to another as twenty or thirty minutes melted into an instant. When there was finally a pause, I couldn’t help but applaud. Ragtime ceased. For the rest of my stay, the windows remained closed, the lights extinguished, the music absent. I blamed myself, of course, and regretted my impulsiveness.

All these years later, I still hope for ragtime when I pass the palazzo at night.

My friend Kathy lives a few steps from Simoncelli-Caravajal, so I asked if she wanted to join me on a tour. In front of the palazzo, a table with literature was set up alongside banners and knot of people. We were briefed on the building’s historical and architectural heritage. The palazzo – along with all the structures on FAI Orvieto’s weekend list – is the architectural product of the notably proficient Ipolito Scalza. It was stitched together from several medieval structures, ornamented with stone pediments and frames, and unified with plaster and paint. The guide for the pre-tour talk was a young woman, probably a high school student. She spoke with authority, ease, and clarity, then passed us on to the tutelage of another young woman of similar qualities.

We threaded our way upstairs and into a small drawing room. The room contained only one item; a baby grand piano. Could that have been the “very good” piano upon which the anonymous musician had inadvertently serenaded me those sixteen years ago? I like to think so. I gazed at it achingly.  I wished I could play ragtime.

From there, we followed our guide into the grand salon. With the exception of a small patch that had suffered water damage sometime during the last four hundred years, the frescoes are as brilliant and pristine as I imagine they were at their unveiling. The architectural detail is all paint, but is so skillfully applied that even knowing the walls are flat, it’s difficult to believe that nothing is three-dimensional.

The pavement is covered, wall to wall, with a dance floor. That loping music I heard was for dance classes! Perfect.

Kathy and I visited other buildings, but none of them were open. Instead, each had several high-school age guides congregated in front, ready to offer history and analysis. They were relaxed, friendly, and prepared. None of the information they relayed seemed memorized, they showed genuine enthusiasm for their appointed facade, garden, or doorway, and were good-humored, and engaging. The excitement of moving on to the next site became about who we would meet to guide us.

Our final palazzo on Saturday was on Corso Cavour. We had just been given a thorough analysis of the facade of Palazzo Gualterio; how the grand entrance door had been moved from Palazzo Buzzi across town, and re-installed here. And how the deprived Buzzi then purchased another door to be moved from a third palazzo to install in its place. The guide pointed out all the ways the archway doesn’t fit into Scalza’s facade: the flanking windows are too close to the door frame, the cornice work on the facade breaks stride as it crosses the balcony, its height interferes with the second order of window frames, and so on. Then, because we asked where the palazzo on Cavour was located, she offered to walk us there.

We were greeted by another articulate and poised young woman who sported a variety of piercings. She guided us through an examination of the facade of Palazzo Guidoni, specifically noting its maritime imagery; shells, ropes, starfish, waves. The palazzo was supposed to have been open, she told us, but the contessa who lives there was not feeling well.

At that point, our guide turned us over to a young man in a yellow leather jacket who continued her story in English.  He announced that in lieu of a tour with a healthy contessa, he had photographs. The grand ballroom we could not enter is surmounted by an actual dome of which there is no evidence from the exterior, and his photos showed it magnificently decorated with frescoes in pristine condition.

On Sunday, the only accessible interior we hadn’t seen was in Palazzo Monaldeschi. Until recently, the palazzo served as the Liceo Artistico, High School of the Arts. I’d passed the building many times, and on all sides, but had never understood that the various entrances all lead into the same interior.

To the south of the building, there is a large, fenced yard. At its head is a much-maligned, two-story arcade.  That is flanked by architectural motley and distressed remnants of other arcades that offer little evidence of having been built according to a coherent plan. Opening directly onto the street to the west is an elegant and compact facade typical of Scalza. That design is carried off towards the east along another street.

The street entrance opens onto a large, decaying, interior courtyard, which, in its pre-high school days, may have been a cloister garden. The modern improvements are in worse shape than the bits of original structure that still show. We climbed stairs, followed a series of corridors, and were suddenly confronted by a grand salon with magnificent frescoes, which, to the right, surround an enormous fireplace. From there we moved into a pair of smaller rooms with coffered wood ceilings, a painted frieze below them, and below that the ugliest florescent light fixtures in history, now defunct.

It is filled with such interesting contrasts, this town, once the seat of popes and of wealth and power. It lives among its relics, converting them as needed to sustain their usefulness, never quite restoring them, but neither are they allowed to fall into ruin.

Guiding us through these shadows of former epochs, were beautiful, kind, articulate, poised, and stylishly dressed children of a time unimaginably different from the one they described. The highest thrill of those two afternoons of facades and ballrooms was not the masterworks of other ages, but the ease with which our young guides stepped across the chasm that separates them from their cultural past. They represent a treasure as wondrous as anything under the ailing contessa’s painted dome.

Economy of Scale

He passed me on Via Filippeschi, a few steps from the hardware store he owns with Frangelico, his brother. Hey, Raffaele! “Oh, ciao, I didn’t see you.” It’s been awhile. Are you working?

Raffaele also owns a business, called Multiservice, that specializes in restorations and improvements. He bought the hardware almost on impulse a little more than a year ago, and with his brother’s help, runs both. He bursts with energy and enthusiasm, and frequently employs the linguistic device of repeating a word three times for emphasis. That, coupled with his earnestness, causes me to giggle. I like Raffaele.

He answered my question about work; “Sempre, sempre, sempre!” I giggled. “You know that shoe store opening up on Corso?” You mean the one sort of across from La Torre where there was a shoe store before? It was his turn to giggle, “Si, si, si, that’s the one. My work.” Right, I noticed there was something going on in there. For, how long? Maybe the last couple of weeks? “No, no, no, the last couple of months! The paper just now came off the windows, and they open tomorrow. Take a look when you pass!” And he was off to join his brother, excited as a child.

I decided to walk home on Corso, glance at the new shoe store, and since I was in the neighborhood, have a gelato. The store came first, but only geographically. The Liberty style doors are refinished and clean, a rich, deeply colored wood gracefully frames glass panels. Beyond them, the store is crisp and fresh and white. I congratulated Raffaele in my mind, and imagined his “grazie, grazie, grazie”. I giggled, bought my gelato, took a place on one of the Michelangeli benches, and savored the nutty flavors.

On my way home down Corso, my attention sharpened by having viewed Raffaele’s latest project, I counted three empty shop fronts I’d not noticed before. All are being renovated, these in addition to the rather large project that has been underway for several months next to the supermercato. The activity feels good. The people involved seem happy.

At the end of my street, during the cold months, a construction team added a second story to a little house of no particular significance. The building now stands immaculate and modestly magnificent, between its somewhat shabby neighbors. That one team did everything from beams to plaster. I wanted to ask about their work, but my house-parts vocabulary lacks nuance, and I was fairly certain that instead of expressing collegial interest, I would present myself as an annoying dilettante; so I contented myself with the occasional nod.

A month or so ago, a scaffold went up on Hotel Virgilio in Piazza del Duomo. It came down a week later to reveal fresh plaster and paint. A few days after that, the building to the left was covered, and days later, another restored facade was in evidence. On San Giuseppe Day, I stood with friends in the square and wondered aloud if the building to the right was next, and sure enough, early this week scaffolding went up there, too.

Orvieto has been struggling economically since the turn of the century when the national government closed the caserme, huge fascist-era barracks, that had housed the two thousand people stationed here for their 18 month national service stint. Local businesses were affected instantly. Not only were they deprived of custom from the residents of those barracks, but also that of visiting family and friends. Shortly after, the provincial government began to move official services and functions to other cities, activities that had been centered in Orvieto for centuries. The full-time population of centro storico in 1998 was about 16,000. By 2006, it was 4,000. That rapid shrinkage is visibly expressed in the abandoned houses and palazzos in all parts of town. People are now beginning to move in and move back, but the town took a serious economic hit and recovery has been gradual.

Still, shops open, restorations are in progress, facades are upgraded. Even though (as I am told) many of its young people feel stuck here, and standard services are in danger, neglected, or less frequent as the city government scrambles to stay afloat, Orvieto displays a peculiar confidence and vitality.

Recently, Bloomberg Global Health Index declared Italy the healthiest country in the world, this despite a sagging economy in which as many as 40% of its youth remain without a means of earning a living, or at least without a reportable job. National Health can take a good deal of credit for this first-place ranking. I’m only beginning to understand how that system works (it’s a variant of what is called single-payer in the States) but the security of knowing that the cost of healthcare is unlikely to trigger bankruptcy allows Italians to relax, take chances, and be creative in ways most Americans would envy.

One must also give credit to a fluid attitude, responsive communities, and an informal support system that ties families together and to one another. A strong economy is a wonderful thing, but what is it worth if its members have no time leisurely to walk dogs and push babies in strollers? Or to pet the wandering cats (who are the the real lords and masters of this town). Or to stop in the middle of a street to trade information on what cultural events are coming up, exchange tips on the best cheese available this week and at which markets, or to solicit (and offer) decorating advice for a favorite bar?

The day after seeing Raffaele in Via Filippeschi, I deliberately re-routed my passeggiata to pass the new shoe store he had helped bring to life. It was celebrating its opening. The proprietress was elegantly dressed, and beamed as she welcomed fellow townspeople into her new-born creation. Her smile sparkled, the store sparkled, the air around her sparkled. There is a kind of magic to those first moments of creative sharing, and watching that little corner of town bask in its glow was heartwarming.

Several months ago, I went into Frangelico and Raffaele’s hardware for yet another item demanded by my new home and garden. Frangelico was on his cellphone, texting. He winked as I entered and raised a finger to hold conversation at bay until he had finished. The phone lay flat on the counter, so I could see that he was responding to a message from his brother. He touched “send”. The reply from Raffaele was “Te amo.” Frangelico returned the same two words to his brother and looked up at me, refreshed and eager to advise, provide, or crack jokes — whatever my situation required.

The Transit of the Sun

Last Tuesday, I took three rather long naps. Normally, if I take more than one I don’t sleep at night. Even then, I have to time the nap – 23 minutes max – or I’ll wake up at a ridiculous hour for an unpredictable period. But Tuesday night, I slept like a stone. On Wednesday, interesting intestinal symptoms introduced themselves. Thursday, my neighbor Renzo invited me to dinner. During the invitation – issued from his balcony while I stood on my exterior stairs a full story below – I asked him how he was feeling. Not so good, some kind of influenza; no fever, but tired all the time – he hadn’t been to work since Monday.

With unpredictable exceptions, I slogged my way through the week, drawing comfort from the knowledge that whatever I was afflicted with was something going around.

Last night, I went to what has become a weekly Dinner and Scrabble gathering of Americans. We met at Roy’s, and he kindly prepared me a hot toddy with whiskey. By the time the Scrabble game was over, I was floating in a subterranean surreality. I drifted home, reaching down with my toes to find pavement, wondering where I was and how I’d gotten there. In spite of having taken three long naps, I slept uninterruptedly for eight hours.

This morning, I should have woken up grateful, refreshed, and invigorated. Not quite. I felt better, but nothing over the top. My routine took its usual turns until I received a notice from my phone provider, Tre Italia, that my credit was exhausted. I had recharged the account online with no problems in January. For the past several weeks I’ve been trying to replicate that feat without success. When the notice arrived, a twinge unsettled my stomach. I foresaw an Internet battle, and one I was likely to lose.

Once on Tre’s homepage you click “Customer Access” and recharge through a short series of simple steps. That’s the theory. Lately, the access page will sometimes load, sometimes not. When it does load and I enter info, am sometimes taken to the payment page, but none of the various choices for means of payment have worked. They worked in January. It goes on like this. I tried using my phone instead of my computer. I tried accessing both indoors and in the yard, with and without an active wi-fi connection. I used every credit card and PayPal account – and combinations of both – I could remember having. By 10:00 I was exasperated and deemed it far better to take the funicular to Scalo, walk to Tre Italia’s store, and recharge in person, than to continue to suffer online convenience.

The funicular was crowded with tourists. They annoyed me. I silently practiced my description of the morning’s non-events in Italian. I drove myself into an sullen rage by reviewing all things Internet that do not function, function only occasionally and never with reason, or promise the world with their slick design, while delivering only frustration.

The funicular docked and the tourists squeezed out of the car, all – save one – in front of me. The one remaining gestured with his enormous camera that I should go before. I groused a thank you and sloped into the sun for the kilometer’s walk to the store. I had dressed for temperatures as they were in my yard. They are always higher in Scalo. The sun, a welcome and cheerful force this time of year, annoyed me. It felt too warm. I walked quickly and continued to fume.

When I arrived and pushed at the door, it failed to move. I peered at the little sign that announced hours. They were supposed to be open. I cursed under my breath, gave the door a stronger push. It opened. A gentleman stood chatting with the man at the desk. He stepped aside and waved me forward. I mumbled a thank you and moved up to the counter.

“I want to recharge my account, but can’t make it work online.” He interrupted my rehearsed diatribe with a shrug that said, “Of course you can’t, the website works only occasionally, and no one really knows why.” I told him to charge me for a year. He set about the task. His unhurried manner dissolved the monologue I had prepared about how I never again wanted to encounter online convenience, and was buying a year’s worth of time so I wouldn’t have to. In 60 seconds, the transaction was complete. I shook his hand. “Thank you, that was much easier than anything online.” His smile communicated the same subtext as his shrug had a minute before. I bounced out of the store, opened my jacket, and relished the sun as it fell onto my face.

A block or so from the funicular, I noticed something on the sidewalk. It looked more official than anything lying on a sidewalk should, so I picked it up. It was a transparent red plastic sleeve that held a bus pass and twenty euro. I took out the card. On it was the photo of a young lady with long brown hair. Well, I thought, I’ll give this to the fellow at the ticket window for the funicular, he’ll know what to do.

As I turned to enter the station, a young woman with long brown hair reached into her bag, gave a little jolt, slapped her pockets, and reached again towards the bag in panic. “Did you lose a bus pass?” I asked. She turned, I held it up, her shoulders dropped, she nodded, thanked me. I explained where I’d found it, took it over to her, and brightly responded “You’re very welcome.”

There was a horde of tourists streaming into the station. They looked fascinated and eager. I took a seat and checked my email.

About a week ago, I translated a proposal into English for an acquaintance who had found herself in a terrible bind; bad knee that wouldn’t let her leave the house, no Internet service at home, and a deadline for a proposal to be submitted to the European Parliament, in Italian and English, on the following Tuesday by close of business. I worked on the translation the entire weekend, and had a wonderful time doing it. In return, she suggested several outings in Rome, one of those a reenactment of the assassination of Caesar on March 15.

As we waited for the car to ascend into Orvieto proper, I read that my friend’s knee was better and she had returned to work in Rome where there was Internet. What do I think about the assassination of Caesar? Do I want to go? My resistance to ever leaving town weakened, I told her sure, why not, let’s go see the tyrant get punctured. The sun leaned into the car as it crawled up the slope.

The temperatures on the rock were still cooler than below, and the sun was warm and welcoming. I turned towards the city offices. Another abiding Internet problem has been that ENEL’s website will not accept my codice fiscale thereby preventing an online account. Without an account, I can only pay my electric bill in person, which could prove awkward when I’m in the States this summer. Even though such options are, truly speaking, theoretical, the anagrafe (demographic services) is somehow instrumental in the issuing of the codice fiscale, so as I was in the neighborhood during office hours, it seemed worth the time to see if they might help.

All three of the people in the office became interested in the dilemma. They accessed my file, they looked at all the cards upon which the codice is written, they discussed possible next steps, and they ultimately apologized for not being able to do anything on their end. Shoulders were shrugged, smiles conveyed the universal subtext of sympathy with all attempts to do anything useful online, and one of them sent me off with a sort of flyer with directions to the ENEL Point in Sferracavallo. We all bade each other farewells like the longtime friends we had just become.

The sunshine was glorious when I exited into the courtyard. A woman passed with her tiny, perfect, granddaughter settled into a stroller. The child flung out her arms to welcome the sun as the two of them emerged from the shade of a small oak.