I knew it would be different this time. The seven months between fall of 2015 and spring of 2016 were filled with amazement, novelty, discoveries as small as an unnoticed alley or a spring bloom. It was a time for falling in love with a town while remaining apart from it. I was fond of the handle I had given myself; The Outsider. It was accurate and let me off the hook at the same time.
My cousin Gail, who I had lunch with in California after a thirty-five year, unintentional gap, listened to my stories about street life in Orvieto and, as an only-child herself, said it was not unusual among us almost to prefer a solitary observation of communal life to being an actual part of it. She called it “parallel play.” I have since discovered the term refers to a stage of childhood development where two or more children will play next to each other without involving the other. Still, her observation struck a chord. It’s time this toddler evolved to “group play” outside of a theatrical milieu, regardless of how awkward the language skills or how abiding his ignorance of the cultural code.
When you rent property in Italy, you either purchase whatever is inside from the previous tenant or let it go. Letting it go often means that when you take residence, the house is empty of everything including the kitchen sink. In my case, the kitchen stayed and all but three of the lighting fixtures went away, none of those that remained very usefully positioned. I had occasion to buy a table lamp in May which sits on the mantel, its little cord straining to reach the nearest outlet, but that’s it so far. I’m slowly collecting wall and ceiling fixtures and have contacted a electrical fellow from York to install them. In time there will be light, but at this moment night life involves a lot of careful treading.
Before I left for the States in May, I also bought myself a bed. And a elegantly comfortable sofa that is made of dense foam that will fold onto the floor to make a guest bed. And a lovely antique walnut table and six chairs. And a set of two plastic-wicker armchairs with matching settee and coffee table for outside. And an large umbrella that hangs from an arm to put them under. Writing this, it seems like a good list. But I can tell you this; to be home one needs drawers and shelves.
For example, I have a small, oddly shaped, bedroom, and what Americans think of as closets are practically non-existent in these old buildings. I spent hours measuring and searching online for a wardrobe that makes any sense at all in such a restricted space. I found several narrow ones, all a bit too deep, and by the time I managed to fit the imaginary thing in place, there was never any room left to imagine crawling into bed. Clothes have therefore been laying around in lackadaisically random piles. Between trying to locate what I would wear on a given day, and the unobstructed lines of sight from bedroom window to across-the-street neighbors, getting dressed in the morning has been a circus act.
Then I found the armadio of my dreams; a frame of steel tubes pops together via nylon joints, fabric stretches to form shelves between the tubes, a canvas cover encompasses all, and it zips shut should I wish to enter storage mode. The thing assembled in about two hours, and enjoyably, too. It looks fresh and cool and young, and I lay this morning gazing lovingly when I should have been planning my new act. There’s a small chest of drawers of similar design that serves as a bedstead, and my clothes now all have predictable places to hang out, as it were. (The sight lines issue was later resolved when I rediscovered what shutters are for.)
Today I finished planting the garden. I’ve become rather knowledgable about shade gardens in the last three or four years, and that experience paid off gratifyingly in this one’s rapid development. Now it’s just the four “W’s”: water, weed, watch, and wait. (Oh, and “wonder” but that’s subjective; a personal choice.)
Also today, were delivered two small rugs I had ordered and an armadietto, a chest of three drawers for beside the upper bathroom sink. One of the rugs is brightly colored, Jackson Pollock-esque-ish, and makes a happy statement in front of the fireplace. The other I got because it reminded me of the handsome Afghan that lies languid and lush before the fireplace in the library of the apartment in Scranton. The Pollock was love at first sight and we are totally right for one another. The nostalgic Afghan? Well, best not revisit attractive infatuations from the past. The new Afghan is not ugly, it’s okay, but it’s red, and conventional, and I don’t like it. It doesn’t capture the magnificence of the Afghan left behind. At all. I will give it to the first person I know is looking for a rug. It was cheap.
I saw an armadietto, similar to the one delivered, at the housewares shop on Piazza Vivaria yesterday – for ten euro more. I was so proud of my razor-sharp acumen in hunting bargains – saved ten euro and free shipping to my door! What wisdom and foresight, how resourceful. What I didn’t factor was that the one at the store came assembled. The one that arrived at my door was in a box. A thing I have encountered with unwavering consistency over the past twenty years of putting together things that come in a box; the little holes that guide the screws that hold the tracks that guide the drawers are never deep enough. So, the screws don’t go in all the way, the tracks wobble, and the drawers don’t glide, they stumble. I’ll borrow a friend’s power drill, take much of the thing apart, and correct this, but the experience was not, shall we say, joyous.
Joyous or not, these simple adventures root me to this bit of land on Via delle Pertiche Prima in Orvieto. The hassles and decisions, right or wrong, the voices and clicks from the palazzi around me, the voluntary violets, the shop just around the corner that serves delicious falafel sandwiches for about four dollars – that I am gradually furnishing a modest house and carefully planting a garden, this is not parallel play. It’s frequent visits to the ferramenta for tools and screws and brackets. It’s discussions at the market with the nursery guy about what plant needs what care. The lovely women at Ubaldini elettrodomestiche are beginning to treat me like a local. Someday I’ll invite friends over for drinks. I’m looking at incipient group play mode, here, without it being a rehearsal or class – or any other situation where I pretend to be in charge – and it’s pretty exciting.
There has been progress in other ways, too. The several deliveries of the past week shared a sort of unity in that they all arrived at the very moment I needed, for whatever reason, to take off my clothes. I can’t figure out the buzzer/intercom system, always fumble it, drop the handset, and ring open the gate by accident. So, I have had occasion to introduce myself to the delivery team in various degrees of deshabille. Two days ago, I was able to greet them in swim trunks, a dirty tee-shirt, work boots, and black styrofoam knee pads; my best garden attire but for the first time pretty well covered up. I think they were surprised. Maybe even proud. Certainly relieved.
Yesterday my wonderful neighbor, Renzo, rang as I was upstairs (what else?) getting dressed. I opened the window and shouted “Vengo subito!”
Oh.
Screw the intercom and the rushing around to satisfy a buzzer – all that Pavlovian-American behavior. Open the window and yell. I’ll learn this Italian thing, yet.