Month: June 2020

“I have had a most rare vision. I have had a dream . . . past the wit of man to say what dream it was…The eye of man hath not heard, the ear of man hath not seen, man’s hand is not able to taste, his tongue to conceive, nor his heart to report what my dream was.”

It has been pointed out that I haven’t posted in over a week. My only defense is that I’ve been too swept up into the spirit of La Pausa. I also have excuses that don’t hold up at all, reasons equally flimsy, and justifications of utterly no merit. The closest I can come to a real explanation is that during lockdown two events repeated weekly on my calendar, neither of them allowed to actually happen, while my calendar for the past week shows fifteen, all of them expected. Today there was nothing.

Today would have been il Corteo Storico. Last week’s banners and flags have doubled in number; the town is all dressed up with no where to go. The weekend has seen an influx of day-trippers, however, mostly Italian, and not a lot of them, but it’s nice to see families, all wearing straw hats, walking together and pointing. The poster for Corteo Storico and Corteo delle Dame has been changed from one promoting this weekend to one that says Arrivederci a 2021! 

I ran into Roberto last night on my way to Vincaffè for soup. He’s an effusive and energetic man of about my age, funny, friendly, and warm. I asked him how it was going.

“Renewed!” he exalted. “Being cooped up for two months made me want to experience life more fully. We were all bound in a weird dream, and now we are awake, there is motion again, and we’re bursting with extra vitality. I’m savoring every minute!”

In the same way, I have a feeling that the Corteos next year – or the year after if we’re not so fortunate as to be free of this thing in time – are going to be extraordinary. The same goes for all the concerts, festivals, and processions that have been postponed, here and around the globe.

Blue Bar reopened on Monday. I stopped in that afternoon to congratulate, but was tired and not paying much attention. I dropped by again on Friday when I was fresher. Allen and Susanna are returned from San Diego, Lola, who also lives across the street was there, and the fellow who prepares the foccaccine was making his delivery. Antonny seemed happier than he has in years, has lost weight, been working out, and looks terrific. The bar is reconfigured to take up less space, everything is sparkling clean and organized. The whole place felt light as a spirit.

Today, on my way to lunch I passed Arone (a kind of deli) just as huge drops of rain began to fall. By reflex I stepped inside the open door (open doors are now required to avoid repeated touching of handles) and into the waitress’s warm welcome. I tried to explain that I was just escaping the weather, but couldn’t get the words to come out.

“I don’t understand,” she said.

“Neither do I,” I answered. 

By then, I noticed Paulo seated alone at a table, and he waved me over.

Paolo is a native Orvietano who lived in New York City from the late nineties to about 2008. We trade New York stories and he gets to use his English. I can also ask him about Orvieto. He told me about the pair of falcons that live atop the Duomo and help control the pigeon population, about how Orvieto and Rome are both built on rock that sits on a bed of clay that prevents earthquakes from inflicting damage, about a huge cavern under the square to the right of the cathedral, and of how Teatro Mancinelli’s perfect original acoustics had been destroyed until renovations restored them about twenty years ago.

“And then sometime soon, I will organize a lunch at Conte! I’ve not been since before la quarantena. I dream about it. I cannot wait to go again.”

Trattoria del Conte is in the country about ten minutes towards Bolsena. I’ve been a couple of times and the food is perfect. In the past week, at least a dozen people have sung its praises to me, while anticipating an imminent return after too long an abstinence. As I am dependent on the kindness of others to get there, Conte is a special treat. It would seem that the deprivation of March and April may work in my favor during June and July.

Ricardo stopped me the other day.

“It’s not certain,” he said, half conspiratorially, “because there are laws and rules about this sort of thing, but at sunrise on June 21, I have this vision — to play a concert for the whole town from the top of La Torre del Moro. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”

“An electronic piano, I presume.”

He laughed. “Of course. That will be challenge enough to carry. If we’re successful, I’ll let all my friends know.”

“I’ll be there, maestro. I cannot imagine a more magical gift to a reawakening city.”

“Exactly!” and he was off in flurry of generous enthusiasm. 

I must remember to suggest he play something from Mendelssohn’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream. 

The photo is from Il Corteo delle Dame 2002.

I passed a young man out walking with his family, all masked. He suddenly gave a great heave of breath, took off the mask, rubbed his face vigorously with his hands, then put it back. Kind of counterproductive, but I could relate. So could everyone else who saw him.

I employed a fresh, crisp mask last Saturday, then took a walk. Thoughts of Palombella stirred my brain, and as I approached the end of our lane to turn left onto (what becomes) Via delle Donne, I heard drums! Rat-a-tat, a-rat-a-tatta-tat. My heart beat faster. Where would they be rehearsing? And for what? I stopped to see if I could distinguish a direction for the source. The drums stopped, too. I took a deep breath, and as I let it out the drums started up again. I walked. I breathed. The drummers somehow synchronized their music to my expiration. Remarkable. 

Once the mask softened from use, the drumming ceased altogether.

Enough about masks, except that breathing my own stale air makes me unseasonably warm. But what we must, we must. For these times, that’s philosophy.

I just took an afternoon walk to the cliff near San Giovenale, up the hill towards Le Grotte del Funaro, and back through town. On Via Garibaldi, I passed Blue Bar. Antonny and Romina were on the street with all the tables and chairs, washing and disinfecting.

“Doing a good spring cleaning, heh?”

“Getting ready to re-open on Monday. Come, I show you!”

We went into the main room to examine new positions for the cold case and beverage cabinet, and a shorter, leaner bar. Antonny demonstrated where the reconfiguration opens up room for a few new seats and a table.

“And we keep the side room only for six months, then pfffitt! Or maybe not. We see. I’m excited. We throw away many things…”

“I saw your trash pile the other day. Very impressive.”

“Felt good. We collect too much things. This is a good time.”

I moved on to the real reason for my walk, a small cup of gelato. At one of the tables flanking the entrance sat a woman with colorfully framed glasses, someone I’d met on the stairs while trying out Allen’s apartment a couple of weeks back.

“I thought maybe you lived in the building,” she said in perfect English. I explained.

“But you do live in that palazzo?” I asked.

“I moved from Porano where I was for a couple of years. I like being in Orvieto, very much.”

“Are you Italian?”

“French.”

“Ah! Like Antonny.”

“Who?”

“Blue Bar. Across the street from you.”

“Oh. You see, I moved here in the middle of February.”

“Just in time for lockdown.”

She laughed and shrugged. “Oh, well.” Her name is Lola.

I took my gelato to my favorite eating-gelato bench on Vicolo Michelangeli, and Simonetta (Michelangeli) passed just as I settled in. She was dressed like a flame, in rich shades of orange and red. I complimented her attire and inquired after the laboratorio.

“Difficult times. We’re open, but there are no jobs. We can’t make it selling to Orvietani, we need orders from outside, and with the travel restrictions that’s been complicated. No one at this level redecorates from a catalog, they want to see and touch things. They want design consultations.”

“Difficult times for everyone.” I hear that phrase a dozen times a day, even in response to a simple greeting. “How’s it going?” is answered with “Hard times for all of us.”

“But,” she continued, “this is home, has been our home for generations, we can’t just pick up and leave for a big city somewhere. We’ve roots here.”

“And I, for one, cannot imagine Orvieto without Bottega Michelangeli.”

“Neither can we imagine the Bottega without Orvieto. So, we’ll figure a way through. Enjoy your gelato.”

The first appointment of the day was with Alessandro who is helping me with a periodic application for my permesso di soggiorno (permit of stay).

“Lot of news! Gordon College (where he works) won’t start again until the spring, maybe even later. We had to send all the students home, reimburse their fees, and had paid the staff and faculty already. Hard times. But the biggest news is that my wife is pregnant, so in July our family grows from four children to six! Twins!”

“Complimenti! But what difficult timing.”

“Yeah, tough timing having to feed everyone and buy clothes and so forth, but in another way… I get to stay home and be papà. In that way, what could be better?”

Tempi difficili per tutti. But difficult for everyone, and that kinda takes the pressure off, don’t it? Which also lets us discover the hidden opportunities.

It showed a white ground, and onto it were placed delicate, colored etchings of wild herbs and flowers. The overall shape was nearly square and it was held in place by a pale, shiny blue ribbon.

“Nice mask!” I blurted as we waved.

Marina lowered her creation. “Home made,” she said in English.

“Well, it’s beautiful.”

“Thank you. We must try.”

The mask as fashion statement has gone way beyond the occasional patterned fabric. Granted, most of us are not that chic. I still use the masks left in my mailbox a few weeks ago; they’re comfortable and do their job. And most of the rest of town, if not exactly following my example, does the same or wears basic white. As I enthused a few days ago, black masks have made an appearance and are very GQ, as a friend described them. But even then, there are distinctions. The barista/baker, Giancarlo, by way of example, wears a black mask that integrates the ear straps into the overall design, giving it a kind of science fiction flare. He says it’s a wild west look, and I could see that, too.

Some of the ones with patterns aren’t randomly made, they embrace the features the way a well-upholstered chair centers its brocade. The wearer of one I admired during the last few days pointed to a store we were near as the source. 

“They will make masks to order, by your design,” she said, shrugging. “You can even bring in your own fabric. Like it’s such a simple thing, but why not?”

The store she pointed to is, in concept, one of the most solid formulas for a happy marriage I’ve ever known. She likes yarn and to sew. He is a cyclist. So the store, called Ciclostile, sells bicycles, accessories, and yarn. Of course. They also host meet-the-author events with Arcimboldo, one of Orvieto’s independent bookshops. They may share reading as a pastime.

One of the restaurants on Piazza del Popolo is Osteria da Mamma Angelo (the motto: like at your house). The menu is solid, the food is very good, and the service is professional. And the décor reminds me of an Italian-themed, semi high-end diner in Silicon Valley; pleasant and comfortable, and a Californian interpretation of what Italy looks like through the lens of Marie Callender. I passed today on my way to lunch. The waiters were all outfitted in black with red aprons and very snazzy red masks – with the osteria’s logo emblazoned on the right half. Quite attractive and, well, perfect.

I’ve seen masks advertised that swoop up like a patterned serpent from the base of the throat. Others that mimic a diaphanous scarf. Ones that draw inspiration from belly-dancers. So far, Orvieto hasn’t embraced the more extreme creations, though given its history a mask integrated into a medieval wimple and veil might catch on. Or for men, a monk’s cowl.

For lunch, I went to Montanucci. The décor at Montanucci is courtesy of Bottega Michelangeli, whose trademark is wood sculpture and furnishings made of layers of cutout planking. It’s difficult to describe, so have a look at their siteand at Montanucci’s, too. The latter is decorated as a small village with houses and balconies and people and animals; all whimsical and charming. And hidden here and there are extraordinarily beautiful wood sculptures in the Michelangeli style. I didn’t know quite what to make of that look when I encountered it twenty years ago, but I’ve come to more than appreciate the it, I love it.

Back and center as you walk into Montanucci are the Giraffes, three friendly creatures that greet everyone who enters with a studied bemusement. That’s them in the photo, now in fetching blue masks.

I mentioned to Slavic how much I liked them, and I believe he replied, “We sort of thought they should do their part.” They do their adorable part very well, indeed.

Today was Palombella. I walked to Piazza del Duomo at about nine this morning, to pay my respects more than anything. The cathedral’s central doors were open, and the square was empty except for two men walking separately towards the steps. They were both in black, but more police black that clerical black. I paused for awhile, then moved on. To see that much open space on a festival day made me sad.

Palombella is a celebration of Pentecost. In Orvieto’s traditional ceremony, the Holy Spirit is represented by a while dove that is sent flying from a cluster of painted clouds above the nearby church of Saint Francis to travel down a wire and into a painted wooden tower erected on the steps of the Duomo. The creature’s arrival is greeted by clouds of colored smoke and mini-Roman candles above cutout representations of Mary and the Apostles to indicate tongues of flame. The main event is surrounded by pageantry derived from a mix of periods from the medieval onward. It is all very historic and wonderfully charming. It is also, among the many religious festivals that are woven into Orvieto’s cultural fabric, the longest observed, predating the Duomo by centuries and with possible roots in pre-Christian practice. 

You don’t mess with Palombella without good reason.

This year the dove was replaced by a drone that flew the route normally taken down the wire. And that’s all I know for sure. There were no painted clouds, no tower or Apostles, no drums, no trumpets, no periwigged footmen to deliver the dove to Oriveto’s newest wed. In short, nothing was there to attract onlookers. Perhaps for the same reason, the shape and timing of the drone event remained vague. I checked the papers, I asked many people, I learned little. In a way, it was an elegant solution. The tradition was upheld in its intention, and manifested in a mode that discouraged onlookers and respected public health.

This evening I stopped at Trattoria dell’Orso for soup. Stefano and I got to talking, and of course, Palombella quickly offered itself as a topic of conversation.

“You know, all this makes me sad,” Stefano said, waving his left hand towards the street. 

“Yeah, me too.”

“The economic situation worries us, but it’s not that. To me, Orvieto is a place for art and music, festivals and markets, people from all over the world flooding the streets. All gone. Except for we who live here – and only mornings and evenings – the streets and plazas are almost empty. That’s what makes me sad. I miss the joy, the company, the many languages, the different races.”

I nodded and repeated his lament. We stood together for a moment of silence.

“This will pass. But it reminds you of how fragile it all is. Even after a thousand years.”

But everywhere I wandered last night, groups of people with ladders were hanging flags, or were on their balconies draping banners. The festival of flowers, Orvieto in Fiori, that usually includes floral tapestries in churches, and baskets of flowers hanging from walls, was along with everything else that would draw crowds, regretfully cancelled. But baskets of flowers in the quartiere’s colors were up just the same. Life goes forward, regardless.

Today, there were tourists, probably from other parts of Umbria, as inter-regional travel is still restricted. They must have been from out of town because no one local would bother with such photographic equipment (or carry maps) that early in the day. Others without cameras (or maps) had that lovely dreamily lost look that the best of tourists frequently display. It expresses an admirable willingness to give up the familiar and let the senses come alive in unexpected ways. It was good to see them. They are our guests. They validate the town’s finest qualities. They remind us that its culture and traditions will persist.

Later in the day, I revisited Piazza del Duomo and sat for awhile in the shadow of its temple. Small groups of young people sat on the lawn, dotted the steps, and crossed the piazza. The central doors were closed. An older couple, snugly masked, meandered hand in hand, and sent up a glance towards the mosaics and carvings from time to time. The afternoon sun caught the gold woven artfully into the tiled murals and twisted columns. The facade is a kind of festival of its own. For now, it will more than suffice.

The photo is of Palombella trumpeters, 2002.