I renamed this (hopefully short) series of posts “Sideshow” because I really don’t know what’s happening beyond my garden walls. My world has grown even smaller than it was during lockdown. A journey up or down stairs takes planning and forethought. A journey out for groceries seems (and actually is) impossible.
Fortunately, as I hope I’ve made abundantly clear, I’m blessed with wonderful friends and neighbors.
Giancarlo, my neighbor to the north, in addition to providing more food than I have time to eat, has been icing and spreading gel on my left calf and tendon for several days, now. That involves a kind of simple massage using an icepack, waiting until the area warms up, then laying down an impasto of gel. It’s enough time for a little conversation, and today I finally had the linguistic wherewithal to ask him a few basic questions, like – where’s your country house?
The answer is, in Bagnoregio where he was born and raised. He moved to Orvieto when he and Annalisa wed thirty years ago. He began his career as principal of a cooking school in 1978, first in Perugia, then in Terni, and starting twenty years ago, here in Orvieto at the Palazzo di Gusto at the old cloister of San Giovanni. He retired a year ago, and still keeps the family house, with a separate garden, in Bagnoregio.
I’ve been to a handful of events at the cloister and it is an evocative and gracious space. You enter from the piazza, then cross to a long reception-type room into a courtyard on several levels. It’s one of those spaces that calls out for more use.
“Even ten years ago it was the site of many more gatherings, concerts, parties. There was a concert of medieval music there a few years ago, absolutely magical. Orvieto used to be so much more lively than it is.”
I’m told this often. The summer before last there were more than a dozen concerts a week from mid-July through August, you couldn’t get to them all. Last summer there was also a six-week long outdoor film series. Seemed pretty lively to me.
“No, much more than that, and more variety of everything.”
“What happened?”
“The spirit went away.”
Every time I hear this I think of the towns I’ve lived many times the size of Orvieto that would love to have the cultural life this town has – had (before March).
“And now the theatre is closed, and most things this summer have been cancelled… Will it ever be as vivacious as it once was? Who knows?”
That question, more than anything, motivates me to restore my health and improve my Italian.
“But you retired so recently, I didn’t realize.”
“Yes, but before lockdown I would go to the school several times a week, anyhow. When you love a place, you want to remain connected. But this year, enrollment was down, hard to say why. Even before the crisis.”
This morning Bobbie and Peter stopped by again to puzzle out the drip system that was dripping only in selected zones. Elia came over to wash the paved areas, so I switched him to harvesting apricots until the drips had been scrutinized. He picked four small buckets in various stages of ripening, and distributed sacks among the neighbors.
Peter found a blockage, repaired it, only to find evidence of another block further along. It was hot, and rain is promised late tonight, so we called off the project for now. In the meantime, Bobbie affirmed that the ultrasound used in yesterday’s echo/Doppler can have therapeutic properties, which may help explain why my pains were so quickly reduced.
Around noon, Maria wrote to ask if I needed anything. I sent her a short list, and she said she would deliver after closing, which is usually around 17:30. She appeared at four.
“Nobody coming in,” she said, trying not to be as disappointed as she really was. “Nothing sold.” We tried to make light of it, but didn’t do very well. I thought of reminding her again of my American friends who want to do mail order, but thought better of it. She likes the idea, but the spirit wasn’t there just at that moment.
I had planned to meet with Rachel at six to discuss her maybe managing my move – whenever that is to wherever it might be – whatever that means. She called at five.
“My car wouldn’t start. The garage says they might have it fixed by seven or eight. Argh! I hate cars!”
My mother used to write letters like this. Who came over, who said what. I cherished them. They were like snapshots – no real composition, nothing of note, just a few hours caught by words and sent across the miles with fondness and a simple love of life.