“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.