Phase Two: I finally found the nerve to sit in public.
There’s a leftover lockdown guilt (or fear, or fearful guilt) of taking a bench in what was previously a crowded spot. Early in March, police were shooing folks away from the various stone perches provided by ancient princes and their architects. It was, at first, about as effective as shooing pigeons – people would get up, circle around, and collect again – but by and by the prohibition sunk in, and until yesterday – or maybe the day before – the prohibition stuck.
My first public sitting was a fairly safe one, in the large park below San Giovanale. No one has cut the weeds down to a lawn since January, so the field has reverted to its natural state. Grasses and a few little wildflowers waving in a dancing breeze invited a slow leg-brushing walk that parted into a path of shimmering varieties of green and grey. I found a bench in the shade and contemplated the valley. A couple of guys played with their little dogs at the other end of the field.
My second act of possible civil disobedience was in the little park with a view of La Badia. Once again, it’s a park, so my vaunted criminality was considerably diluted. Parks have been open all week for just about anything so long as there are two meters between participants. The social distancing does not apply to cats, however this park’s sizable number of resident felines were observing it anyway. It was a warm afternoon, and they were spread like Dali’s clocks on whatever cool stone surface they could find. There is a ledge between terraced levels of lawn that holds a bronze bass relief, and at one end it serves as a bench well enough to warrant a sit.
Someone has been cutting this lawn. There are umbrella pines and other large trees I can’t identify, and a fantastical view of the octagonal tower and ruins of a medieval abby below. A very vocal songbird with an impressive vocabulary was holding a lively conversation with a compatriot far away.
A man and his black spaniel slid into the scene. What seemed to be the youngest of the cats crouched preventively as the spaniel sniffed around – the others couldn’t have cared less. The dog was likewise blasé, and after doing what he had come for (his human fetching and disposing of the evidence) they left the park as quietly as they came. A few moments later, and so did I.
My third possible crime would have been more brazen had I not been copying the actions of two gentlemen seated far from each other who I observed on the way to the park. If you live here, you feel regularly drawn to the benches across from the Duomo, almost by compulsion. Two months had passed since my last visit. To a true Orvietano, that neglect is closer to a criminal act than sitting could ever be. So, even though the benches were empty on my way back from viewing cats, I took a spot and gazed at Her Elegance for a happy ten minutes. The local police cruised by, said nothing, stopped at an outdoor caffe where three men were generously spread between tables, and held a long conversation instead of moving them on.
Phase Two is real.
After that I rested on benches all over town, guilt and fear free. I perched not because I was tired, but because I could. The benches afforded wonderful vantages for observing my fellow townspeople and their dogs, and even the random pigeon.
Renzo, Gianni, and Giancarlo finished potting wall flowers this morning and the lane is truly magnificent, especially when the sun hits at an advantageous angle. My last bench for the day was in my little courtyard, and as I opened the computer to write, Renzo and Patrizia pushed open the gate, smiles hidden but obvious, carrying a plate.
“A pastry with pear jam and walnuts.”
They handed me a kind of crostata, only instead of a variation on the traditional cross-hatch, in the middle stood a heart. I melted into an appreciative blob.
After a few compliments paid the job done decorating the street, followed by wishes that the flowers would survive the summer, my friends and neighbors were off.
“Buona cena!”
The light dims, the air cools, the pear and walnut pastry sits nearby, and guilt and fear have fled.
Phase Two is believed.
