Big day, today.
First a walk, then shopping at the Metà on Corso Cavour, home to unload, then more shopping at the other store on Via Signorelli. Each time, my shoulder bag was so weighed down that I could barely get it place. I should be stocked for the better part of a week. I also ordered a six liter pack of water for delivery.
“Thursday okay?”
“What’s today?”
“Monday.”
“Really? Sure, Thursday. About what time?”
“Why, you going somewhere?”
“Good point.”
“Usually before lunch.”
“I’ll make an extra effort to dress.”
“Appreciated.”
With no outside obligations, my daily schedule has been slipping further and further from what I’m used to. My winter hours are already on the late side, mostly as to when I take a morning walk (waiting for sunshine), but from this vantage they look like a page out of Poor Richard’s Almanac. “Early to rise” has been replaced with, “rise after looking at the clock and deciding that 10:30 isn’t terribly late, so why not take a nap because after all, I didn’t really fall asleep until almost four.” But the weather is milder, and with these short, repetitive walks, why not hit the trail by seven or eight, even if it means doing it unshaved, un-meditated, and without contacts (but with hands well-washed)? I feel better all day when I walk early, and frankly like I’m cranking up a leaky bucket from a very deep well, when I don’t.
On my way to Via Signorelli, I passed Anna (my ceramicist friend and Renzo’s sister). She waved and blew a kiss. Seconds later, the first car I’ve actually encountered (as opposed to watching one pass on a cross street) in maybe two weeks, barreled around the twist in the road. The driver waved cheerily. It was Riccardo, owner of the restaurant, Il Malendrino, and one of the warmest and most enthusiastic spirits I’ve ever known. At the market, Corrado rang up my purchases, bagged them, and helped me heft the bag onto my shoulder. All that together made for a thrilling afternoon.
On the way home down Corso, past the theatre, I began to reminisce about Umbria Jazz – my jazz buddy, Gianna, the packed streets, the wandering band who call themselves Funk Off and who are alone worth a trip to Orvieto between Christmas and New Years. I imagined having an extra bedroom; who would I invite for Jazz Fest?
Before all that, just as I decided that a walk was long overdue, it started to rain. Serious rain. Drenching rain. Raindrops bouncing off the garden pavement, rain. I hung inside and read emails. One asked if I’d walked yet, and offered by way of inspiration Papa Francesco and his Easter stroll, which he will take regardless of the weather. I put on my shoes, reached for the umbrella. The rain stopped, and sun broke through. I like Papa Francesco. I guess he likes me, too.
Emboldened, I organized myself for going to market, figuring that if the weather held, the walk would ease seamlessly into shopping. I hit the streets like a puppy that had to pee. The weather held. Two laps on, it hit me that the streets were almost completely dry, already. Here and there an indentation on an individual stone held a pocket of water, but the deluge had been absorbed by…? By what? The air? The spaces between pavers filled with spring grass of an exaggerated green? I may never know.
I also took time to notice the little bridge between houses the lane passes under just before it joins Via Montemarte. I remembered correctly about its height; five useable feet inside, at best, with the window set snugly under the eaves. The planter boxes are showing a bare hint of geranium, but sport an untamed beard of English ivy. The shutters are closed.
I pictured myself a little girl (I can do that, it’s all imagination) who loves to sit at that window on a low stool and peer over the flowers at those passing beneath her; friendly children, grandparents and cousins, favorite dogs, stealthy cats, Stefano on his bicycle off to make soup. No one looks up save the occasional foreigner (with or without a camera) and some of those stop, stand, wave, wink, or look away suddenly because they are startled by the girl’s smile and sparkling eyes. When she wants to give them their privacy, she closes the shutters and peers through the slats. But it is not privacy for her own sake, only for their’s – to allow them stare as long as they like while they wonder what sort of creature walks across that bridge, trims and waters the flowers, closes the shutters against the sun, and opens them again to let in the evening breeze.
Postscript – after I finished this, Renzo provided a container of puréed vegetable soup and two pieces of pasta sfoglia stuffed with squacquerone (a soft cheese), cherry tomatoes, and roasted eggplant, with compliments from Patrizia. I could have sworn there were caramelized onions in the pasta sfoglia. I didn’t take a photo, I was too delighted to wait. It was all delicious.