Orvieto Centro Storico has, according to the word on the street, about 4,500 residents. That’s larger than any of the colleges I’ve taught at, but it doesn’t seem like an overwhelming number of people. So, how is it that on my morning walk, aside from those manning their shops, not only did I see no one I know (that’s a lie, I waved to Stefano) but no one I saw in an hour’s time looked at all familiar. As inter-regional travel is still not allowed, those folks must have come from around here. Were they all from surrounding villages, and freakishly decided to arrive in town at the same time, this morning? Was there a promotional shoot I hadn’t heard about, and empty streets were therefore filled by bussing in extras? I mean, I don’t expect to remember everyone I see, but I have lived here five years, and most of the time most of the crowd looks at least somewhat familiar.
I don’t expect answers. It’s just an odd way to begin the day. Maybe not in New York City, but here, yes.
It was also one of those odd windy days. Orvieto, as with sound, funnels wind in strange ways. My apricot tree may show a few trembling leaves. Walk to Piazza del Popolo, you may be buffeted by a gust or two. Piazza Vitrozzi will be still as a stone, but turn down either of the arched passages that leads towards Piazza della Repubblica, and you are suddenly the object of a sustained aerodynamic endurance test. Walk at a sixty degree forward lean, and arrive into a piazza that is a vast haven of serenity. The way down Via Filippeschi – all is calm. Via Malabranca is a bit gusty, but refreshing. Arrive at the cliff at San Giovenale, and you will be blown onto a bench without your having intended to sit. That, or blown over the edge, your choice.
You eventually tumble back into town, hair standing vertically, a living advertisement for one of those haircut things they’re all a-chatter about being available again on Monday, next.
Of course, for wind you can always go to Piazza del Duomo which is reliably gale force almost any time of day, and exclusive of any other street, square, or alley in the surrounding area.
Further oddness. L’Ufficino del Gelato has its post-lockdown/pre-tourist hours beautifully posted; they are closed between 13:00 and 15:00, every day. Yesterday I happened by at about 14:30 and they were open. So, when I arrived today at 14:15 I had no idea what to expect, but had pocketed a euro in change, just in case. I rounded the corner onto Corso to meet Tomasso face to face just as he was about to lock up.
“Oh! I’ll come back, later.”
“Child’s cup?”
“No, you’re closing, I’ll come back.”
“What flavor?”
“Hazelnut.”
He served me, I gave him my coins, he looked relieved that the change was exact. I thought of inquiring after his hours of business, but restrained myself. I suspect he’s searching for a predictable pattern from data that is actually, genuinely, inexorably random. I thanked him and made my way through the few, totally unfamiliar, people on the street towards my bench for eating gelato.
At least the bench was still familiar.
I wandered some, after that, and eventually ended up at (what I still call) Metà. Everyone was familiar! Okay, none of the other customers were, but at least the guys who work there were still working there; no one had been blown off the cliff or replaced by central casting. As it often is for me, the supermarket was a welcome oasis.
The blue-eyed checker, whose name I still don’t know, was behind the counter.
“How’s it going,” I asked.
“Andiamo avanti,” he replied – we go onward. “And you?”
“Andiamo avanti,” I shrugged back, “There is no choice, is there?” We smiled.
“Per forza.” Of course.
Such useful phrases these days! I replayed them over and over while I shopped.
Clinging as I was to the familiar, I almost reluctantly checked out. He bagged my items and after telling me the bill (six forty-three, which in Italian sounds one letter different from seven forty-six… sort of) playfully repeated the amount in English.
“Very good!” I effused.
He brightened. “Thank you!” he added, showing off a little. “Goodbye, now,” he said before reverting to Italian with a string of farewells even longer than usual.
I walked out onto a tranquil Corso knowing that somewhere in town, probably near an ancient church, someone I had never seen before was having hair and clothing whipped about by an inexplicably strong wind.
Metaphors for our times.