For years I’ve been saying that those of us who live in towns like Orvieto are engaged in an act of stewardship. I’ve only had the vaguest of ideas as to what I meant when I’ve said it, but it seemed right. That was not to say that our towns are perfect, or haven’t arrived at this moment free of tumult and division, or that they are in any way utopias, just that there is something here, preserved in amber, that has come down to us unbroken. Battered, uncertain, strained, but unbroken. And that some day we would begin to discover what that unbroken thing is, and that people all over would turn to our towns for guidance, to glean and taste examples of a sustainable future.
Ahah! That word! Sustainable. I love what it represents in its broadest sense, but it has become hinged to a dream. The dream that we can continue to behave like madmen and through the miracle of engineering not pollute and destroy the planet while we do. In that sense our towns offer little help. They have fallen in love with the same glitzy, messy things everyone else has. The sustainability that I sense is here, is of another kind. It lays beneath the surface. I don’t know what it looks like, but we can all point to signs of its existence.
The brothers at Caffe del Corso look as related to each other as do Queen Elizabeth and Beyonce. They are so dissimilar that I question my understanding when I claim that they are indeed brothers, but they have told me on several occasions, and it’s difficult to sustain a joke for five years, even one involving a semi-literate foreigner.
They are among those who are taking advantage of the “pause” to fix a few things that have needed attention. As I passed today, they were busy repairing their deck. Cristien came over with such enthusiasm that he almost shook my hand.
“Sorry! It’s just so good to see you! How’ve you been? Okay these past two months?”
“We’re coming through, aren’t we? You guys are busy.”
“The whole time we were stuck inside, we kept seeing every little thing that was falling apart around here. We’d email each other with lists of what we remembered needed fixing. Now we are free to work, so… here we are, and it’s great! We’ll open in a week, or maybe three. That’s being worked out as we all get a better sense of how safe it is, and most of us will open in better shape than we were in two months ago. It’s been hard, but good. How are you?”
Across the street, the Ukrainian couple were busy washing windows and sprucing up a chalkboard menu. Next door across the little piazza, the deck was being scrubbed, plants refreshed. Everyone knows there will be no instant return to business as usual, but a solid, clean deck and a beautifully printed menu are almost eternal positives, they are worth the time – especially when the time is so abundantly available. These are statements of confidence in our collective ability to usher in a pleasant, however unfamiliar, future.
Up Corso at Tomasso’s gelateria, what was a couple of days ago a plain black panel is now embellished with a classy graphic. I can’t tell you what it says because I don’t remember, but I do know that it struck me as beautiful when I saw it.
Montanucci seems to have embarked on a fairly elaborate project to allow takeout service directly from their front doors. Dolceamaro, Caffe Cavour, Barrique, have adjusted in similar fashion, and are now serving. We shout greetings back and forth like excited children during an unexpected snow.
People are buying plants for their gardens and balconies.
Those are all nice things, but that’s not all of it.
As I left for my post-lunch walk, Renzo called out that there will be crostata later. And when I returned from my walk, it was waiting on my table. Could be prune, might be sour cherry. I should know by the shade of color, but I’m still learning.
I passed a woman, masked, who I don’t know (I’m pretty sure, I don’t) just as someone in an upstairs window sneezed so violently that seismic sensors all over Italy flew off their charts. Our eyes met in perfect, alarmed, amusement.
I passed Giuliano yesterday evening, his tresses blowing in the wind, and evidencing curls I never knew he had. He knew I didn’t recognize him at first, and found it fun.
Closer.
For the past few days of free-roaming spring, the town has decided to dress, not in the colors of the town as is usually the case, but in brilliant pinks and reds and oranges. Occasional aquamarine.
That’s not the full picture, but those glimpses sustain us. The full picture may not be visible except in pieces, but I am certain that there is no engineering needed to reveal its parts.
For another way of saying almost exactly the same thing, click here.
The photo is from Via Pecorelli, 2015.