Somewhere, I have pictures of me when I was a baby being held by the lady next door. She was Italian by birth, had immigrated some thirty years prior, and I grew up on the sacks of fruits and vegetables she brought to us from her huge garden. Because her husband spoke only Italian, and most of her closest friends where Italian as well, her English never much improved past what she had learned in her late twenties. But everyone who knew her loved and respected her. Living in Orvieto reminds me of my Italian neighbor, not because she was Italian, rather because she was our neighbor. And our friend.
My first series of essays on this blog was titled Postmark, Orvieto, and at some point I subtitled it, an outsider’s view from the inside. When last September rolled along and it felt time to begin posting again, I titled the current series of posts; Alla Rupe – Making a Home in Orvieto. Looking back, those titles are spot on accurate. My first seven months were viewed from a distance; I was amazed, bemused, and astonished to be here at all. These last ten months have indeed been about making a home here, both physical and emotional.
This afternoon, I went to the supermercato and Aldo’s natural foods emporium. I said something to the young man with the world’s warmest smile at the former that caused him mild bewilderment. I said something to Aldo that made him laugh. I’d no intention of causing either shock or mirth, but am learning to be gracious and accept whatever response I get.
I heard an interview a week or so ago. The man speaking related how he asks God for one thing only; a daily humiliation. His prayer is always rewarded, and with great speed. He used the word “humiliation” with conscious exaggeration. “An opportunity for learning humility” may have been closer to his intention, but I still prefer the way he said it, and personally relate to both the need, and the usually rapid delivery – though for me one humiliation a day would be a kind of drought.
After buying a few things at Aldo’s I walked towards my house. Romina (as in Antonny and Romina of Blue Bar) was pushing their son Leonardo in a stroller. Antonny’s mom was recently diagnosed with cancer. It’s everywhere, including her liver. She’s not very old. Romina and Antonny’s friends have been urging him to visit her in Brittany since he let her condition be known, and he finally went last week. Today, I was told she had died, so offered Romina my condolences. “She’s not dead.” Oh. I’m so glad to hear that! How is she, then? “The same. It’s very serious, and I’m glad Antonny was able to see her, talk with her, be with her. It was good for both of them.” We agreed.
As I turned the corner onto Via delle Pertiche, I noticed that the weeds growing between the paving stones seemed fewer, somehow. It had been on my mind to pull them, or scald them, for weeks, but I always put it off to City maintenance. I glanced up the street. Two of my neighbors were going into their apartment. We exchanged greetings. As they went in, they revealed Renzo (my second floor neighbor) pouring gas into his weed whacker. I wondered who did that, I told him. But of course, Renzo! Who else? He laughed and invited me to lunch tomorrow – if he gets off early from work.
As I turned back towards my house, Mariana (my first floor neighbor) was coming towards me with her black Lab, Polgo, who began pulling on his leash as soon as he saw me. He jumped and twisted and played while I petted and scratched his head and chin. He’s beautiful, I said. “Thanks. I think so, too.” And very friendly. “Yeah, maybe a little too friendly.” We all laughed, Polgo included. Polghissimo! We all laughed again.
My Italian is pretty rough. And as my spoken language skills are unpredictable, even in English, I’m fairly positive that I sound like a dolt at least half the time. But I’m not trying to make a home in this town anymore; it is home. I live here. I brought Renzo and Patrizia a bag full of fresh lettuce from my garden, yesterday.
Her name was Annie Musso. She had marvelous stories of how she left Italy when she was in her early twenties. My mother often told me I had to write about her one day. So shortly after I arrived here a year and a half ago, I started a play inspired by her memory. All the writing of it has been done here, in Italy, in Orvieto. She was from near Torino, so the circle isn’t as neat as it would be were this a novel, but it’s neat enough. The last part of the play is about her young friend encouraging her to return to Italy to visit her sister before she dies, and to go despite age and obstacles. In real life she did go. Then, forty years later, so did I.
Alla prossima!