Books

There is a young fellow here called Gianluca who owns a used-book store on Via Filippeschi. I pass his shop often. When he has no clients, he’s behind his computer diligently pursuing his livelihood. I have no idea what specifically he does there at his desk, but I admire him, his persistence, and his young man’s commitment to books in this age of digital texts. Sometimes I feel personally responsible for his store’s continued viability, that I need to buy books from him I’m not able to read just to help keep his shop open. (I’m finding out that I’m not the only one to feel that way.) Today as I passed his store – closed for riposa, the window gates open and a string of LED’s decorating his display of old books with dancing titles – it suddenly hit me what his position at the desk reminds me of.

I was playing with my friend Jimmy Galindo in his driveway when we found them. Boxes and boxes of paperback books that a neighbor was apparently throwing away. They were mostly classics from a high school reading list, books that the owner seemed not to have any interest in re-reading. “We could start a library,” Jimmy enthused. As a new state-of-the-art library had just opened halfway between our houses and no more than a block from either, the idea struck me as ludicrous. At first. But as we talked, together we glorified the notion, and a few minutes later I was totally jazzed.

Over the following weekend, I could think of nothing else. Even my ten-year-old personality derived great joy from cataloging and organizing, and that there was a generous supply of books upon which to base the project, a library – grass-roots, home-based, a neighborhood library for kids, not a branch of the county’s vast system – seemed a brilliant idea. As I mulled it, I concluded that my impressive collection of Disney comics would be an apt compliment to Wuthering Heights and Pride and Prejudice, neither of which I had heard of previously. My excitement carried me back to Jimmy’s to make sure the books had not been carried off. They were still there! Some had been rained on, but were salvageable. I carried them home, a shopping bag at a time, over a long day of walking. Jimmy voiced enthusiasm, but I could tell his interest stopped short of cartage and actual physical organization. That’s okay, it would return in full flower when he saw the idea realized. I dreamt of greatness.

My mother had long since come to understand that when I had a project in mind, the path of least resistance was to make sure I did no damage to the furniture and let it play through. So, as the bags of books appeared along with the explanation for their arrival, she shrugged and smiled and said, rather wanly, that it might be a good idea, except who would be the clientele. I angrily dismissed her unimaginative and pessimistic commentary, and forged on.

In a week’s time I had stripped my room of personal décor so it would have the proper institutional ambiance, sorted and shelved all my literary treasures by title, author, and date, and typed up a list that would have to do until I had the money and time for a proper card catalog. I designed a sign, found some old railroad board, loaded up my FloMaster refillable felt tip pen (a prized possession), and went to bed that Friday night knowing I was ready for business come morning.

The sign was created and hung on my bedroom door first thing. After all, the fliers I had distributed to my classmates listed hours of operation, and the first rule of public service is consistency. So at 8:30, the announced hour of opening, I was at my desk behind an ancient Remington typewriter, the kind that proudly displayed its working parts, ready for an influx of eager young readers.

At ten, I had a sinking sensation that perhaps I had neglected something we would now call market research. At about eleven, my mother, probably steeling herself against what she accurately imagined would be my annoyed response, endeavored to be my first customer. I played along, knowing it would amuse her, but was privately perturbed. She checked a few things out that I was fairly confident she would never read, but I was pleased that my system of date stamps and cards (which I felt improved on the county’s model) worked so cunningly well.

At some point my mom called Jimmy’s mom, or at least I suspect that’s what happened, and the afternoon was a rush of eager literati. This continued for a couple of hours. We talked comics. It was fun. But Sunday was a dud; I figured because people had other stuff to do. So, despite my late opening time (in deference to churchgoers) I closed early at two. The next weekend, was slower, and my hours grew shorter. I had distributed another round of fliers to classmates during the week, and many had vowed they would visit, but I imagined there were family outings, maybe homework that had been put off, so I endeavored to read a classic from the library’s significant collection – before its time in my literary development – at which I failed. The third weekend someone asked me over to play, so Saturday hours were very short, and on Sunday the library didn’t open at all.

I don’t recall the actual demise and disassembling of the Neighborhood Library for Youth, it probably happened gradually. But that moment on the first morning when the penny dropped – that my dream of service was perhaps not shared by anyone else, not even my own mother – has lived with me through innumerable, and what have often seemed to be hauntingly similar, projects of arguable viability. The memory has corroded numerous attempts at my establishing a useful place in the world: the theatres, the cafe, the writing. “It might be a good idea, but who’s the audience?” I’ve been fleeing from that spot behind the ancient Remington typewriter all of my adult life.

So, upon passing Gianluca’s store today I suddenly wanted to write what would mostly be about a failed fifth-grade, and totally daft, library project. But it would also be about what strong patterns can radiate from a single moment at the age of ten and the significance they may have to later life. Metaphorically speaking, the moment is when you notice that the arch you just labored so hard to erect has no keystone.

Installed behind his modern-day Remington, Gianluca shows genuine courage in his dedication to what may appear to be a Quixotic waste of energy to the casual passerby. But you know what? So did I seize courage with my childhood library, even frozen as my omission dawned behind the skeletonized typewriter – and later, behind the electric one on which I typed notes and press releases for the theatre I started in San Francisco and the caffe in Santa Cruz, and even later, behind my own computers that I pecked away on during my stints as theatre administrator in New York and Scranton. And maybe even this blog, highly redundant as it is in the grander scheme of things, requires courage – “Who’s the audience?” – as do all blogs uploaded with good and generous intension. And as do all young persons laboring at their dreams.

Donald Duck is always throwing himself into far-fetched but alluring schemes that lead to grave consequences he never learns anything from. Rage and frustration shadow him everywhere. And it makes us laugh; because we recognize his dilemma, of course, but also I think because we aspire to be otherwise. He’s just a duck. We hope, at least, to behave as something more evolved than that.

I’m living in Italy now. It’s taken me, at a minimum, two years to maneuver myself into this reality, an urge and a dream I’ve had since I was charmed by my Italian neighbor’s seventieth birthday party when I was fifteen. Rage and frustration shadowed my many attempts at convincing myself that I could never find a way to live here. And, lo, I am here and nothing in my circumstances these days seems to depend on my having an audience! If that’s true, I’d like to think it the gratefully accepted wages from a life of Quixotic courage.

I live here because life is love, love is all, and I do not miss the inner Donald (Duck.) And because this hard-working city clings to a communal dream that I find glorious and worthy of my unembarrassed support.

Quack? No. “Salve, Gianluca! Cerco un libro. Può aiutarmi?

 

Translations

The technological terrorist for anyone attempting to learn a new language is the telephone. At least it is for me. There are no facial expressions to aid understanding, no gestures, no body language. On the phone it is even that much more difficult and embarrassing (for me) to ask for the frequent repetitions I almost always need – at a slower rate and, ideally, in a less exotic accent – when you can’t look someone pathetically in the eye and plead old age, ignorance, or fatigue.

But when you are anticipating a scheduled delivery, there is no choice; the phone must be answered.

As I write this, I’m anticipating a delivery. I received a call from the courier about an hour ago. He said they would arrive around 3:30. That seemed reasonable in the moment. Of course, the delivery was appointed for 14:00 and the fellow who called was adjusting it to 15:30, but he didn’t say it that way, he said “three-thirty.” This created some confusion in my brain and I sat for forty minutes worrying about how he could arrive at 14:30 as it was already 14:30 when he called. Somehow I had not converted his “three-thirty” correctly into 24 hour time. Or something. Anyway, my mind was in a disturbed state. For a long time. Over nothing.

It takes a lot of guts to be relating this, I hope you appreciate that.

He will arrive exactly when he said he would at 3:30, of course, but I didn’t realize my error until 3:10, about five minutes ago. This allowed me to waste an otherwise perfectly good forty minutes fretting that I had somehow offended him, and that his last bit of conversation, which I believed to have meant “tell you what, we’ll see how navigable the street is when we get there,” was actually “tell you what, your damn street is too damn narrow, why don’t you just come and pick the damn stuff up yourself.”

I had committed the usually dreadful error of trying to make conversation. (I sometimes say stuff just to demonstrate that I can speak the language, at least after a fashion.) I energetically approved of his estimated arrival time, then offered a friendly warning that the street may be too narrow to come all the way to my house. This led to responses I did not understand, which led to my further attempts at urbanity. Which never work. They only confuse everyone involved. I finally said, after several what sounded to be urgent questions about street width versus truck width, “I’m sorry, I didn’t understand that last bit, at all.” That lead to his closing suggestion. Which I would have simply taken to be what it sounded to be; “lets not talk on the phone about something we need to be on site to know,” as I just mentioned. But when I answered “Grazie, bene, perfetto!” and that was followed by silence, a blip, a beep, and a click, it caused me to wonder how well I had interpreted his closing remark, and that rapidly morphed into speculations on cancelled delivery.

I conveniently forgot how unreliable voice service is alla mia casa.

Now, I sit. Seven minutes to arrival. Jiggling my leg. I also want to ask the couriers if they will, for a tip of course, move the divan on the upper floor down the outside steps to the lower. I hope they’re nice, jolly types, who have had a good day. I imagine outrage and disgust at my imperialistic American attitude, annoyance at my outdoor furniture which could be construed to be in their way, and incredulity at my taste in divans.

The other day I took the funicular down to Scalo and walked to the CIA, a housewares and clothing store, to buy sheets. The label for the pillowcases said “2 Capi,” and WordReference on my phone had nothing to add regarding what that meant. So, when I arrived at the checkout counter, I asked. The woman there spoke such clear, lilting Italian I wanted to ask her to dance. She didn’t dumb down or slow up, and I understood every word as she offered (and I giddily accepted) a CIA discount card good also for online shopping and gas. She then rifled through the five or six boxes of paper, each with many layers of forms and documents, that were cluttering the area an American would call the “bagging counter.” Her search continued as she described the marvels of the card I was about to receive. She filled out a form, conducted another search for an unassigned card, and pasted on a sticker that made it even more valuable. The card issuing accomplished, she proceeded to explain the packaging philosophy for bedding.

I intend to go back to CIA just for the experience of understanding what someone is saying to me. Remember this and speak clearly to immigrants. We’re all more or less the same.

Speaking of immigration, this past Monday I had my second visit with Alessandro the Intervenor for Immigrants, a title that makes him sound kind of like a saint, which he kind of is. At the previous meeting we had, he started in English and implied all the way through that my Italian had not progressed past ordering gelato. Then once we had finished business, he turned to me and said, in Italian “So, how was your summer?” I blinked. The sudden transition to Italian and personal threw me. He repeated the question in English. In Italian, I told him about the house, how all the wood surfaces had collected mildew and had to be washed, that the garden was weedy, but that working with one’s hands was satisfying. That wasn’t really my summer, that was my previous week, but at the moment it seemed, more or less, to be my summer. Alessandro cleared his throat and we bid farewell.

This time in, we started in Italian and stayed there. No more mention of Google translator for when I had to compose a document. Huzzah. I think my knowing the word for mildew may have turned the tide. Orvietani respect anyone who knows about mildew.

* * *

The delivery guys were just here. The main guy called again, and I managed to understand that I was to meet them in the piazza across from the carabinieri, so I did so and at a pace. They’re Romanian, which explains the accent. The older guy (about forty) speaks English, too. He’s smart, overworked, tired of it, but the consummate professional. In two trips they brought the furniture to my house with a hand truck, ingeniously and skillfully loaded, and delivered everything to place. They hauled away most of the really huge packing material. I was so grateful. All that cardboard needs to be fastidiously folded, taped, and stored for a week until paper day in the recycling calendar comes along, so having it off my hands is a huge gift. They moved the divan into place downstairs with the nimbleness and pride of veterans, saying nothing, negative or positive, of its shape or color. I gave them 20 for their trouble. They deserve that and more, but I fear seeming over-generous.

Now that they’ve left — as I survey the not unattractive but clearly not high-end furniture that was implied by the photographs — and begin to remove the protective layers, I have a sudden urge to thank those Romanian guys one more time. The technological terrorist turns friend; I send a text.

It is terribly important these days (or maybe any days) to recognize gratitude when it arises, and even more important to express it. To seek to be honest, fearless, generous, grateful, and kind is not just a matter of courtesy or good form, anymore, it’s about the survival of the species.

Dinner with Friends

A voice called from beyond. Beyond what, I wasn’t sure. “Sopra o sotto?” I asked. “Al cancello.” it replied. The voice belonged to Andrea. I thought maybe it was my neighbor Renzo. At this point, all Italians sound the same.

I had switched off the ringer to my phone as I always do when I go out with it in my pocket, and had forgotten to turn it back on – which is also what I always do so I’m not sure it qualifies as a thing I forget. Andrea had already called, emailed, and texted. There was a dinner in Centeno, near Procena, he was invited and his wife Natsuko didn’t want to go. Did I? Oh, and by the way, would I drive?

Andrea owns a car, a 1998 Alfa-Romeo, but somewhere along the way I guess he decided he wasn’t a driver, so when travel by car is necessary, Natsuko usually takes him there. When she’s not up to it, or is simply not in the mood, Andrea must forsooth, stay home. Lucky for him, an American without a car who does drive (however reluctantly) lives ten minutes walk away and is usually eager to experience whatever. So, I said “Sure, let me get my driver’s permit.”

To be honest, I jumped up like I’d been given an electric shock. I was thrilled. Not just by the prospect of dinner in Centeno, but by a friend having dropped by and yelled over my gate. It was so, like, I live here. So Italian. I brought Andrea a glass of water, ran upstairs to put on real shoes, grabbed an old vest made of a kind of silky fabric colored with gold and brown, we rushed to Andrea’s parking place in the yard behind the palazzo he where lives, and off we went to the far reaches of the Lazian countryside.

We took the “short” way out of town. That means lurching into the twists and turns and extremely narrow streets of the Quartiere di Serancia, following a torturous path that seems to go on forever only to arrive maybe twenty meters from where we began so we can turn onto a lane too narrow for one car let alone the two-way traffic it carries, then swerving through Porta Romana (which is even narrower) timing our transit so as to miss the oncoming vehicle by seconds. A few more such maneuvers brought us to Sferracavallo below the city, and onto dark, curvy roads that either aren’t banked at all or are banked in the wrong direction, with cars appearing behind us at unreasonable speeds, then passing on improbable curves. I understood why Natsuko had opted out of the trip.

Another forty minutes or so brought us suddenly to the gates of Centeno. The gate, singular, I should say. Invisible in the dark are four metal posts connected with chains on either side of a gap barely wide enough for an especially narrow Fiat. Andrea pointed them out just as I was about to plough into one but with enough time for us to slow down and squeeze through the middle. “Park anywhere,” he instructed. I did. And as quickly as possible.

I had been invited to one of Piero Ortusi’s dinners last May. He is sort of the caretaker of Centeno. Historically, the tiny town was a customs check between the Papal States and Toscano. The name is said to be derived from its location at 100 kilometers from Rome on the Via Cassia, the ancient way north. I suspect this story for several reasons, the least being that kilometers didn’t come into use in Italy until after Napoleon, but it’s a pleasant justification for calling it Centeno and is likely based somehow in fact. The town also served both as a way-station and a quarantine, protecting Firenze and Siena from the vulgarities and insalubrious habits of Rome.

At some point in the past 20 years or so, a significant part of the town was repurposed as an artists’ retreat. There are private rooms, dormitories, a dining hall or two, studios for painters, dancers, and musicians. Piero has a house and studio of his own. He’s a quiet man who wastes neither words nor gestures. His puckish humor bubbles continually behind his observant eyes. He was a stage designer for years at the amphitheater in Verona. Now he sculpts.

I greeted everyone, and as I came around to Piero he fingered the fabric on my vest. “Nice colors, good pattern. I’d keep that on, if I were you.” and he winked without winking.

This dinner, as the one in May, was about plumbing the imaginations of Piero’s artistic friends regards an annual festa he wants to inaugurate in Centeno next summer. It’s a wonderful group of people. Smart, talented, funny, insightful; they are puppet makers, performers, arts administrators, ecologists, and writers. The dinner was potluck, but Piero hosted as if he were the keeper of a venerable inn. We dined in one of the halls, the doors open wide to the night, bread toasting over a fire (regardless of the day’s heat), moths of every size and color coming and going along with the dogs and children. No one is ever distracted by the traffic of creatures. The food is always various and wonderful, and appears in sudden bursts out of nowhere. No one waits for the Queen to dip her fork into the frittata. Everyone pours and scoops and passes without ceremony.

There was a woman of about forty there last night who I had not met previously. She has a lovely relaxed way about her, was dressed even more casually than the others. Her hair, piled and tied improvisationally about her head, manages to look elegant. She speaks well and with kindness, but for the first half hour I had no idea what the subject was, only catching bits and pieces and nothing that would make a whole. Others held forth in turn. It was a polite and committed exchange of views. The speaker would continue for a goodly time, someone else would pick up the argument, and everyone else would listen. Claudio, the fellow sitting to my right, said nothing for so long I imagined he wasn’t much of a talker, then it was spontaneously his turn and he proved me wrong.

Eventually, someone asked if I was able to follow the conversation. I hazarded a very inaccurate guess. They explained that the area around Acquapendente has accepted eighty-some refugees from North Africa. The discussion was about the treatment the refugees were receiving, the need to educate their children, the difficulty of employing them, and generally how they will be absorbed into local society. I thought about the walls and taco trucks that seem to define discussions like these in the States, and fell into deep wonder. The conversation broke quite naturally into pairs and trios all talking at once, there was a crescendo, a finale, and the room fell quiet.

More food arrived from somewhere, the woman with the pile of hair took out a notepad, and the discussion turned to the festa. Many proposals and ideas were put forth, always in the same deliberate manner as in the discussion about refugees. Notes were taken by several at the table. After each proposal or question, the woman with the hair would take the lead into the next phase. Piero spoke rarely until it was time to conclude, then he gave a settled description of the pieces he imagined would constitute Centeno’s festa.

I leaned over to Andrea and confessed that the hour was making me tired, and as I had to face the twists and darkness that lay between us and Orvieto, we had best contemplate an exit. He nodded and concluded his piece with a comic oration. He stood, explained my need to bring him home alive, everyone followed suit, and goodbyes were exchanged. Piero again fingered the fabric of my vest, lifted his eyebrows and made it clear that I would don that garment in his presence again only in peril of losing it to a more appreciative wearer. He winked – again without winking.

Back in the car Andrea quizzed me on the second round of discussion. I had been able to follow it a tiny bit better. “She’s the major, you know.” Who? What? “Il sindaco di Proceno.” Who? “The woman you hadn’t met before.” Oh! The mayor. “Si. Sorry. The mayor. Centeno is part of the comunale of Proceno.” Wow. “Yes, good to have her here.” Nice to have seen this idea develop in its various stages. “Oh, there will be more dinners like this one.” Good. Good. That’ll be good.

The road back was exactly the same, of course, but so much easier to drive.

Patience

The expandable garden hose is the best idea of the century. Except when it isn’t.

I neither credit nor blame Italy for its design. It’s made in China. I bought both sections of hose at the local ferramenta (hardware store; a godsend for anyone with a new house and garden who doesn’t have a car) but neither do I hold responsible the brothers who own the store, nor the Egyptian fellow they reputedly bought it, and its inventory, from. The hose is a good idea – with interesting surprises.

The hose at rest – that is, when not filled with water – is about two meters long, green, and shriveled. Turn the water on, it fills behind the pistol-head-sprayer thing, extends to about seven meters, and becomes smooth and hard. It remains green. Not the color, but the engineering can’t help but remind one of a penis. And why not base a garden hose on a popular feature of anatomy? It’s a model that has satisfied its purpose for millennia. But being of human design, the hose has attributes not shared by the male member.

The inside of the hose is a blue rubber tube, very stretchy. The blue tube is sheathed in a fabric sleeve that holds its shape as it fills and grows in length. You may wonder how I know so much about how the thing works. You learn these things when you’ve paid for something that breaks with a regularity that is, at least at first, inexplicable.

The first time the hose broke it was apparently my fault. I had only one section at that point, and it didn’t quite reach to the extremity of the garden where sits the thirsty camellia. So, I gave it what I thought was a gentle tug. The hose came apart right at the plastic slip lock that connects it to the faucet. The releasing pressure caused the hose to slither like an angry snake, and it sprayed me down as I danced about in panic.

I took the hose to the ferramenta. There, Rafael patiently slipped the green fabric a centimeter at a time over the blue tube until the tube was again visible. Then he stretched the tube-end over the nozzle that is meant to hold it in place, secured a clamp sort of thing over the join, and told me to move as much fabric as possible through the collar that screwed the pieces together because he was tired of fiddling with it.

I did what he suggested but didn’t quite understand that last part about fabric and collar, so as soon as I turned the water on, it sprayed me down again. That was May 11th. I flew away on the 12th and left the hose hanging at the garden wall.

When I returned a couple of weeks ago, feeling in a jetlagged and mellow mood, I looked at the forlorn wrinkled green hose and was moved to determine what I’d done wrong. In the heightened receptivity that jetlag can sometimes induce, Rafael’s instructions to move fabric towards the connector suddenly made sense, so I reproduced his patient feeding of blue through green, worked the fabric into the screw-on collar, and tightened it as securely as I could. It worked brilliantly – for about a minute. I’d not been rigorous enough in feeding green fabric but in principle the approach was correct. Soaked through and through, I commenced another half-hour of tedious scooching at twilight.

In 1972, I visited my first cousin once removed who was named, as was my father, Pete Zarko. He lived in the mountains outside a town called Ravno in Herzegovina. Ravno means “flat” in Croatian. Naming the town in that way was surely someone’s idea of a joke. Petar’s village, named Gaic (which means “actor”) lies five kilometers outside of Ravno. So mountainous and rocky is the terrain around both towns that the last four of those kilometers could not form into a trail or road, you just had to know where you were going. Fortunately, another cousin was guiding me.

Anyway, this remarkable man called Petar had lived in California’s Santa Clara Valley from 1909 to 1929. When I met him, he still spoke the English of that time, filled with colorful swear words, similes, and metaphors. It was summer, so his wife cooked everything (and baked bread) over an open fire pit in a “summer kitchen,” basically a shed attached to the main house. In short, life in Gaic only peripherally referenced the latter 20th century.

One day, it was time to cut the hay. To cut hay Petar had to sharpen his scythe. He did this by hammering on the blade’s edge as it lay against a specially-shaped stone. About mid-way through, the hammer handle broke. Without missing a beat, and with no use of this vintage English cuss words, he moved to the wood pile where he identified the best candidate for a new handle, worked it with a knife until the end fit the hole in the hammer head, and pounded in two iron wedges (with a rock he used specially for this job) to hold the head in place. By then, it was past twilight, and he didn’t feel he could finish sharpening the scythe. Next morning after waking at four so he could take the cow three kilometers up steep inclines to pasture (he was 83 at the time) he finished sharpening and cut the hay.

To this 23 year-old who was always trying to prove he could do the next thing on his list more quickly than anyone would have any reason to wish for – and with as much patience as a hog in heat – watching all this was to witness a miracle.

So, I sat on the top step leading up to my garden on Via delle Pertiche Prima, took the green fabric cover, and one centimeter at a time, advanced the blue tube inside it for about a meter until it shone a-glistening and ready to stretch over the plastic connector. The hose was tested and it worked well for a day or two.

But I had still not tucked the fabric in tightly enough. I saw it with my own eyes. The green fabric pulled loose while the blue tube grew a huge bubble that burst into a spray of water, most of it ending up on me. The engineering of this thing was becoming clearer.

So, taking a cue from cousin Petar, I sat down again, and coaxed the tube through what this time was a meter and a half of green fabric, and when it came to tucking, I tucked in earnest.

What I didn’t do was to trim the green fabric sleeve. Because the blue tube had burst, it was now 20 centimeters shorter, and as the system is calibrated to maintain a balance in tension between tube and sleeve, that there was extra room inside the green casing meant the blue tube expanded past what it was designed to tolerate. So later that day as I was using the hose – and glowing with pride at how well I had repaired it – water suddenly stopped flowing. Blif. Nothing. Then it started leaking, everywhere, and mostly onto me.

I felt the hose near the connector. The tube had not slipped loose, it was still attached. I felt along the green fabric a little further; nothing inside. Nothing for two meters, this time. The blue tube had broken neatly off at about 30 centimeters. Back to scooching.

In the end, I must admit that even after forty-some years I have not achieved the patience of cousin Petar. After having scooched for a meter, just to look at the remaining meter made my fingers sore. I employed scissors. I trimmed the fabric. And the blue tube – but not as much as the sleeve. Now there is too much blue tube proportionate to the green sleeve (waiting for that, were ya?) but I am willing to risk that too much blue is better than too little. The beast twists into grotesque gnarls as it fills up, but I think it unlikely to burst.

Still, the compromise is a blow to my pride. That I might continue to imagine myself spiritually advanced, I pretend to believe that one day Petar’s hammer handle broke again, at which he growled, let loose a string of vintage expletives long ago smuggled in from California, and sent a neighbor down to the hardware store in Ravno to fetch a new hammer. But I strongly suspect he actually carved a replacement while humming a centuries-old folk tune.

Two weeks later, the hose is still working. And if it bursts again, you won’t hear about it from me.

Deliverance

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.

Not Over Yet:

I discovered the message at 8:00. “There’s a Spring Walk today in Monterubiaglio. If you want to join us, I’ll pick you up at 9:10, exactly, in Piazza della Repubblica.” From Claudia.

Monterubiaglio is a picture-perfect little town about twenty minutes from here. So far, I’ve been to their Olive Oil Festival and their Harvest Festival. Both were exuberant beyond description. The town’s frantoio (an oil mill) produces wonderfully picante, fresh, full-bodied oil. For the Olive Oil Festival they put up a tent in their yard, put out a spread in their pressing room, added music, and attracted crowds.

The Harvest Festival was held in the piazza. An ideal square for a small Italian town, it is paved in various shades of rose and buff brick and stone, and closed on one end by a castello, also in brick and stone. Mini-piazzas sprout at three of the four corners, one before a lovely (brick) church, while the other two serve as courtyards for houses with verandas. The Harvest Festival featured a pair of open fires with chestnuts a-roasting in large perforated iron pans swinging on chains suspended from tripods, several booths vending fresh sausage you roasted yourself on a stick over other open fires, fresh wine (sparkling, and just beginning to ferment), and a local band named Organicanto that played both traditional and new music.

The band was notable; one of their original pieces would begin, for instance, with a tune from an Umbrian folk tradition, morph to something Latin American, breeze through Elizabethan Celtic, dip into Spain, Morocco, and end up in Sicilia, all without seeming the least bit contrived. It featured flute, standup base, violin, clarinet, harmonica, cornet, cello, concertina, hand drums, various sparkling percussives, and open-throated vocalists. I fell instantly in love.

So, do I want to rush my morning to go on a nature walk with Monterubiagliani? Damn straight.

I arrived in Piazza della Repubblica two minutes early. My friend Svetlana was strolling towards me. She intuits everything and asked where I was going. Morning Italian tried to exit my mouth and failed. She patted me and continued on. Claudia was waiting, and paradoxically I explained to her – in Italian and without effort – that the first conversation of the day is always a disaster.

As we parked near Claudia and Enrico’s house, their sons Andreas and Tobia were playing in the piazza. I greeted, they ignored me. We went upstairs. Enrico appeared to be bumping into walls. I said hello, he ignored me. We gathered the gear required for a nature walk, and trooped downstairs. Simone, who is about twenty-six and has a developmental disorder of some kind, was hanging out with the boys. People passed and were nodded to with grunts and breathy sounds. We hiked to the bar (The Fabulous Las Vegas Bar and Pub, in English, that’s not a translation) in front of which thirty or forty solid citizens had already gathered with their children, some as young as three, ready for an adventure.

I followed the family into the bar, which is indeed, fabulous. We ordered coffee. We drank it. Enrico turns to me as if it was the first time he’s noticed I’m around (and it may have been) says, “Meglio! Depressa domenica,” and grins. I observe a house across the way. The facade is all plaster painted a kind of gray-mauve with a terra cotta plaque of a pharaoh embedded in the wall, above and to the left of the door. The door and an inset porch above the pharaoh are painted in shades of bright blue and green with shots of yellow.

Outside, the group of assembled nature walkers has grown in size. I am introduced to Francesca, who is a naturalist, or at least an expert on wild plants, and who will be guiding this morning’s tour. The word “guide” instantly sets up expectations of order and polite conformity.

About 9:50 we go off downhill. Simone takes one look at the slope and links his arm in mine. Dogs behave as if they’d never seen one another before (or are holding a grudge.) Cars come past, attentions are shouted, the line straggles down to the road to Orvieto, crosses it, and stops (sort of) in an unpaved turnoff from which emerges the old dirt road to an ex-hot springs. Francesca turns to what could be loosely defined as a group and begins to explain what she is going to be pointing out. No conversations are halted for this presentation, no children are silenced or made to pay attention, a portion of the group continues down the road. Francesca is not in the least disturbed or surprised by this, she speaks as if she were in a lecture hall before her rapt students. She concludes and, with no transition whatsoever, follows those ahead of her.

Another woman announces to the moving throng that there are treats waiting at the river. Claudia explains that there was a formal hot spring, now in ruins, at the end of this curving road lined with unpruned umbrella pines, and that people have been discussing its revitalization ever since it closed in the seventies.

Francesca stops, pulls on a few plants, and describes their properties, uses, flavors, and provenance. Whoever’s around listens, smells, tastes, and takes photos. Children collect flowers as she identifies them. The woods seem to spring to life as a result of her awareness.

We approach a steeper path downwards. Simone shouts “help! help!” and links arms with Cinzia on the other side, then with Claudia. We encourage him, and he relaxes.

The group passes the old hot springs. A building with all the marks of the fifties rises high above the road in a series of terraces. It looks, in its Borsch Belt way, as if it were quite elegant of its time. It is in ruins, and ruins fascinate, so all necks become rubber as we go by. Saplings jut from balconies, creepers snake up pillars, wall flowers bloom next to naked windows.

The road becomes a trail. Simone unlinks and relinks with Enrico and another man. Francesca finds wild garlic, camomile, mustard, fennel, and a type of orchid, and shares them with whoever happens to be around. The line of hikers squiggles off in both directions and as far as I can see. A sound track from a Fellini movie plays in my head.

The trail leans steeply downhill and turns into a series of improvised rock steps. Simone returns to Cinzia, then links up with me again. We encourage him down to a stream we have to ford. The woman who announced the waiting goodies lends a hand to all who cross here. Simone is successful, everyone around applauds and calls compliments. He looks at the ground and seems content.

The river is sighted. Andreas and other children shout its name, “La Paglia!” and their walk breaks into a run. The trail emerges directly uphill from a rapids; it’s a lovely coming out of the woods. And there, at the head of the trail as it spills towards the river, is a spread of pastry, juice, water, and pop set up on a picnic table, parts of which look like they, too, were imported. I wonder aloud how they were brought here. “By car, probably,” someone answers. By car? Where’s the road? People shrug and continue on to the water.

Simone, triumphant but fatigued, sits on the bench. Claudia, Cinzia and I flank him by turns. He’s had enough adventure for the moment, so I forgo the river walk and we watch and listen to the water. “How far back to Monterubiaglio?” Simone asks. As far as we’ve come. “Will we be back by two?” We’ll get there when we get there. He nods, thinks, grins.

After everyone has snacked and played and admired, people begin to drift uphill. Simone expresses a little concern about the walk immediately ahead, but is on his feet before it can stop him, and linking arms and holding hands with whomever is available. He skips across the stream like a veteran. I find the crossing easier, too, by his example.

More plants are identified on the climb. Children continue to collect flowers, both in hand and on telefonino. Each flower they collect, they inquire about, and Francesca speaks to them as colleagues.

As we ascend towards Monterubiaglio, she finds a flower that seems to be growing straight out of the earth. She opens her switchblade and cuts the flower open at the base. “A small insect is attracted by the odor that arises from the pollen deep inside the flower. Once the insect enters, the flower closes above the chamber, and the insect is trapped. Happily trapped, however, for it has plenty to eat. As it feasts, the flower wilts and dries, eventually opening cracks in the side of the chamber. The insect, having had its fill, leaves, takes along the pollen that has stuck to it, is attracted to another of the same flower, and the cycle continues. Brilliant symbiosis.” The plant is called Poor Man’s Tapioca because the root was dried, ground, and used to extend flour in times of want.

A young woman finds a wild orchid. She is asked by someone if she’s going to pick it. “No,” she replies, “it’s very rare, and too beautiful to pick.”  Simone has gone up into town on this own.

In Place:

Count those blessings. When I’m ridiculously weary, when my back aches to sit (nothing serious, just tired) when I can barely think, barely move, barely contemplate going out for a walk, barely remember what purpose I think I have in life — perhaps it’s time to write.

I tried working on a play. Maybe I could have continued in my semi-comatose state, sometimes those sessions yield some good that is recognized only the next day. But it didn’t work. I found a scene that needs lots of work, and that’s always positive, but had no energy to improve it. So I thought about reading, but I took all my books to the new place yesterday, so nothing here is anything I’ve begun, and who has the energy for new beginnings?

True, last night sleep came but reluctantly, and this morning nonetheless began early. Maybe that explains the doldrums, the yearning for 10:30 when I can finally justify going to bed.

The day was brisk, both weather and energy. I wrote a proposal this morning, then met with Andrea at 11 on a initiative he and Lucianna and I have begun to work on. Then I had lunch and met Claudia. We moved the chairs and whatnots I bought on Saturday from their temporary storage at Villa Mercede to the new house. Then I met friend Roy who kindly took me down to Scalo to buy a little printer and a few household items.

For housewares we began at a place close to the electronics store; a big box filled with items of antiseptic design at relatively low prices. I mean, it was okay — I bought some nice towels, and inoffensive is better than ugly, but nothing in me stirred. Then we went to Mercatone where Roy said my chances with kitchenware were better. He was right. We ran into a friend of his, a lovely lady from New Zealand married to a Venetian. They’re trying to sell their house near La Badia, and part of their prep is to get rid of stuff. She says she has a whole barn full of housewares, so to come up and take whatever I want. That pepped up the shopping. Roy and I will visit on Friday morning.

But by the time I got home, I was wasted. I decided it must be because I was hungry, so I went for dinner. However, I was out of several things that would make breakfast a tedious affair, so I stopped at the “supermercato” on the way. I bought a bag of heavy stuff — you know, water, juice, aperitif — so I had to return home first. By the time I had unloaded, I was pretty hungry, so I fixed dinner. Then I sat on the sofa and sank into it like a stone.

I put the new chairs in place around a phantom table this afternoon. They’re lovely chairs, but they looked so lonely. Tomorrow, Daniele may take me to fetch the table while we’re fetching tile for what I am told will be an “area pavimentata” not a terrazzo as I have been calling it. In the meantime, the tile-made-to-look-a-little-like-cotto floor in the house clashed with the blue damask upholstery, the kitchenette gave the chairs an incongruous and tepid backdrop, and the two French provincial chairs looked isolated and stranded in the part of the ground floor room that suggests no purpose. Furnishing a small house is a lot like editing an early draft; sometimes the incomprehensible should simply be cut or moved to another location.

I do believe that under it all I’m a little sad to be leaving Orvieto. Last few days have been pretty good language days. Today I felt like a limp pony. The streets worked their magic on me, as they usually do, but I paid them, and the magic, less attention. I want to continue what I’m doing without a break, but that’s not going to happen.

Yesterday at Blue Bar a young Italian musician sat across the table from me and played “Here Comes the Sun” and “Norwegian Wood” on Antonny’s guitar, and sang. He was marvelous. I nearly cried. He said that last year at this time he and his band were touring Los Angeles and he misses it. He asked about me. I told him I’d just taken a house in Orvieto. “Why?” he asked. I like it here. It’s a good place for a writer. “Not for a musician,” he replied. “Too isolated, too few of us, no new blood.”

I walked out wanting to find a way to make Orvieto a spontaneous center for the arts. A place where people just come to because there are other artists here to interact with, and from all over. Because it’s conducive to honesty, finding your place in the cosmos, and facing your own demons. And it’s beautiful, and millions of human souls have left their stamp on that beauty. I wanted to be able to post on Facebook,”Hey everyone, choose any three months out of the year and come live in the Orvieto area. It could be Porano or Baschi, or Fabro. But come here and bring your guitar or viola or saxophone, and make this city sing. I’ll help you find a place to stay.” Would anyone come because I said so? I doubt it. But it’s a nice dream. I even wrote a few friends, asked for advice in how to plant a cultural seed. They had none.

What I realized is that everyone has their own itinerary. The young musician made of L.A. what I made of Firenze forty years ago. That must happen. In the meantime, we embrace our own yearned-for place and struggle with the yearnings that draw us there, or that take us away from life in the moment wherever we are.

Looking back on these months it was not exactly a process of demythification I’ve gone through, because many of the things that held my fascination in Firenze of 1975 are real and still hold it. But what has fallen away is my passive-aggressive relationship with Italian culture. I’ve lived here. I’ve struggled with the language and culture, wanted to be more integrated with both, and have discovered that I can be exactly who I am and enjoy and be enjoyed. I have also learned about the illusive lure of novelty and conversely, the challenge of familiarity. To cleave to the familiar is dulling, but to see through it and find novelty in each moment, is to open your heart to reality. That effort gives novelty real meaning and real benefit. Neither novelty nor familiarity is bad nor good, but life takes more effort than either can passively provide.

So, as I sit on this by now familiar and rather uncomfortable couch and type away at what may be my last post under this rubric, and as my back wishes it were in a tub of hot water or under the magic hands of Michele the shiatsu therapist, I try to see past the heavy body and the confused spirit, to the kindness of today, to the best smile in Orvieto that belongs to a young man at the register in the “supermercato” and who uses it too rarely despite its immediately positive effect on the general welfare, but who used it today while joking with an old friend who is the mother of one of Orvieto’s most beautiful children. Those are the gifts of a day. They are delivered on their own unpredictable schedule, often wrapped in brown paper. They cannot simply be signed for and put on the kitchen table. They need to be anticipated, examined, opened, explored, and enjoyed.

Then for me, they need to be shared. Thanks for reading.

Gizzi’s Error:

It rained today. Sad for the gelato and tasting events that are happening all over town. There are nevertheless plenty of visitors, but rain makes it logistically difficult, if not impossible, pleasurably to eat gelato. Fortunately, tomorrow is a national holiday and the weather is predicted to be sunny, so there will be another chance.

I took a walk despite the showers. I intended to visit my favorite gelato shop, L’Officina del Gelato – notwithstanding the pavilions all over town featuring flavors and types from all over Italy – and I felt a bit righteous about it, too. But within two minutes of leaving the house, the shower turned into a torrent, so instead I wandered. Later as the rain calmed, I redirected my feet towards l’Officina, but by the time I arrived the storm was again tumultuous.

The gelato shop is located close by La Torre del Moro, and this morning friends had pointed out an exhibit on AmerIndian culture upstairs in the adjunct Palazzo dei Sette, only open Sundays from two to five. So, as I was directly in front of the entrance, I squeezed my way in through the crowds sheltering from the downpour.

KnightEarlier, I also noticed a large poster advertising another exhibit, paintings by a fellow named Marco Gizzi. The poster features an almost life-sized portrait of a man in chain mail, helmet, emblazoned livery, with a cudgel resting on his shoulder. The image is stunning, but the cudgel seems so real I felt its weight, the covering on the shield is slashed and torn, and I was lead to imagining battles fought. A few seconds of contemplating the reality and purpose of those medieval trappings left me cold, or at least ambivalent about attending the exhibit.

Having twisted through the throng I found the stairs and followed the signs that read “Mostra” confident I was about to see an exhibit in Orvieto on AmerIndian culture. Cool. I love unexpected, unlikely mashups. When I arrived, however, I had entered Signor Gizzi’s exhibit instead; a long series of rooms – quite large and comfortable, if a little ragged – with four or five works hung in each. The first room had nothing heraldic in it, so I shrugged and started with the painting immediately to my left.

One of the many unthinking prejudices I’m saddled with is to instantly categorize hyper or super realism as banal. All technique, I tell myself as if I could somehow rival it, where’s the soul, the purpose? How is this different from creative photography? Within about thirty seconds, that bit of arrogance got a well-deserved slap down.

The first painting was of a copper coffee canister. Not all of it is in frame. It is Caffe_Page_1 (1)dented and poked, shiny and scoured, parts of it covered with a patina. There is a trace of dust and coffee grounds sitting on the top edge of its metal “Caffè” label. The effect of its standing out from the canvas is stunning, wonderfully confusing, paradoxical, and irrational. It is set against a plain colored background, which lends its illusory dimensionally an even stronger impact. I was immediately drawn in, not by the novelty of its proffered illusion, but by the power of it. I strolled to the next painting and the next, and each drew me in further.

I believe there is a kind of sub-genre of painting that shows the back of a canvas as its subject, I remember seeing those somewhere before. Signor Gizzi pulls off some mean magic with his contribution. I was never quite able fully to accept that the painting was not a reversed canvas, only that a butterfly had landed on the upper half forced me to capitulate. It is simultaneously confounding, provocative, and delightful. It also took a strong effort of self-control not to touch it, my visual sense wanted help in determining exactly what was going on.

Blue KettleFollowing, there were a number of canvases with pomegranates – one with a wasp, some with leaves, others broken open next to a skull not always human. Tea kettles, tea pots. Gourds and pumpkins. A piece of white drapery with a fly resting on it. Each dares the viewer to discern what illusion does to our visual perception, each encourages us to make an effort to become more visually acute, to appreciate detail and color and form in ways — new ways — that relate to the world outside but are also distinct from it.

The third room held the soldiers, six of them. The couple of warriors without helmets I would later realize are self-portraits, and from the hands and the stature of the other figures, it would therefore seem that all of them are. The craft is as startling as in any of Gizzi’s other works. The effect, at least for me, is somewhat different. The poster downstairs, as true as it is, doesn’t have the impact of the original. The reaction it began in me was tripled, quadrupled – multiplied – in the presence of the paintings. They are gorgeous, disturbing, provocative, graceful. Each suit of armor and livery – so lovingly detailed, so confident, so elegant – is designed for two purposes, only; to prevent and inflict a messy death.  The tension between that and the pristine clarity of the work tears holes in my comfortable mind.

cipoliMore still lives followed. (Interestingly, the Italian name for a still life is natura morta.) All are surprising, enlivening, impossible. Gizzi mixes painterly conventions with startling realism in subtle and pleasantly confusing ways.

I was thrilled. I’m going back.

I wandered out, revisiting a few of my favorite pieces. The two men I had passed on the way in were still in the outer room. I approached the one at the table, “Excuse my horrible Italian, but I have to say that was some of the most amazing work I have ever seen. Not just the…” He interrupted and pointed to the other man, who, with the force of the first man’s index finger, became one of the knights two rooms distant suddenly brought to life. “Congratulations, sir. The technique, of course, but composition, choice of objects, placement on canvas, framing, all of it. Extraordinary!” I went on for a bit too long. Gizzi shuffled, glowed, and shook my hand as many times as I offered it.

ZuccaThe first man picked up a catalog from a stack on his table and offered it in my direction. I glanced around for a sign, a cash box, any indication of how much I should pay for this gorgeous publication. He noticed, waved his hand, and flapped the book at me again. I accepted with a little bow and pressed it to my chest like an eager schoolboy might with his first textbook of the year.

“Auguri!” I said to the artist. “I can’t say anymore.” “Thanks,” he replied. “No, thank you!” and so we went back and forth for a few rounds before I managed to jumble back downstairs. Art of all kinds teaches us to see, to perceive with greater appreciation. Life on the street shown more vividly and with a fresh particularity for my experience in those rooms under La Torre del Moro. So it really is mine to give thanks. But I’ll overlook Gizzi’s error – for now.

Digging:

First time gardening since August. Oh. My. Goodness.

One of the attractions of over-wintering in Orvieto was that I would, without really thinking about it, walk for miles a day right through to spring, and therefore be ready for any digging that might ensue. Okay, to be fair, it did help a bit. But I somehow neglected to factor in that yard work uses a very different set of muscles than long walks do.

The garden I’m moving into (with house attached) was, shall we say, rather neglected. I’m not sure for how long. I guess that would depend on what is meant by “neglect.” If it means that whatever plants might come up were allowed to grow until they died on their own, then it was perhaps neglected for a year or two. If it means that nothing went into the ground that wasn’t already there, up that estimate to five or six years. The earth wasn’t packed – it’s fairly light soil, probably because it’s volcanic/organic and had been assiduously tended for, oh, say twelve hundred years before the last six – but it felt neglected. Ah! That’s what I mean by neglected, it just felt that way.

IMG_2221Daniele, who I hired last week to paint, grew up with Massimo – the real estate agent who improvisationally found me the place – in the neighboring town of Porano. (see Etruscan Wood for details) He’s doing a great job, I like his taste, we share a sense of color and of boredom with “classico” white. Massimo told me that Daniele is also a muratore, loosely translated, a mason. I want to pave part of the yard in pieces of stone or brick; the section under the apricot tree. The light is dappled, it’s a northeastern exposure, it’ll be lovely. So, on our first meeting, and after we’d discussed paint, I asked Daniele about the terrazzo.

He hunched and stammered and I completed his sentence for him; not really a muratore, but sort of one? He nodded, but willing to look at the job. A couple of days ago he came to me with a plan. His father really is a first-rate muratore, they discussed it and proposed to frame the terrazzo with used cotto set in concrete so as to reflect the existing walkways, fill what lies in the middle with good sand, tamp and wet it alternately until the sand has seated itself, then lay large pieces of “brick” over it. The house is a rental. That way if or when I move, I can take what lies in the middle with me. Good thinking.

Today, Daniele covered everything in the house that might get splattered, IMG_2234removed doors and electrical plates, scraped and filled and treated, and began to paint. I worked in the yard for much of the day, and every hour or two we’d take a spontaneous conversation break. Great for building vocabulary, because we’re talking mostly about tools and paint and walls and pavement, with economic comparisons between Pennsylvania, Orvieto, and Porano thrown in for good measure.

Come afternoon, it was time for me to visit the fortuitously just-reopened ferramenta (hardware store) about a half mile to the south, but still sopra – on the Rock. I’ve been going in pretty regularly over the past week. The guy who opened it knows his stock, what it’s for, and how to use it. He is quickly learning that I don’t have the things I need to put together a garden or repair what might go wrong inside a house. I’m quickly learning that, as with the pharmacists here, he’s more than a dispenser of product – he’s hands on.

I ask for my first tool, a shovel. He shows me a selection of blades and handles. I choose. He hands both to me and points to where I have to drive the nail. Sorry, say I, I have no nails. Nor a hammer. He offers to assemble the shovel. Today, a similar scenario played out over a pickaxe, a rake, and an extension for the garden hose I bought this morning. He gave me advice on how to fix the filling mechanism for the upstairs toilet, which eventually boiled down to “take it apart and bring it in, I’ll show you what to do.” (That didn’t have to happen, by the way – Daniele fixed it on his own.)

I returned to the house carrying the new pickaxe and rake slung over my shoulder. I tried carrying them under my arm, but clearly the classical method is more efficacious, and it cuts a much better figure. I walked towards Via della Pertiche though the part of town that was host to orchards, vineyards, and gardens until the early 1950’s when many of those were filled with incongruous apartment buildings (they have since aged into something slightly more harmonious.) Walking with new tools, just assembled by the guy who sold them to me, though those streets with smaller gardens and orchards still intact, was like stepping onto a temporal treadmill. I stood still while walking because the earth rotated beneath me. (I know it’s not really like that, but allow me the whimsy.)

IMG_2222Then followed digging and raking, and using muscles for the fourth day in a row for which I had forgotten the intended function. By then, Daniele had put some color on the walls. The universal first gasp of “it’s so much darker than I thought it would be” escaped from my mouth before I had a moment to think. And the universal response of “it will dry lighter” was returned in tennis pro fashion. We talked paint. Daniele showed me pictures of others of his jobs. Beautiful work I cannot afford. When and if I move, perhaps I’ll hire him again, taking the imbianchino with me just like the pavers.

Awhile later, as he calls it a day and prepares to leave, he joins me in the garden and we discuss the size and shape of the future terrazzo. I ask if he could maybe use the cotto tiles I’d dug up earlier in the day for the border. He briefly inspects them and tells me that of course we can. Using them will save money. Well, I reply, mostly it’s because they’re beautiful. He agrees, they are.

“And to find the best large pieces for the middle, we should take a look at what’s available off the Rock.” In Scalo, I ask? “Oh, sure, in Scalo, Sferracavalo (also at the base of the cliff) but why not go to Bagnoregio, and there’s a great place in Lubriano, too, and a few others. The further we get from Orvieto, the cheaper they’ll be. Plus, it’ll be fun to look. We’ll go together until we find the right stuff.” I look at his tiny Fiat 500 parked on the lower terrace, imagine a quarter ton of brick in the back, and grimace. “Don’t worry,” he assures me, “I can borrow a Jeep.”

This morning Claudia suggested that she and Enrico could take me to antique fairs in the area, see if we can’t discover a few gems for appealingly low prices. Massimo, who is stupid busy, offered to take me to paint stores and furniture stores when I first took the house; I thanked him but declined, I’d feel stupid guilty for adding to his duties. Andrea has been beyond kind as the guy who takes and makes first-time phone calls for me, and accompanies me to procure new items not available sopra.

I reflected on all these lovely people on my walk home this evening, and it was a bit like settling into a warm bath after a hard day of digging. That metaphor was also an appealing projected reality, but as I don’t have a tub I collapsed onto the sofa instead, resisted falling asleep, and forgot all about the lecture/presentation on classical music that – although it is designed specifically for children – I enjoyed so much before the musicologist who gives it took a break for Easter. Oh well, I’ll catch the next one.

Opportunities:

This morning after reading email, I’m reminded by my calendar that it’s time to check the Playwrights’ Center for submission opportunities. That usually takes about twenty minutes.

The first op I notice is a recently posted appeal for ten minute plays, they’ll accept up to three of them, and they are due tonight. The time delay gives me a bit of an advantage, but what the heck, I only have three ten minute plays total so at least there’ll be no time wasted in selection. I may as well do it immediately, get the day off to a good start.

I have learned this; always check a script before sending. Never mind that I last revised all three of these plays about three weeks ago, two months before that, and six weeks before that. Each revision was prompted by my horror (horror, I tell you!) at what I had been convinced was pretty good after the previous revision. Each gap between revisions represented a ton of writing, and learning, and changing priorities, and those are all positive things. But come on, three weeks? What major shifts could have occurred in three weeks? Better check them anyway.

Four hours and multiple revisions later I get up, stiff, bleary-eyed, and oddly discouraged, and it’s only eleven o’clock. I keep thinking I’ll eventually arrive at a point where I can trust myself as a writer. That something will seem to stay finished. Apparently not. I send the three plays as instructed, and continue what I began at quarter to seven – cataloging opportunities.

PWCOh, my goodness. Well over half the opportunities I look at read more or less like this:

Small, underfunded community theatre in Grand Rapids seeks plays by female child playwrights who were born in Michigan and whose father is a dog owner, to celebrate the theatre’s 125th season in the same location. Scripts of exactly 12.5 pages, 12 point type, Times New Roman, blind copies with all author information stripped out, and only from email addresses that do not have a .com or .net extension, please!

Our theme this year is ROARING, so have fun exploring ROARING! Send us your best work. We will try to find someone who can read, but they will review only the first 800 scripts received, so submit early!

Each script must be accompanied by a completed twelve-page online application form, a bio of no more than thirteen words (Open Office) a three-page synopsis (Word) a character list (PDF) production history (WordStar) half-page creative resume (Excel ’97) and a letter of recommendation from an agent, your lawyer, or an ex-lover (longhand).

No plays that include use of an egg beater, please!

All characters must be between 34 and 43.5 years of age, and should collectively represent a racial and spiritual cross section of the population of the Midwestern US. Maximum average cast size, 3.76. No profanity that the typical resident of Grand Rapids may find too familiar. All plays must be bold, relevant, provocative, thoughtful, and obscure (but not dense! No dense material, please!)

A reader’s fee of $35 per play must be paid online, and approved by our business manager, before you submit. Diner’s Club cards, only! Members of Dramatists Guild pay twice. Winning playwright receives $10 and a invitation to attend opening night at half price (guests pay full); no travel, lodging, meals, or haircut expense will be covered. Perms are negotiable. Good luck!”

By the time noon drags around I’m worn out, discouraged, and glum.

I walk to my recently rented house on Via delle Pertiche to suss out paint colors IMG_2202and spend a little time weeding the garden. No water yet. The agent said in three days, four days ago. The painter said it would take three weeks. Someone else told me I’d have to go to some office to fill out forms. What can you do in a new rental without water? You can’t clean, you can’t plant, you can’t invite the fellow over who inspects the hot-water heating system. I weed, get tireder, come back to the apartment and take a very short nap. I water the plants on my terrace in Via Pecorelli, just because I can.

An hour passes. I understand very clearly that I need to walk. The town will fix me right up if I just allow it access. I’m ready for a snack, but the kitchen is ten feet away and it takes awhile to summon up the energy. I snack. I sit back down. I check the weather about eight times. Still nice out according to my phone. I sing a made up song about having to take a walk. What finally gets me downstairs is the bag of plastic and metal recyclables that needs to be binned.

I stride out the gate in the direction opposite from my intended route on the IMG_2214Anello. Two cats run up to me on the corrective path back – greet me like they know I need to pet them. Then the sleek black and white dog across the street runs to the gate and we have an extended session of sniffs, wet nose sensations, scratches, and nuzzles. He too seems to be saying “Don’t let it get you down bub, it’s only a stupid play.”

IMG_2171On the way down to the Anello, the first glimpse of the valley through the ruins of Porta Vivaria is transfixing. Greens I have not seen before, and I have seen green. Trees that a week ago were nearly naked, are fully clothed in silken foliage. Colors pop out from everywhere, slap me in the face, rough me up, and tickle my belly.

I take a short version of the walk; the wind is picking up and a bit on the chill side. As I emerge from Porta Romana, I run into one of my two or three American friends in Orvieto, Roy. He’s opening his garage to go somewhere, and tells me that when his routine is interrupted, he frequently leaves town with the garage door open and his house keys still in it. He knows this because the keys are always there when he returns.

I head towards Via del Duomo. The previous tenant at my new rental tears around a corner in an overlarge car and nearly runs me over. We both apologize. I savor the irony of the “what if” part of that moment. He needs to slow down, generally, but the fact that he just about plowed me into Via Lattanzi annoys me less that the size of the car he drives.

Taking Via Luca Signorelli to Via del Duomo, Claudia pulls along side in her little red Ford. Just finishing a week of sixty-five students in residence, she is. Ciao! A dopo! Tanti impegni! And she smiles, waves, and pulls away. Turning right takes me past Giovanni and Vera’s. Giovanni is seated majestically in the rear of the shop. We smile, nod, and wave.

ManuelaOn towards the Duomo, just feel like paying homage to its splendor. Once in the piazza I notice that the little ex-church across the way is open for a “WEEKend ART” exhibit. I attended the one in December and was thrilled by the quality of the work, so I cross the square to check it out. Magnificent, moving, provocative black and white paintings of the female form, clothed and nude, wonderful detail, stunning light, and a glorious tension that’s kind of sexual but goes beyond in a way that’s difficult to describe. Manuela Montenero.

Taking the back way towards Teatro Mancinelli, then up Corso towards La Torre del Moro. The evening passeggiata is beginning to stir. Familiar faces pass, some greetings are exchanged. The sun hits the streets at a blinding, but golden, angle. The flower market is filled with exotics. I yearn for water. (But I have to weed first, anyway, so relax.) Turning off Piazza Sant’Andrea there is Ubaldini alimentari, but it’s late, so even though I need cheese I’ll get it tomorrow. Wait! Stop! That’s a habit from somewhere else in some other time zone. Go. In. Now. Cheese. Three kinds.

More cats to honor and court as I continue on to Via Pecorelli.

This evening I hear from Massimo, the real estate agent. The utilities don’t get turned off, he tells me. He takes a dated picture of the meters, then when the account is moved to my name, the bill is apportioned accordingly. To use any of them, including water, turn handles and flip switches at the house.

Life here is not, on the whole, at all similar to a submissions opportunity. It’s only that everyone seems to think it is.