Month: May 2020

I’ve said it before, but it’s good to have verification.

On an evening walk, I passed my neighbor Patrizia who was inspecting items in the window of the vintage clothing shop.

“Doing your shopping?”

“Spinning time while I wait for my sister. Where are you off to?”

“Just a walk. I got kind of shaky and a walk always helps. When I left the house, I saw Renzo and Giancarlo were out working. Maybe putting up the flags?”

“That’s what they’re doing. With all of this confusion and stress, it’s good to see the banners going up.”

“All over town! It’s even more special this year.”

“Yes! Because we don’t have to do it. No one can come here to see them. So, this year it’s for us. For us,” and she grinned and included everyone in sight with a single, sweeping gesture.

We stopped to take in the spectacle of the display in Piazza della Repubblica. Down Corso were two vertical banners elegantly placed to take advantage of the zigs and the zags that are inherent in all the town’s streets. I gasped. “Look at those banners! How beautiful they are.”

“Those are stendardi, bandieri are like those,” and she pointed to a flag. I struggled to hear and repeat the word, Patrizia helped. “S. T. E. N.  Stendardi.”

“It doesn’t even sound Italian.”

“It’s a little unusual.”

I changed subject. “I’ve heard that this year the white dove for pallombella is to be replaced with a drone. I don’t understand how or why or… anything.”

“I think it will be as usual, but the drone will fly around and take a video of the ceremony.”

“So, there will be no public event.”

“Oh, no, that’s been cancelled.”

“And we’ll watch it on our computers.”

“Not me! I’ve had enough of my computer working from home to last the rest of my life. We can watch on our phones. Everything on our phones. Phones, phones, phones,” she dissolved into giggles.

On my walk up the hill near the ramparts I practiced my new word.  Stendardi.  Stendardi. (Pause. Wait for it.) Standards! No wonder it didn’t sound Italian! Banners and standards. I love moments like those.

A half hour later I turned the corner onto Via delle Pertiche Prima to a work-in-progress corridor of fluttering banners. I applauded before I knew what was happening.

“Bravi, ragazzi! E grazie!”

A new pole was needed, so Renzo and Gianni were making one in the street, wood shavings mixing in with the weeds that grow between paving stones.

“Can I get a picture of this?”

“He’s going to take a photo, Renzo! Quick!” shouted Gianni.

Renzo disappeared into his caverna and emerged seconds later appropriately masked. For the record, he was masked and legal when I left, but woodwork and sawdust can make of a mask an ugly thing.

Giancarlo joined them, and the banner (or maybe it was a standard) was threaded onto the new pole. It took three to do it. I love those guys.

This morning on my way to market – which has been moved, at least for now, to the large interior courtyard/parking lot at the old caserma (barracks) – I passed an edicola and scanned the headlines.  La pallombella (a word that refers to both the ceremony and to the white dove that is central to it) is, after its traumatic journey from painted cloud to pyrotechnic tongues of flame, presented to honored guests, often the town’s newest parents or most recently wed. This year, according to the headline, la pallombella will be given to doctors and nurses. I cried before I knew what was happening.

“Bravi! Grazie!”

“I love the new black masks, so minimalistic, such a statement, and I don’t know… so chic. And here I am stuck with a standard-issue baby blue that arrived, like, in everybody’s mailbox a couple of weeks ago. I mean, like, what’s with that? Where do you get the black ones?”

That’s the voice of my imagined Val di Paglia Girl, but her words are also mine. Sort of.

The great playwright, epigramist, and social reformer way ahead of his time, Oscar Wilde, once noted that “Life imitates Art”. I’ve long believed that Oscar was absolutely correct.

So, to torture my chosen metaphor, the period we are in here in Orvieto (and in some sense, everywhere) is not only an intermission, it is also a freshly-gessoed canvas, a blank page, a newly quarried block, an unmarked score, an untrod stage, a pair of freshly rosined point shoes – just to name a few. In a broader sense it is also rising bread dough, a flat of seedlings, uncut vegetables, a wood plank, a flickering screen. 

The weekend of June 12, Corpus Domani, would have seen a host of ceremonies, parades, games, and concerts that fill the town and help to keep its economy afloat, and would have launched a whole summer of music and festivals. Last I heard, all that has been cancelled. But today the banners in Piazza della Repubblica are up, as are the green and white flags of the quartiere Olmo, and if I understood my neighbors correctly, flags will soon follow on Via delle Pertiche Prima. They mean all that much more this year. They are not in place to welcome guests, they have been unfurled to celebrate continuity. They are art.

At the very heart of this city stands a temple to the Feminine Principle, Santa Maria Assunta, asserting that the mother of God (give that title a moment’s reflection and it will boggle the mind) is on equal footing with the male members of her family. Regardless of how that has played out in the kitchens and bedrooms of the city during the last thousand years, it’s a powerful statement of intention. And the facade of this temple is one of the great collective artistic projects of all time. I admit, I’m a tad biased, but it calls me repeatedly to contemplation of its themes and symmetries. This facade is doing its work admirably well.

Since the Duomo was begun in 1290 it has sat in place through plague years much more ravaging than this one, sacks, sieges, great wars, emergencies, natural calamities, and papal residencies, and unruffled, invites us to sit across its piazza and have another look. And when I heed its call, I leave wanting to imitate its serenity, balance, and careful precision. Its color, courage, and exuberance. I feel assured, even if none of its saints and apostles are wearing a black mask – or masks at all.

“Hey, like, masks are cool, you know. I like the style that are as tight as my jeans, and maybe match my top. And pure white is okay, too. But the ones with patterns or, like, the logos of soccer teams, I mean, give me a break!”

A week ago, most of the unmasked were teens. Yesterday and today I’ve seen groups of young adults, dressed just so, and masked with almost ferocious pride. The dress-down grunge style has disappeared in that age group, at least among those I’ve noticed. For now, they have decided to make art.

Two weeks ago, there was an almost palpable fear among the merchants and restauranteurs in town, no one seemed to know the way forward. Then they began undertaking repairs and changes, planting flowers, making their locations more beautiful. For who? For each other, at this point. For the future hoped-for tourist. For their own satisfaction, certainly. For continuity. For art.

The world’s mind is stunned and confused and looking for guidance, and millions of us making billions of pieces of art (from bread to beaded bags) will stir and shift us in ways we cannot predict or imagine, and life will follow our lead. And maybe it will be years before we notice, but it will follow – and at least some of us will notice. But notice or not, all will benefit.

“I think, like masks are kind of cute and sexy. It’s cute how it makes a boy’s ears, like, stick out. Oh, it makes my ears do that, too, but if I wear my hair down, it doesn’t show. But for boys, it makes them look a little silly, and that’s a good thing, because it’s, like, important for guys to learn not to take themselves too seriously. Like we’re still alive, and so arenonno and nonna, so who cares if your ears stick out? Still, I would really love to have a black one. A black mask. They just look, I don’t know… rich!”

And pleasantly artsy. Like a black turtleneck used to be.

Erika and I lunched in her courtyard today. Montanucci providentially had penne with shredded zucchini, oil and a smattering of cheese that I ordered take out, and that served well cold. Erika made a salad, provided some wonderfully tasty strawberries and a cold berry tisane. Teah, her border collie, was quietly charming. 

Erika and I met at a party about three years ago. I knew she was special when I enthused about her late husband’s legacy while mistaking him for someone entirely different, and she had the grace and elegance to let it go. A year or so later, after seeing her here and there at various cultural events and lectures, I invited her to my courtyard for tea. She had read my play Risotto and had a few astute comments. We talked about our favorite books, the Italian language, and her many years in Orvieto. I loved her curious and inquiring mind, her quiet love for the place.

When I started work on Colloquia, I told her about the project and promised to send her a draft when one was ready. She was the first to read it, first to comment, and first to encourage production. Mutual friends have since told me that was a very Erika response. What she likes and believes in, she will nourish and support, tirelessly – that she has been doing that for Orvieto since she moved here in 1958.

Erika came to Italy on a European exploration after college – and after a time as curator in Long Beach, California – in 1955. For the next year she traveled alone, exploring the peninsula from football to bootstrap, using her intuition, fascination, and her knowledge of history as guides. She met her husband, Mario Bizzarri during that time. He was an archeologist working in Firenze. After they married, they settled in Orvieto where Mario led development of the dig at the Necropoli del Crocifisso del Tufo.

They had sons Claudio and Lamberto, both of whom continue to live in Orvieto Centro Storico. In 1967, Erika opened a store on Via dei Dolci that from her description I might have characterized as a curiosity shop; interesting items from around Italy (and beyond).

“For the store I chose things that appealed to my aesthetic – unique objects. Some of those were handcrafted items that had been rejected by the maker as flawed, but that’s what made them interesting.” She sold in 1988, but retained an active hand in the business, and the slotted metal sign, ERIKA, remained in place long enough for me to have vivid and wondering memories of it. Whoever Erika is, I would think as I passed, I believe I would like her.

Mario died in 1969. She later married Adamo, moved to Monterubiaglio, and after he died, into a characteristically rustic house to the west of the city in a largely rural district called Tamburino. She calls it The Villa and it was built by her father. But not too long ago, it became difficult for her to drive at night, and that cut her off from Orvieto’s cultural and academic opportunities which she cherished. Claudio set her up with an apartment on Piazza Ranieri that an American friend and associate had purchased, and we who knew her encouraged her to relocate. But leaving decades of living, and their attendant memories encased in treasured objects and books, took adjustment. She is now settled in town, and – in a twist of irony she may secretly admire – just in time for all the programs and events Orvieto-after-sunset has to offer to be cancelled. Oh well, that, too will change, and in the meantime it’s great to have her here. 

With the exception of a little interruption called March, April and most of May, we’ve been enjoying Tuesday afternoon teas together since October. Today was our reunion.

“This courtyard doesn’t actually go with my apartment, you know.”

“Really? Who does it belong to?”

“The man who has the apartment up there,” and she pointed up past a spindly palm towards high-up windows. “But he’s okay with my using it.”

“How would he even get here? He’d have to leave his apartment through a door on…?”

“I’m not sure.”

“…Via Garibaldi, come into this palazzo through your front door, cross to the rear, through the door in your hall, and up the stairs to…”

“I know, it doesn’t seem very practical. But Orvieto is like that. I do wish he’d take out the palm. It offers nothing but dead fronds.” The palm, about as big around as a stout man’s bicep, rises almost three stories to an unreachable and neglected beard of defunct leaves. 

“Claudio’s apartment is up there somewhere, not exactly sure where,” she waved, as we rose to get a better view of the courtyard owner’s probable apartment. 

“Orvieto is such a maze,” I mused.

“Even more so behind buildings than on the streets. You have to come over here to see it, but there’s a belfry back there,” and she crossed to the side of the courtyard opposite its owner’s apartment. “Look,” she said, pointing past several layers of structure beyond and behind us. And there it was indeed, a bell tower of the kind that might be attached to what had been a small church or chapel. There are spaces for three bells, no longer in residence. “Isn’t that curious?”she asked delightedly.

“Where is that?”

“I have no idea,” she chuckled, “but it”s wonderful, isn’t it?”

Orvieto is not a large town, but it is dense enough that after more than sixty years of living here, there remains much for her to discover. I believe that suits her well. She is an explorer and a lover of the curious, and always will be.

We went indoors and she showed me a book her mother had as a child, binding gone but still elegant.  The House at Pooh Corner, a book from her own childhood, followed; lovingly worn and fresh at the same time. I read a half page aloud. The language flowed like music.

The photo is of the Bizzarri family in the 1960’s.

I passed Trattoria dell’Orso shortly after noon on Sunday. All the outside tables were full, and Stefano, the proprietor, seemed relieved and content to be in his element.

“Are you open again?”

“We’re open today.”

“Also this evening?”

“Also this evening.”

“Should I make a reservation?” I asked, pretending for a moment that everything had already returned to normal.

“If you like.”

“Okay,” I paused to savor the moment. “For tonight, one at eight.”

“Outdoor table?”

“Sure, that would be great – if you have one free.” It felt so good to imagine normality that I couldn’t stop.

“Certainly. See you tonight.”

As a measure of how special that exchange was, I entered the reservation in my calendar and set an alarm, like it was a date or an occasion that I couldn’t afford to miss. The appointment glowed violet and singular in the vast white near-emptiness of the previous week.

I returned punctually at eight and waited to be shown to my table. There were the same four tables in place, one occupied by the very nice couple who own the light bulb store. We nodded. Stefano soon appeared and gestured to all the tables, suggesting they were equally available. I hesitated, not wishing to steal a prime location he might be saving for a special customer. He took the hint, and sat me next to the couple. A new, shorter, laminated menu was presented. The same soup as the other Stefano at Vincaffè had prepared the previous two suppers was on offer (but with truffle) and I asked about a dish called Tortelacci degli spinacci. The lady at the next table assured me that it was a sound choice, she had just had them.

While I waited, the couple next table conversed with each other, with almost everyone who passed, and with several others long distance in the nearby parking area at Piazza Vitrozzi. I became keenly aware of how local everything still was – no one from outside the region, few from outside of town. I had a sudden urge to have a party of friends from all over to fill the restaurant, not to destroy the localness of the hour (although it would have) but to share in its specialness. I checked my phone, and alas teleportation had not yet been invented. 

The soup arrived. It was quite different from the other Stefano’s interpretation, and also delicious. Bread followed just in time, wrapped in a paper bag. On clearing the soup, Stefano informed me that he is required to keep my full name and phone number on file for fourteen days for reasons of contact tracing. Our little world of pretend took a list to the left. The tortelacci arrived, were excellent, and I made signs of agreeable satisfaction towards the lady at the next table — which she missed. They left while I waited for dessert (torta di mela) and bid me good evening as if we had been engaged in lively conversation throughout.

When Stefano returned with the cake, I asked him how his experience of lockdown was. I didn’t get all the details, so some times, places, and relationships may be wrong, but this is basically what he told me.

“We have a little country house out near Corbara, and I didn’t leave it once for all of March until two weeks ago. I had a bout of pneumonia this winter, so even before the lockdown was official, my doctor told me to sequester myself, that it was too risky to associate. I didn’t see another face for more than two months. Forget coming into Orvieto, it was as if the community had vanished, very difficult. My daughter did all the shopping. She would come into the house while I was in another room, undress, shower, change clothes, wash and dry everything she bought, and leave it on the table. We called to each other, but never were in the same room. It was once a week like this. When no one was around, I could go into the garden, but only when I was absolutely alone. The doctor told me there was too little known about the virus and my health was too compromised to take chances.”

“But you’re healthy now.”

“I am, so it was worth it. And I am so happy to be here.”

The tables had all been altered to be a meter square, set appropriately apart, and we diners wore masks until the first sip of water. Otherwise, it was like nothing had changed – the meal was superb.

I am told there is an expression in Italian; ha messo le termiti in testa. He put termites in the head.

A couple of weeks before lockdown, a friend wanted to see my house, as we were in the neighborhood, we rerouted and I showed him.

“It’s perfect for you!” he said enthusiastically. “Except for the interior stairs. They must be a hassle. Especially in winter when you can’t really use the ones outside.”

I’ve never been especially fond of those stairs, but they were just a feature of the house that had to be dealt with, taken carefully, planned for. There is a bathroom on each floor, so at least I didn’t have to navigate them in the middle of a groggy night. But from that moment on, the sound of crunching wood became gradually louder until it drowned out everything from bird song to Bach. My climbing up and down became slower and more pained, forgetting something on the other floor, a catastrophe, anticipating a journey up or down, an obsession.

Munch, crunch.

Then the country decided to stay indoors for two months, and the termites had a field day. The stairs, the light, the garden. I had asked Allen about his extra apartment just days, if not hours, before lockdown. He sent me a link to photos. The place is light, expansive, new, and all on one level. I could think of nothing else.

“There are lots of stairs going up to the flat,” he warned by email.

“Stairs are not a problem in and of themselves,” I answered, referencing the 180 steps that I climbed together on my morning walk at least three times a week.

Allen’s apartment became an unreachable star by mid-March and stayed that way until May. As soon as it was announced that stay-at-home restrictions were to be lifted on May 4, I was on the case.

“Can I see it like May 5^th? We don’t know how long this lifting of a intra-city travel ban will last, it could be reenforced by the weekend if things get bad,” I noted, perhaps giving away just a teeny bit of eagerness to see what the photos represented, in person.

The apartment was set up to be a bed and breakfast, and Rachel, an English woman married to an Italian police inspector, is in charge of rentals and maintenance. We met at the place ten days ago. She works for a film distribution company, is a sometimes actress, and manages a BnB. She’s looking into new career choices. She took me through the flat, pointing out its genuinely cool tech features. It was everything the photos promised, and more. And yes, there were lots of stairs, but they were broken up by three generous landings, and were less than a third in number than my morning climb. A week ago, at Allen’s (and Rachel’s) urging, I took up residence for a two-night stay.

Munch, crunch, chaw.

I’ve been over the groceries-up-the-stairs issue in another post. Suffice to say that the pendulum motions of a shoulder slung shopping bag were enough to made me heed Allen’s warning, and overcame considerations of space, light, and luxury. 

On Thursday I took apart the walking track I dubbed circus minimus during lockdown, put up the big umbrella, and arranged the plastic wicker into fair-weather positions. Friday, I wrote Massimo to say I was in no hurry to move, but if he found something that seemed perfect, to let me know. Yesterday, I ordered a new, thicker, denser, more accommodating pad for the wicker divan, so writing would be more comfortable. I also ran into Massimo who announced that he had a few other places to show me. I’ll look, but a new place will have to scream at high volume “here I am, I’m perfect, and totally worth the bother,” for me to pay even the slightest attention.

There will probably be another lockdown within the next year, maybe not as general or as severe, but we here may be affected for at least a couple of weeks. Some walkable outdoor space is more than an amenity, it is essential to health. My at-home walking track kept me in relatively loose form. Three weeks into being able to walk freely, I’m still not to where I was in early March. 

I fumigated my head. The twisty internal stairs no longer bother me. The termites are gone.

The photo is of a plant around the corner that had died back to a single brown twig during a cold snap two winters ago. There is an expression in English; everything in its time. In Italian it may render as piano piano, which during this interlude of indeterminate duration, seems the greatest philosophical statement of any age. 

IHe comes down the hill into San Giovenale’s ancient garden. The valley, a vast patchwork of green interlaced with winding roadways and punctuated with russet roofs, opens up before him. The wind runs through his longer-than-usual hair like a dog leaping through tall grass. The sudden freedom, the sheer majesty of it all, lifts his soul to meet the countless worshippers who have gathered at this spot to celebrate union with the Divine. The music swells, he reaches up to his eyes – and deftly lowers his mask. No one else is here, it’s safe.

The first act is over, even if some lockdown restrictions are still in place. Regional travel is allowed, but it will be another couple of weeks before we can go between regions for other than a handful of specific reasons. The streets are occasionally crowded now. Some restaurants are open weekends. As I was finishing lunch at Montanucci, a couple of the staff were rearranging tables in the rear courtyard to accommodate a large group. Many bars are approaching regular hours. The simple security of lockdown – stay home as much as you can and wash your hands – is over. Yet nothing simple or secure has arrived in its place.

It is intermission. You can take your eyes off the stage without a worry that you’ll miss something. Go get some air, have a drink, re-read the program for a hint at what may happen during Act Two, but understand that even the actors and the playwright have no idea what secrets Act Two reveals. We wait.

Last night I checked Vincaffè’s Facebook page, and a post dated May 21 read “Vincaffè reopens tomorrow!” followed by a paragraph dedicated to what safety measures would be in place. It is no secret that I love Stefano’s soup, so I put on my shoes and hiked down. I was the first customer, and the only for a few minutes.

“How are you Cristiano?”

“I’m okay. These are confusing times. It’s very difficult to know how to proceed.”

“Yeah, it’s hard for everyone,” I said, meaning to commiserate. Instead Cristiano smiled, agreed, and changed the subject. In the face of a global crisis our personal problems quickly grow small, seem trivial or incidental. I wish I’d said nothing and let him talk. 

Or maybe he didn’t change the subject at all.

“When are the expats coming back?” he asked.

“A few are coming in June, but most that I know of have plans for September.”

“Nobody here all summer?” There was a hint of panic in that.

“Not many.” He repeated for Stefano.

I ordered soup; tomato with wheat berries and beans. A few minutes later he brought the bread and a napkin, then a few after that, a knife and fork.

“Do I need a knife to cut the soup?” I asked.

“You might. How about the fork, shall I leave the forchetta?”

By now I was confused enough that I thought he was offering a side dish of porchetta, and while I didn’t want it, neither did I want to be rude and turn it down.

The soup was among the best I’ve had. About halfway through the bowl, the lights went out. Cristiano made a call, checked the neighborhood, determined nothing, turned to the mostly empty room, and shouted, “Coronavirus!” The lights came on.

The side dish of pork never arrived. As he returned to clear I asked him about the fork.

“I’m in a fog tonight, that’s all.”

I tried to explain my mixup between pork and fork, but it ended up an apology for my Italian.

“Your Italian is fine, it’s these masks make it harder to understand.”

“Yeah, I depend a little on reading lips, and there are no lips to read.”

He repeated the last part of that and gently laughed.

Today was Maria’s birthday. I bought her a mandevilla vine with white flowers, and we discussed where best to plant it so it would survive the winter.

“I don’t usually do much for my birthday,” she had told me on Tuesday. Today, as I was leaving for San Giovenale’s garden, we took a few swipes at the strangeness of these times.

“This is my first birthday like this.”

“What do you mean?”

“Usually there are a few friends, my sister, we toast, have an apertivo, some little thing. This year, nothing. So, an extra thanks for the plant.”

As I stumbled down into the garden, I wished I had offered to fashion a brindisi for Maria’s birthday, but I’ve all but stopped carrying my phone, and when I passed by her shop later to offer, she had already left. She had said she would spend Sunday at home, none of the other shops on the craftsperson’s alley would be open, so what’s the point. Then added that the curio shop across the way would not reopen, and that Vincaffè had wanted that location when it was available several years ago. Their current position where Via Filippeschi meets Malabranca is too far away.

“They used to be full, all the time,” she said, “the whole street leading down was a hive of activity. Now, they are at the end of town.”

Headlines announced there would be 17 million euro for public projects granted Orvieto in the coming months. Yesterday is was four million. That either means we can expect 21 million, or every day the amount quadruples. I vote for the later.

The bell will ring when it’s time to resume your seat. In the meantime, notes on intermission will continue, maybe even daily.

Photo: Stefano on the left, Cristiano on the right.