Category: Lockdown

“I have had a most rare vision. I have had a dream . . . past the wit of man to say what dream it was…The eye of man hath not heard, the ear of man hath not seen, man’s hand is not able to taste, his tongue to conceive, nor his heart to report what my dream was.”

It has been pointed out that I haven’t posted in over a week. My only defense is that I’ve been too swept up into the spirit of La Pausa. I also have excuses that don’t hold up at all, reasons equally flimsy, and justifications of utterly no merit. The closest I can come to a real explanation is that during lockdown two events repeated weekly on my calendar, neither of them allowed to actually happen, while my calendar for the past week shows fifteen, all of them expected. Today there was nothing.

Today would have been il Corteo Storico. Last week’s banners and flags have doubled in number; the town is all dressed up with no where to go. The weekend has seen an influx of day-trippers, however, mostly Italian, and not a lot of them, but it’s nice to see families, all wearing straw hats, walking together and pointing. The poster for Corteo Storico and Corteo delle Dame has been changed from one promoting this weekend to one that says Arrivederci a 2021! 

I ran into Roberto last night on my way to Vincaffè for soup. He’s an effusive and energetic man of about my age, funny, friendly, and warm. I asked him how it was going.

“Renewed!” he exalted. “Being cooped up for two months made me want to experience life more fully. We were all bound in a weird dream, and now we are awake, there is motion again, and we’re bursting with extra vitality. I’m savoring every minute!”

In the same way, I have a feeling that the Corteos next year – or the year after if we’re not so fortunate as to be free of this thing in time – are going to be extraordinary. The same goes for all the concerts, festivals, and processions that have been postponed, here and around the globe.

Blue Bar reopened on Monday. I stopped in that afternoon to congratulate, but was tired and not paying much attention. I dropped by again on Friday when I was fresher. Allen and Susanna are returned from San Diego, Lola, who also lives across the street was there, and the fellow who prepares the foccaccine was making his delivery. Antonny seemed happier than he has in years, has lost weight, been working out, and looks terrific. The bar is reconfigured to take up less space, everything is sparkling clean and organized. The whole place felt light as a spirit.

Today, on my way to lunch I passed Arone (a kind of deli) just as huge drops of rain began to fall. By reflex I stepped inside the open door (open doors are now required to avoid repeated touching of handles) and into the waitress’s warm welcome. I tried to explain that I was just escaping the weather, but couldn’t get the words to come out.

“I don’t understand,” she said.

“Neither do I,” I answered. 

By then, I noticed Paulo seated alone at a table, and he waved me over.

Paolo is a native Orvietano who lived in New York City from the late nineties to about 2008. We trade New York stories and he gets to use his English. I can also ask him about Orvieto. He told me about the pair of falcons that live atop the Duomo and help control the pigeon population, about how Orvieto and Rome are both built on rock that sits on a bed of clay that prevents earthquakes from inflicting damage, about a huge cavern under the square to the right of the cathedral, and of how Teatro Mancinelli’s perfect original acoustics had been destroyed until renovations restored them about twenty years ago.

“And then sometime soon, I will organize a lunch at Conte! I’ve not been since before la quarantena. I dream about it. I cannot wait to go again.”

Trattoria del Conte is in the country about ten minutes towards Bolsena. I’ve been a couple of times and the food is perfect. In the past week, at least a dozen people have sung its praises to me, while anticipating an imminent return after too long an abstinence. As I am dependent on the kindness of others to get there, Conte is a special treat. It would seem that the deprivation of March and April may work in my favor during June and July.

Ricardo stopped me the other day.

“It’s not certain,” he said, half conspiratorially, “because there are laws and rules about this sort of thing, but at sunrise on June 21, I have this vision — to play a concert for the whole town from the top of La Torre del Moro. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”

“An electronic piano, I presume.”

He laughed. “Of course. That will be challenge enough to carry. If we’re successful, I’ll let all my friends know.”

“I’ll be there, maestro. I cannot imagine a more magical gift to a reawakening city.”

“Exactly!” and he was off in flurry of generous enthusiasm. 

I must remember to suggest he play something from Mendelssohn’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream. 

The photo is from Il Corteo delle Dame 2002.

I passed a young man out walking with his family, all masked. He suddenly gave a great heave of breath, took off the mask, rubbed his face vigorously with his hands, then put it back. Kind of counterproductive, but I could relate. So could everyone else who saw him.

I employed a fresh, crisp mask last Saturday, then took a walk. Thoughts of Palombella stirred my brain, and as I approached the end of our lane to turn left onto (what becomes) Via delle Donne, I heard drums! Rat-a-tat, a-rat-a-tatta-tat. My heart beat faster. Where would they be rehearsing? And for what? I stopped to see if I could distinguish a direction for the source. The drums stopped, too. I took a deep breath, and as I let it out the drums started up again. I walked. I breathed. The drummers somehow synchronized their music to my expiration. Remarkable. 

Once the mask softened from use, the drumming ceased altogether.

Enough about masks, except that breathing my own stale air makes me unseasonably warm. But what we must, we must. For these times, that’s philosophy.

I just took an afternoon walk to the cliff near San Giovenale, up the hill towards Le Grotte del Funaro, and back through town. On Via Garibaldi, I passed Blue Bar. Antonny and Romina were on the street with all the tables and chairs, washing and disinfecting.

“Doing a good spring cleaning, heh?”

“Getting ready to re-open on Monday. Come, I show you!”

We went into the main room to examine new positions for the cold case and beverage cabinet, and a shorter, leaner bar. Antonny demonstrated where the reconfiguration opens up room for a few new seats and a table.

“And we keep the side room only for six months, then pfffitt! Or maybe not. We see. I’m excited. We throw away many things…”

“I saw your trash pile the other day. Very impressive.”

“Felt good. We collect too much things. This is a good time.”

I moved on to the real reason for my walk, a small cup of gelato. At one of the tables flanking the entrance sat a woman with colorfully framed glasses, someone I’d met on the stairs while trying out Allen’s apartment a couple of weeks back.

“I thought maybe you lived in the building,” she said in perfect English. I explained.

“But you do live in that palazzo?” I asked.

“I moved from Porano where I was for a couple of years. I like being in Orvieto, very much.”

“Are you Italian?”

“French.”

“Ah! Like Antonny.”

“Who?”

“Blue Bar. Across the street from you.”

“Oh. You see, I moved here in the middle of February.”

“Just in time for lockdown.”

She laughed and shrugged. “Oh, well.” Her name is Lola.

I took my gelato to my favorite eating-gelato bench on Vicolo Michelangeli, and Simonetta (Michelangeli) passed just as I settled in. She was dressed like a flame, in rich shades of orange and red. I complimented her attire and inquired after the laboratorio.

“Difficult times. We’re open, but there are no jobs. We can’t make it selling to Orvietani, we need orders from outside, and with the travel restrictions that’s been complicated. No one at this level redecorates from a catalog, they want to see and touch things. They want design consultations.”

“Difficult times for everyone.” I hear that phrase a dozen times a day, even in response to a simple greeting. “How’s it going?” is answered with “Hard times for all of us.”

“But,” she continued, “this is home, has been our home for generations, we can’t just pick up and leave for a big city somewhere. We’ve roots here.”

“And I, for one, cannot imagine Orvieto without Bottega Michelangeli.”

“Neither can we imagine the Bottega without Orvieto. So, we’ll figure a way through. Enjoy your gelato.”

The first appointment of the day was with Alessandro who is helping me with a periodic application for my permesso di soggiorno (permit of stay).

“Lot of news! Gordon College (where he works) won’t start again until the spring, maybe even later. We had to send all the students home, reimburse their fees, and had paid the staff and faculty already. Hard times. But the biggest news is that my wife is pregnant, so in July our family grows from four children to six! Twins!”

“Complimenti! But what difficult timing.”

“Yeah, tough timing having to feed everyone and buy clothes and so forth, but in another way… I get to stay home and be papà. In that way, what could be better?”

Tempi difficili per tutti. But difficult for everyone, and that kinda takes the pressure off, don’t it? Which also lets us discover the hidden opportunities.

It showed a white ground, and onto it were placed delicate, colored etchings of wild herbs and flowers. The overall shape was nearly square and it was held in place by a pale, shiny blue ribbon.

“Nice mask!” I blurted as we waved.

Marina lowered her creation. “Home made,” she said in English.

“Well, it’s beautiful.”

“Thank you. We must try.”

The mask as fashion statement has gone way beyond the occasional patterned fabric. Granted, most of us are not that chic. I still use the masks left in my mailbox a few weeks ago; they’re comfortable and do their job. And most of the rest of town, if not exactly following my example, does the same or wears basic white. As I enthused a few days ago, black masks have made an appearance and are very GQ, as a friend described them. But even then, there are distinctions. The barista/baker, Giancarlo, by way of example, wears a black mask that integrates the ear straps into the overall design, giving it a kind of science fiction flare. He says it’s a wild west look, and I could see that, too.

Some of the ones with patterns aren’t randomly made, they embrace the features the way a well-upholstered chair centers its brocade. The wearer of one I admired during the last few days pointed to a store we were near as the source. 

“They will make masks to order, by your design,” she said, shrugging. “You can even bring in your own fabric. Like it’s such a simple thing, but why not?”

The store she pointed to is, in concept, one of the most solid formulas for a happy marriage I’ve ever known. She likes yarn and to sew. He is a cyclist. So the store, called Ciclostile, sells bicycles, accessories, and yarn. Of course. They also host meet-the-author events with Arcimboldo, one of Orvieto’s independent bookshops. They may share reading as a pastime.

One of the restaurants on Piazza del Popolo is Osteria da Mamma Angelo (the motto: like at your house). The menu is solid, the food is very good, and the service is professional. And the décor reminds me of an Italian-themed, semi high-end diner in Silicon Valley; pleasant and comfortable, and a Californian interpretation of what Italy looks like through the lens of Marie Callender. I passed today on my way to lunch. The waiters were all outfitted in black with red aprons and very snazzy red masks – with the osteria’s logo emblazoned on the right half. Quite attractive and, well, perfect.

I’ve seen masks advertised that swoop up like a patterned serpent from the base of the throat. Others that mimic a diaphanous scarf. Ones that draw inspiration from belly-dancers. So far, Orvieto hasn’t embraced the more extreme creations, though given its history a mask integrated into a medieval wimple and veil might catch on. Or for men, a monk’s cowl.

For lunch, I went to Montanucci. The décor at Montanucci is courtesy of Bottega Michelangeli, whose trademark is wood sculpture and furnishings made of layers of cutout planking. It’s difficult to describe, so have a look at their siteand at Montanucci’s, too. The latter is decorated as a small village with houses and balconies and people and animals; all whimsical and charming. And hidden here and there are extraordinarily beautiful wood sculptures in the Michelangeli style. I didn’t know quite what to make of that look when I encountered it twenty years ago, but I’ve come to more than appreciate the it, I love it.

Back and center as you walk into Montanucci are the Giraffes, three friendly creatures that greet everyone who enters with a studied bemusement. That’s them in the photo, now in fetching blue masks.

I mentioned to Slavic how much I liked them, and I believe he replied, “We sort of thought they should do their part.” They do their adorable part very well, indeed.

Today was Palombella. I walked to Piazza del Duomo at about nine this morning, to pay my respects more than anything. The cathedral’s central doors were open, and the square was empty except for two men walking separately towards the steps. They were both in black, but more police black that clerical black. I paused for awhile, then moved on. To see that much open space on a festival day made me sad.

Palombella is a celebration of Pentecost. In Orvieto’s traditional ceremony, the Holy Spirit is represented by a while dove that is sent flying from a cluster of painted clouds above the nearby church of Saint Francis to travel down a wire and into a painted wooden tower erected on the steps of the Duomo. The creature’s arrival is greeted by clouds of colored smoke and mini-Roman candles above cutout representations of Mary and the Apostles to indicate tongues of flame. The main event is surrounded by pageantry derived from a mix of periods from the medieval onward. It is all very historic and wonderfully charming. It is also, among the many religious festivals that are woven into Orvieto’s cultural fabric, the longest observed, predating the Duomo by centuries and with possible roots in pre-Christian practice. 

You don’t mess with Palombella without good reason.

This year the dove was replaced by a drone that flew the route normally taken down the wire. And that’s all I know for sure. There were no painted clouds, no tower or Apostles, no drums, no trumpets, no periwigged footmen to deliver the dove to Oriveto’s newest wed. In short, nothing was there to attract onlookers. Perhaps for the same reason, the shape and timing of the drone event remained vague. I checked the papers, I asked many people, I learned little. In a way, it was an elegant solution. The tradition was upheld in its intention, and manifested in a mode that discouraged onlookers and respected public health.

This evening I stopped at Trattoria dell’Orso for soup. Stefano and I got to talking, and of course, Palombella quickly offered itself as a topic of conversation.

“You know, all this makes me sad,” Stefano said, waving his left hand towards the street. 

“Yeah, me too.”

“The economic situation worries us, but it’s not that. To me, Orvieto is a place for art and music, festivals and markets, people from all over the world flooding the streets. All gone. Except for we who live here – and only mornings and evenings – the streets and plazas are almost empty. That’s what makes me sad. I miss the joy, the company, the many languages, the different races.”

I nodded and repeated his lament. We stood together for a moment of silence.

“This will pass. But it reminds you of how fragile it all is. Even after a thousand years.”

But everywhere I wandered last night, groups of people with ladders were hanging flags, or were on their balconies draping banners. The festival of flowers, Orvieto in Fiori, that usually includes floral tapestries in churches, and baskets of flowers hanging from walls, was along with everything else that would draw crowds, regretfully cancelled. But baskets of flowers in the quartiere’s colors were up just the same. Life goes forward, regardless.

Today, there were tourists, probably from other parts of Umbria, as inter-regional travel is still restricted. They must have been from out of town because no one local would bother with such photographic equipment (or carry maps) that early in the day. Others without cameras (or maps) had that lovely dreamily lost look that the best of tourists frequently display. It expresses an admirable willingness to give up the familiar and let the senses come alive in unexpected ways. It was good to see them. They are our guests. They validate the town’s finest qualities. They remind us that its culture and traditions will persist.

Later in the day, I revisited Piazza del Duomo and sat for awhile in the shadow of its temple. Small groups of young people sat on the lawn, dotted the steps, and crossed the piazza. The central doors were closed. An older couple, snugly masked, meandered hand in hand, and sent up a glance towards the mosaics and carvings from time to time. The afternoon sun caught the gold woven artfully into the tiled murals and twisted columns. The facade is a kind of festival of its own. For now, it will more than suffice.

The photo is of Palombella trumpeters, 2002.

I’ve said it before, but it’s good to have verification.

On an evening walk, I passed my neighbor Patrizia who was inspecting items in the window of the vintage clothing shop.

“Doing your shopping?”

“Spinning time while I wait for my sister. Where are you off to?”

“Just a walk. I got kind of shaky and a walk always helps. When I left the house, I saw Renzo and Giancarlo were out working. Maybe putting up the flags?”

“That’s what they’re doing. With all of this confusion and stress, it’s good to see the banners going up.”

“All over town! It’s even more special this year.”

“Yes! Because we don’t have to do it. No one can come here to see them. So, this year it’s for us. For us,” and she grinned and included everyone in sight with a single, sweeping gesture.

We stopped to take in the spectacle of the display in Piazza della Repubblica. Down Corso were two vertical banners elegantly placed to take advantage of the zigs and the zags that are inherent in all the town’s streets. I gasped. “Look at those banners! How beautiful they are.”

“Those are stendardi, bandieri are like those,” and she pointed to a flag. I struggled to hear and repeat the word, Patrizia helped. “S. T. E. N.  Stendardi.”

“It doesn’t even sound Italian.”

“It’s a little unusual.”

I changed subject. “I’ve heard that this year the white dove for pallombella is to be replaced with a drone. I don’t understand how or why or… anything.”

“I think it will be as usual, but the drone will fly around and take a video of the ceremony.”

“So, there will be no public event.”

“Oh, no, that’s been cancelled.”

“And we’ll watch it on our computers.”

“Not me! I’ve had enough of my computer working from home to last the rest of my life. We can watch on our phones. Everything on our phones. Phones, phones, phones,” she dissolved into giggles.

On my walk up the hill near the ramparts I practiced my new word.  Stendardi.  Stendardi. (Pause. Wait for it.) Standards! No wonder it didn’t sound Italian! Banners and standards. I love moments like those.

A half hour later I turned the corner onto Via delle Pertiche Prima to a work-in-progress corridor of fluttering banners. I applauded before I knew what was happening.

“Bravi, ragazzi! E grazie!”

A new pole was needed, so Renzo and Gianni were making one in the street, wood shavings mixing in with the weeds that grow between paving stones.

“Can I get a picture of this?”

“He’s going to take a photo, Renzo! Quick!” shouted Gianni.

Renzo disappeared into his caverna and emerged seconds later appropriately masked. For the record, he was masked and legal when I left, but woodwork and sawdust can make of a mask an ugly thing.

Giancarlo joined them, and the banner (or maybe it was a standard) was threaded onto the new pole. It took three to do it. I love those guys.

This morning on my way to market – which has been moved, at least for now, to the large interior courtyard/parking lot at the old caserma (barracks) – I passed an edicola and scanned the headlines.  La pallombella (a word that refers to both the ceremony and to the white dove that is central to it) is, after its traumatic journey from painted cloud to pyrotechnic tongues of flame, presented to honored guests, often the town’s newest parents or most recently wed. This year, according to the headline, la pallombella will be given to doctors and nurses. I cried before I knew what was happening.

“Bravi! Grazie!”

“I love the new black masks, so minimalistic, such a statement, and I don’t know… so chic. And here I am stuck with a standard-issue baby blue that arrived, like, in everybody’s mailbox a couple of weeks ago. I mean, like, what’s with that? Where do you get the black ones?”

That’s the voice of my imagined Val di Paglia Girl, but her words are also mine. Sort of.

The great playwright, epigramist, and social reformer way ahead of his time, Oscar Wilde, once noted that “Life imitates Art”. I’ve long believed that Oscar was absolutely correct.

So, to torture my chosen metaphor, the period we are in here in Orvieto (and in some sense, everywhere) is not only an intermission, it is also a freshly-gessoed canvas, a blank page, a newly quarried block, an unmarked score, an untrod stage, a pair of freshly rosined point shoes – just to name a few. In a broader sense it is also rising bread dough, a flat of seedlings, uncut vegetables, a wood plank, a flickering screen. 

The weekend of June 12, Corpus Domani, would have seen a host of ceremonies, parades, games, and concerts that fill the town and help to keep its economy afloat, and would have launched a whole summer of music and festivals. Last I heard, all that has been cancelled. But today the banners in Piazza della Repubblica are up, as are the green and white flags of the quartiere Olmo, and if I understood my neighbors correctly, flags will soon follow on Via delle Pertiche Prima. They mean all that much more this year. They are not in place to welcome guests, they have been unfurled to celebrate continuity. They are art.

At the very heart of this city stands a temple to the Feminine Principle, Santa Maria Assunta, asserting that the mother of God (give that title a moment’s reflection and it will boggle the mind) is on equal footing with the male members of her family. Regardless of how that has played out in the kitchens and bedrooms of the city during the last thousand years, it’s a powerful statement of intention. And the facade of this temple is one of the great collective artistic projects of all time. I admit, I’m a tad biased, but it calls me repeatedly to contemplation of its themes and symmetries. This facade is doing its work admirably well.

Since the Duomo was begun in 1290 it has sat in place through plague years much more ravaging than this one, sacks, sieges, great wars, emergencies, natural calamities, and papal residencies, and unruffled, invites us to sit across its piazza and have another look. And when I heed its call, I leave wanting to imitate its serenity, balance, and careful precision. Its color, courage, and exuberance. I feel assured, even if none of its saints and apostles are wearing a black mask – or masks at all.

“Hey, like, masks are cool, you know. I like the style that are as tight as my jeans, and maybe match my top. And pure white is okay, too. But the ones with patterns or, like, the logos of soccer teams, I mean, give me a break!”

A week ago, most of the unmasked were teens. Yesterday and today I’ve seen groups of young adults, dressed just so, and masked with almost ferocious pride. The dress-down grunge style has disappeared in that age group, at least among those I’ve noticed. For now, they have decided to make art.

Two weeks ago, there was an almost palpable fear among the merchants and restauranteurs in town, no one seemed to know the way forward. Then they began undertaking repairs and changes, planting flowers, making their locations more beautiful. For who? For each other, at this point. For the future hoped-for tourist. For their own satisfaction, certainly. For continuity. For art.

The world’s mind is stunned and confused and looking for guidance, and millions of us making billions of pieces of art (from bread to beaded bags) will stir and shift us in ways we cannot predict or imagine, and life will follow our lead. And maybe it will be years before we notice, but it will follow – and at least some of us will notice. But notice or not, all will benefit.

“I think, like masks are kind of cute and sexy. It’s cute how it makes a boy’s ears, like, stick out. Oh, it makes my ears do that, too, but if I wear my hair down, it doesn’t show. But for boys, it makes them look a little silly, and that’s a good thing, because it’s, like, important for guys to learn not to take themselves too seriously. Like we’re still alive, and so arenonno and nonna, so who cares if your ears stick out? Still, I would really love to have a black one. A black mask. They just look, I don’t know… rich!”

And pleasantly artsy. Like a black turtleneck used to be.

Erika and I lunched in her courtyard today. Montanucci providentially had penne with shredded zucchini, oil and a smattering of cheese that I ordered take out, and that served well cold. Erika made a salad, provided some wonderfully tasty strawberries and a cold berry tisane. Teah, her border collie, was quietly charming. 

Erika and I met at a party about three years ago. I knew she was special when I enthused about her late husband’s legacy while mistaking him for someone entirely different, and she had the grace and elegance to let it go. A year or so later, after seeing her here and there at various cultural events and lectures, I invited her to my courtyard for tea. She had read my play Risotto and had a few astute comments. We talked about our favorite books, the Italian language, and her many years in Orvieto. I loved her curious and inquiring mind, her quiet love for the place.

When I started work on Colloquia, I told her about the project and promised to send her a draft when one was ready. She was the first to read it, first to comment, and first to encourage production. Mutual friends have since told me that was a very Erika response. What she likes and believes in, she will nourish and support, tirelessly – that she has been doing that for Orvieto since she moved here in 1958.

Erika came to Italy on a European exploration after college – and after a time as curator in Long Beach, California – in 1955. For the next year she traveled alone, exploring the peninsula from football to bootstrap, using her intuition, fascination, and her knowledge of history as guides. She met her husband, Mario Bizzarri during that time. He was an archeologist working in Firenze. After they married, they settled in Orvieto where Mario led development of the dig at the Necropoli del Crocifisso del Tufo.

They had sons Claudio and Lamberto, both of whom continue to live in Orvieto Centro Storico. In 1967, Erika opened a store on Via dei Dolci that from her description I might have characterized as a curiosity shop; interesting items from around Italy (and beyond).

“For the store I chose things that appealed to my aesthetic – unique objects. Some of those were handcrafted items that had been rejected by the maker as flawed, but that’s what made them interesting.” She sold in 1988, but retained an active hand in the business, and the slotted metal sign, ERIKA, remained in place long enough for me to have vivid and wondering memories of it. Whoever Erika is, I would think as I passed, I believe I would like her.

Mario died in 1969. She later married Adamo, moved to Monterubiaglio, and after he died, into a characteristically rustic house to the west of the city in a largely rural district called Tamburino. She calls it The Villa and it was built by her father. But not too long ago, it became difficult for her to drive at night, and that cut her off from Orvieto’s cultural and academic opportunities which she cherished. Claudio set her up with an apartment on Piazza Ranieri that an American friend and associate had purchased, and we who knew her encouraged her to relocate. But leaving decades of living, and their attendant memories encased in treasured objects and books, took adjustment. She is now settled in town, and – in a twist of irony she may secretly admire – just in time for all the programs and events Orvieto-after-sunset has to offer to be cancelled. Oh well, that, too will change, and in the meantime it’s great to have her here. 

With the exception of a little interruption called March, April and most of May, we’ve been enjoying Tuesday afternoon teas together since October. Today was our reunion.

“This courtyard doesn’t actually go with my apartment, you know.”

“Really? Who does it belong to?”

“The man who has the apartment up there,” and she pointed up past a spindly palm towards high-up windows. “But he’s okay with my using it.”

“How would he even get here? He’d have to leave his apartment through a door on…?”

“I’m not sure.”

“…Via Garibaldi, come into this palazzo through your front door, cross to the rear, through the door in your hall, and up the stairs to…”

“I know, it doesn’t seem very practical. But Orvieto is like that. I do wish he’d take out the palm. It offers nothing but dead fronds.” The palm, about as big around as a stout man’s bicep, rises almost three stories to an unreachable and neglected beard of defunct leaves. 

“Claudio’s apartment is up there somewhere, not exactly sure where,” she waved, as we rose to get a better view of the courtyard owner’s probable apartment. 

“Orvieto is such a maze,” I mused.

“Even more so behind buildings than on the streets. You have to come over here to see it, but there’s a belfry back there,” and she crossed to the side of the courtyard opposite its owner’s apartment. “Look,” she said, pointing past several layers of structure beyond and behind us. And there it was indeed, a bell tower of the kind that might be attached to what had been a small church or chapel. There are spaces for three bells, no longer in residence. “Isn’t that curious?”she asked delightedly.

“Where is that?”

“I have no idea,” she chuckled, “but it”s wonderful, isn’t it?”

Orvieto is not a large town, but it is dense enough that after more than sixty years of living here, there remains much for her to discover. I believe that suits her well. She is an explorer and a lover of the curious, and always will be.

We went indoors and she showed me a book her mother had as a child, binding gone but still elegant.  The House at Pooh Corner, a book from her own childhood, followed; lovingly worn and fresh at the same time. I read a half page aloud. The language flowed like music.

The photo is of the Bizzarri family in the 1960’s.

I passed Trattoria dell’Orso shortly after noon on Sunday. All the outside tables were full, and Stefano, the proprietor, seemed relieved and content to be in his element.

“Are you open again?”

“We’re open today.”

“Also this evening?”

“Also this evening.”

“Should I make a reservation?” I asked, pretending for a moment that everything had already returned to normal.

“If you like.”

“Okay,” I paused to savor the moment. “For tonight, one at eight.”

“Outdoor table?”

“Sure, that would be great – if you have one free.” It felt so good to imagine normality that I couldn’t stop.

“Certainly. See you tonight.”

As a measure of how special that exchange was, I entered the reservation in my calendar and set an alarm, like it was a date or an occasion that I couldn’t afford to miss. The appointment glowed violet and singular in the vast white near-emptiness of the previous week.

I returned punctually at eight and waited to be shown to my table. There were the same four tables in place, one occupied by the very nice couple who own the light bulb store. We nodded. Stefano soon appeared and gestured to all the tables, suggesting they were equally available. I hesitated, not wishing to steal a prime location he might be saving for a special customer. He took the hint, and sat me next to the couple. A new, shorter, laminated menu was presented. The same soup as the other Stefano at Vincaffè had prepared the previous two suppers was on offer (but with truffle) and I asked about a dish called Tortelacci degli spinacci. The lady at the next table assured me that it was a sound choice, she had just had them.

While I waited, the couple next table conversed with each other, with almost everyone who passed, and with several others long distance in the nearby parking area at Piazza Vitrozzi. I became keenly aware of how local everything still was – no one from outside the region, few from outside of town. I had a sudden urge to have a party of friends from all over to fill the restaurant, not to destroy the localness of the hour (although it would have) but to share in its specialness. I checked my phone, and alas teleportation had not yet been invented. 

The soup arrived. It was quite different from the other Stefano’s interpretation, and also delicious. Bread followed just in time, wrapped in a paper bag. On clearing the soup, Stefano informed me that he is required to keep my full name and phone number on file for fourteen days for reasons of contact tracing. Our little world of pretend took a list to the left. The tortelacci arrived, were excellent, and I made signs of agreeable satisfaction towards the lady at the next table — which she missed. They left while I waited for dessert (torta di mela) and bid me good evening as if we had been engaged in lively conversation throughout.

When Stefano returned with the cake, I asked him how his experience of lockdown was. I didn’t get all the details, so some times, places, and relationships may be wrong, but this is basically what he told me.

“We have a little country house out near Corbara, and I didn’t leave it once for all of March until two weeks ago. I had a bout of pneumonia this winter, so even before the lockdown was official, my doctor told me to sequester myself, that it was too risky to associate. I didn’t see another face for more than two months. Forget coming into Orvieto, it was as if the community had vanished, very difficult. My daughter did all the shopping. She would come into the house while I was in another room, undress, shower, change clothes, wash and dry everything she bought, and leave it on the table. We called to each other, but never were in the same room. It was once a week like this. When no one was around, I could go into the garden, but only when I was absolutely alone. The doctor told me there was too little known about the virus and my health was too compromised to take chances.”

“But you’re healthy now.”

“I am, so it was worth it. And I am so happy to be here.”

The tables had all been altered to be a meter square, set appropriately apart, and we diners wore masks until the first sip of water. Otherwise, it was like nothing had changed – the meal was superb.

I am told there is an expression in Italian; ha messo le termiti in testa. He put termites in the head.

A couple of weeks before lockdown, a friend wanted to see my house, as we were in the neighborhood, we rerouted and I showed him.

“It’s perfect for you!” he said enthusiastically. “Except for the interior stairs. They must be a hassle. Especially in winter when you can’t really use the ones outside.”

I’ve never been especially fond of those stairs, but they were just a feature of the house that had to be dealt with, taken carefully, planned for. There is a bathroom on each floor, so at least I didn’t have to navigate them in the middle of a groggy night. But from that moment on, the sound of crunching wood became gradually louder until it drowned out everything from bird song to Bach. My climbing up and down became slower and more pained, forgetting something on the other floor, a catastrophe, anticipating a journey up or down, an obsession.

Munch, crunch.

Then the country decided to stay indoors for two months, and the termites had a field day. The stairs, the light, the garden. I had asked Allen about his extra apartment just days, if not hours, before lockdown. He sent me a link to photos. The place is light, expansive, new, and all on one level. I could think of nothing else.

“There are lots of stairs going up to the flat,” he warned by email.

“Stairs are not a problem in and of themselves,” I answered, referencing the 180 steps that I climbed together on my morning walk at least three times a week.

Allen’s apartment became an unreachable star by mid-March and stayed that way until May. As soon as it was announced that stay-at-home restrictions were to be lifted on May 4, I was on the case.

“Can I see it like May 5^th? We don’t know how long this lifting of a intra-city travel ban will last, it could be reenforced by the weekend if things get bad,” I noted, perhaps giving away just a teeny bit of eagerness to see what the photos represented, in person.

The apartment was set up to be a bed and breakfast, and Rachel, an English woman married to an Italian police inspector, is in charge of rentals and maintenance. We met at the place ten days ago. She works for a film distribution company, is a sometimes actress, and manages a BnB. She’s looking into new career choices. She took me through the flat, pointing out its genuinely cool tech features. It was everything the photos promised, and more. And yes, there were lots of stairs, but they were broken up by three generous landings, and were less than a third in number than my morning climb. A week ago, at Allen’s (and Rachel’s) urging, I took up residence for a two-night stay.

Munch, crunch, chaw.

I’ve been over the groceries-up-the-stairs issue in another post. Suffice to say that the pendulum motions of a shoulder slung shopping bag were enough to made me heed Allen’s warning, and overcame considerations of space, light, and luxury. 

On Thursday I took apart the walking track I dubbed circus minimus during lockdown, put up the big umbrella, and arranged the plastic wicker into fair-weather positions. Friday, I wrote Massimo to say I was in no hurry to move, but if he found something that seemed perfect, to let me know. Yesterday, I ordered a new, thicker, denser, more accommodating pad for the wicker divan, so writing would be more comfortable. I also ran into Massimo who announced that he had a few other places to show me. I’ll look, but a new place will have to scream at high volume “here I am, I’m perfect, and totally worth the bother,” for me to pay even the slightest attention.

There will probably be another lockdown within the next year, maybe not as general or as severe, but we here may be affected for at least a couple of weeks. Some walkable outdoor space is more than an amenity, it is essential to health. My at-home walking track kept me in relatively loose form. Three weeks into being able to walk freely, I’m still not to where I was in early March. 

I fumigated my head. The twisty internal stairs no longer bother me. The termites are gone.

The photo is of a plant around the corner that had died back to a single brown twig during a cold snap two winters ago. There is an expression in English; everything in its time. In Italian it may render as piano piano, which during this interlude of indeterminate duration, seems the greatest philosophical statement of any age.