Uncategorized – Page 6

Noses Aplenty:

Red noses. A whole bowl full of them.

There is a play called Red Noses by Peter Barnes. It’s about a priest during the Black Death who travels around France with a group of “God’s Zanies” spreading health through laughter. It’s a wonderful play and an even better notion.

I’ve helped arrange for several groups of clowns and commediani to come to Orvieto over the last 20 years, so seeing that bowlful of noses right in the heart of town pulled at something deep inside. I picked one up, several times, and almost put it on. I should have. Instead I told the two Swiss and one Italian who were standing with me about having gifted a friend with a red nose. His professional life plunges him deep into politics so it was to help maintain perspective. My story was delivered in Italian, so I’m not sure how much of it actually landed. Putting the nose on would have landed. Everyone in the room wanted to, but only Katrin (the magical fisioterapista) did so, and only briefly.

The nose must be worn. Especially these days. Internally, externally, either will do. But we need to put it on and display it proudly and often. It is vitally important.

Okay, I’ll give myself a break. I put on an internal red nose several months ago to assuage the locals and amuse myself, and it has been off only rarely, since. As time passes, I wear it with more confidence and ease. Internally, yes, but internally, when worn daily and in public, is less distracting from the real point. I have lots of company, here, among nose wearers, and I’ve told you about a few of those.

The specific occasion that placed a bowlful of noses within easy reach was called Ridere per Vivere, (Laugh for Life,) and was sponsored by VIVA Orvieto, a spunky little cultural organization with a modest but extremely energetic presence, just steps away from Piazza del Duomo. They host documentary films, lectures, workshops in art, dance, theatre for kids, music, film, physical health; all with an international flair that at the same time glories in Italian culture. It’s Europe in a nutshell. It’s global in a gentle, smiling, thoughtful, joyful, deeply human way. It represents everything good about this community – as do many such organizations in this remarkably vital town.

The afternoon and evening’s offering was a lecture by Leonardo Spina and a film. He was a member of a group of American and Italian red nose clowns who traveled to Kabul (and the surrounding areas) in 2002 to help heal through laughter. These angels of mercy call themselves Clown Doctors. It’s a concept that began in the U. S. (in Philadelphia, best I can tell) and Leonardo, finding no such organization in Italy, later founded one. Among the several Italian groups now offering laughter to those who need its healing powers is Ritorno al Domani (Return to Tomorrow) dedicated to aiding the rehabilitation of children recovering from cancer. They do this by making them laugh. And it works.

Leonardo is a remarkably free and effective speaker. I wasn’t able to understand more than the broad points and a few handy details, but his lecture covered the philosophy, spiritual value, scientific basis, and practical effects of using laughter to balance a body (and, by my personal extension, a world) thrown into chaos by confrontation with disease or injury. One phrase that stood out (and was made more clear by one of my Swiss friends) was that within a child’s ill or damaged body, is a still-healthy core. That core is what Clown Doctors address. It is the well child they speak to, strengthen and encourage. Encourage; give courage to.

The film, Clownin’ Kabul, followed Leonardo’s talk. It’s a beautifully put-together documentary based on the trip that Leonardo and twenty-some other Clown Doctors took in 2002. It effectively illustrates all of what Leonardo covered in his lecture. I can only say, watch it. I could blather on about what an inspiring work it is, but that wouldn’t come close. It’s about fifty-five minutes long. You can see it here. There are a few “difficult” minutes, but the resolutions are remarkable. The net effect is unifying. Keep a tissue handy, you may need it.

I’m told that I sometimes leave the impression that my experience of Orvieto has been an air-drop into paradise. It is. Not because the food is great, the town beautiful, the views staggering, the children gorgeous, and the streets lively. All of those are true. But in another way it feels like a hearteningly realistic projection of what a city can be — sharing, caring, realizing, accepting of a person’s humanity, offering spontaneous meetings and exchanges. Long-time residents will say the city is isolated, sometimes too quiet, the native Orvietano distant and difficult to reach. For me the heart of this place beats strong. I look around and see red noses everywhere. When I came to understand the importance of wearing one internally, it was through the quiet encouragement of a community of clowns.

There is a plague loose in the world and it may take its toll, but there are also legions of zanies afoot, so there is huge hope. That nose you just picked up? Don’t be like me. Put it on.

Ridere! Viva!

All Things Modern:

My language teacher, Mariella, shared an fascinating linguistic fact with me the other day. All pharmaceuticals here are dispensed in blister packs. Tucked into the box with them is a rather large, oft-folded piece of very thin paper upon which is printed in very small type, instructions, directives, disclaimers, warnings, and other such having to do with the medication packaged therein.

These pieces of paper are called “bugiardini,” which translated literally means “little lies.”

What follows are a kind of bugiardini, warnings and disclaimers from a cappuccino-fueled imagination.

Particular Use of the Imperative Form of Verbs

When using the imperative form (do this, do that) with pronouns, a number of elaborate rules kick in, rules that can become increasingly complex depending on who is being addressed.

For example, when addressing a woman with dark hair who is the daughter or wife of a Senator – or the sister of a fisherman from Calabria – one uses an imperative form of the verb identical to the future anterior form, but which is in fact the “personal imperative very particular” (imperativo personale molto particolare) not the future anterior, even though it behaves exactly as if it were. If, however, the woman in question is the sister of a Senator, the indicative second person, familiar or formal, is used. Moreover, if she is both the wife of a Senator and the sister of a Calabrese fisherman, a form resembling the third person of the present subjunctive mood is employed. Like all Italian grammar these usages are elegant and perfectly sensible once you truly understand.

A further refinement to the rule: if the woman, regardless of hair color or male relations, is your mother, you don’t use the imperative at all. You ask nicely.

Progressive Ultra-Nationalists and Grammar Reform

As we’re on the subject of grammar, members of Italy’s Progressive Ultra-Nationalist Federation (FUNP) while observing the political “climate” of the U.S. have perceived an opening for Italian to supersede English in international commerce and science. American English, as they see it, is degrading so rapidly that within months (and possibly weeks) it will be all but useless save for hurling insults, throwing tantrums, and lying. In response, FUNP has launched a program to streamline Italian grammar, called The New Italian, thus rendering their language more agreeable to non-native speakers, and improving the chances of its replacing the form of gibberish English is quickly becoming.

An example: “posso” means “I can” or “I am able.” Because that is precisely the spirit FUNP wishes to associate with The New Italian, all verb forms will be based on posso, as illustrated in the FUNP’s table below:

Critics of the plan say implementing such change will effectively dumb the language down to a level almost equal with that of contemporary English. Proponents counter that dumb is the wave of the future, and as Italy needs to beat other countries to the punch, it’s now or never. The debate rages.

To help us stay on top of this story’s developments, Fox News will air a series called “Why Language is the Problem; An Unbiased Report.” MSNBC has similar plans with its show “Americans Who Hate English.” CBS is weighing profitability before it commits to a three-part exposé “Degraded Discourse – Necessary for a Healthy Economy.” Stay tuned.

Cross Town Traffic

Roberto Mosecci, an expert on civic planning and economic development with offices in Milan and Los Angeles, proposes a radical rethinking of how Italian hill towns are accessed by tourists and delivery vehicles. Having chosen Orvieto for his pilot program, he instantly identified the city’s distance from the autostrada as the principal reason for its failure to patch plaster and freshen paint. “One has to ride an antiquated form of transport (the funicular) to reach the town at all, and once there, the streets are narrow and impractical, these together discourage introduction of chain stores and other essential amenities, including importation of fresh building supplies.”

Mosecci’s proposal will send the Autostrada del Sole directly through the center of town. The funicular (which he hates “with a passion as deep as hell”) will be replaced by a newly-excavated automotive diverter. Four lanes of bi-directional traffic will plunge through the current Piazza Cahen, follow the route now taken by Corso Cavour (straightening the old-fashioned jogs and curves) turn Piazza della Repubblica into an Area Servizio with a Starbucks, MacDonald’s, and Pizza Hut (thereby introducing convenient and profitable food to the city’s core) down Via della Cava, and out through a widened, heightened, and completely restructured, Porta Maggiore, capped by a revolving Renaissance-themed restaurant.

“The Etruscans would approve.” he says confidently. “When they built Porta Maggiore, it was modern in every sense of the word – to them. We aren’t “them” anymore, so are compelled to honor the founders’ vision by bringing it up to current commercial standards.”

In his White Paper on Urban Renewal he lists the many benefits that will accrue: the razing of architecturally out-of-date buildings, a direct cutoff to subterranean parking covered by a much-needed green space to replace Piazza del Duomo, and improved efficiency of access to major tourist locations, such as the two or three churches not tagged for conversion into high-end health spas, a brand new steel-framed minimalist/brutalist version of Torre del Moro, and the city’s only Chinese restaurant.

“A crosstown highway will bring Orvieto, and other hopelessly inefficient hill towns, into the twentieth century,” he concludes. When asked about the twenty-first century, Mosecci responds “I am a preservationist; decades-old representative global traditions must be saved before it’s too late.”

Medieval World Italia!

In an unpublicized move, Sidney Corp, by special arrangement with Commune d’Orvieto, has purchased first rights of ownership to the city’s exposed external surfaces, and title to all revenue-producing activities, with an eye towards creating a theme park out of the city and its environs under the banner, Medieval World Italia!

“Let’s face it,” says Sidney Corp spokesperson Dyslexia Proze, “the Dark Ages are ‘in’ with a vengeance. But people want both the genuine experience and the convenience of facilities they’re accustomed to. We at Sidney Corp are going to give them what they want.”

The first phase of the entertainment giant’s feasibility study involves the overall “look and feel” of the town. “The cliffs surrounding this cute little burg are charming, in their way, but the color is depressing. All that gray and brown. So, we’ve begun a systematic study to scientifically determine alternate coloration,” she explains, pointing to a number of paint samples already in place around the city. “Before anything, today’s tourist wants an easy-to-absorb and primarily visual experience that photographs well by providing excellent contrast with the posed subject or selfie,” she explains.

Thus, Sidney Corp is testing two colors at a time, currently white (seen as most likely to attract wealthy Americans) and red (for who else? The Chinese.)

“We’ll make a decision based on data collected by remote sensors placed along the so-called Anello della Rupe (to be renamed Cliff Land within the new park) to measure sweat, pulse, panic response, and urge to pee when confronted by the color swatches, then we’ll match that data to national averages. We expect results within a year. Our current projection, founded on demographic surveys of Australian passengers deplaning at Fiumacino airport, is to paint the entire cliff area one solid color with a contrasting hue for the town. The Duomo (renamed Holy Land, pending conclusive marketing surveys) and quaint atmospheric detail elsewhere will be analyzed by computers to determine which parts to leave exposed so as to enhance the Dark Ages ambience park-goers flock to. Then, to give it that real flavor of authenticity, everything will be draped in sackcloth.”

Fun features of the plan include: a “sudden drop ride” off Torre del Moro, a haunted castle mechanized tour of Palazzo del Popolo, and a “living maze” disorientation experience (terrifying but safe) in the ex-medieval quarter (to be re-dubbed Inquisition Land.)

“While we respect history for its commercial value,” explains Ms. Proze, “we don’t feel in any way obliged to perpetuate it.” She followed her remarks with a cryptic, if somewhat disturbing, wink.

New Sanitary Ordinance

Italian culture prides itself, and rightfully so, on its elegant sense of design. When applied to laws, regulations, and ordinances, the culture’s appreciation for nuance and equilibrium reaches a dizzying degree of refinement.

In a recent move on the regional level, officials in Perugia have announced new laws regarding sanitary practices. They stipulate that all viral or bacterial disease in Umbria first be contracted, improvisationally, by American males living in towns founded by Etruscans and who are at least sixty years of age, of ancestral heritage not Italian, and are otherwise healthy. As with all things in Italy, the micro-organisms in question have fallen immediately into line under the recently passed regulations, and are working hard to assure compliance.

I am proud to support my adopted (possibly part-time) country in this worthy endeavor.

Viva Italia!

Ospedale:

I had a simple lunch, as is my custom. Then about two hours later, maybe a little less, an attack of stomach gas that put my lights out. I was on a walk in a squalling rain, wind – thrilling, glorious and dramatic – loudly belching my way around Orvieto. I was, for the hour it lasted, quite grateful for the rain. It granted me freedom to belch without qualm.

By the time I returned home, I was rather dizzy and there were fleeting pains and discomfort on the left side of my chest. I took a bicarbonate of soda. Modest gains on the stomach, nothing gained on the chest pain. The pain was periodic, and my chest muscles are tight so I’ve been stretching them as per instructions from Katrin, the magical fisioterapista. The pain seemed muscular and was worse when I applied pressure, so I rationalized it away.

In my general age-range my father suffered a heart attack. Not a bad one, and one that caught him at night with stomach problems and slight pains in the chest. So, after longer than I probably should have waited, I texted Lucianna. “Could you take me up to the hospital? Probably nothing, but I really should check.”

In my dimmer moments over the past month or so, I’ve imagined losing stamina, feeling tired. Actually looking at that, now, I don’t think it’s been so. Two things are at play: I’m spending much more time alone than I’m used to which tends to dampen my energy on a three-day cycle, and the constant struggle of communication wears on me.

I have so much more appreciation of immigrants and the huge adjustments they make just to get through the day. It’s an adjustment of more than language and custom, it’s a reshuffling of identity. I was once smart and articulate, now I cause people to twist up their eyes and peer, while they use their six words of English to finish my sentences and to translate Italian imponderables such as acqua. They’re only being helpful, of course. And when they talk to me I screw up my eyes in exactly the same way. It’s like a contest. They generally win.

So, anyway, coming off a couple of weeks of feeling a bit peaked, the symptoms of earlier today assumed a collective identity that caused me to text Lucianna. She was just then picking up her daughter, but arrived in the parking lot across from my place five minutes after leaving Sofia at home, and off we went. The hospital is in Ciconia up on a hill, I can see it from my terrace. Built maybe fifteen years ago, it replaced the hospital that was more or less kitty-corner from the Duomo.

Lucianna saw me into the waiting room, then went to park. Guess what? The staff were Italian! I somehow only faintly anticipated having to give specs and explain symptoms in my distantly second language. But I did. And they understood, well enough. They gave me an EKG. They hooked me up to a blood-pressure reading device that repeated about every ten minutes. People came in, asked similar questions as the last visitor (questions which I became worse at answering instead of better), poked here, pushed there. I realized how poorly I talk about things medical even in English. I asked someone dressed in electric blue for results of the tests; she apologized for her non-doctor status and told me to relax.

The immediate good news was that no one seemed the least bit alarmed by the results of the EKG or the pressure device. So, I lay there and worried about Lucianna’s having to wait, about Sofia’s being at home alone, and breathed and sort of meditated… or tried. People came and went wearing scrubs in one of a rainbow of brilliant colors with matching clogs. No one was trying to be nice or reassuring or to convince me they were great at their job, but they were comfortably warm. It felt like I had stumbled into the kitchen of a large house during a family feast.

However, between visits and passings through, the overhead lights became annoying. The pressure testing machine beeped at extremely regular intervals. I silently determined that I would not regret having put myself into this tedious situation, better this than a night spent fretting. After the doctor (in a suit and a lab coat) came in and probed and poked and asked questions, more time passed and I finally decided to sit up. The recline was getting old. I texted Lucianna and she wrote right back. She had taken her clients to the train station and had picked up Sofia in the meantime. Ah! That’s better. Hang.

Another doctor came in I hadn’t seen before because the pressure device turned on while I was texting with my arm bent, and took an alarmingly high result. I explained, she shut it off and told me all was well. Get dressed, the little port stuck in a vein for the blood work could come off afterwards. An entirely new fellow is a lovely orange came in and did that. Then someone else in deep red manually took my blood pressure. Then Lucianna and Sofia appeared holding a directive from the doctor – a prescription for my stomach, any further problems, call. No charge. Thank you’s all around, to the yellow people, the blue, the violet, the red, the orange, the green, and the white-coated doctors… all of them very relaxed and with various accents.

We walked through a light rain to the car. Sofia and I talked briefly about her favorite subjects in school (mathematics and Italian), and we noted that it was good to see each other. She is a princess, at least with company. When Lucianna joined us in the car, I relayed Sofia’s report on her fave subjects. Lu was surprised and rather pleased. Isn’t it always like that?

On the ride back up the rock, Lu had reason to tell me that my Italian had improved considerably over the past few months. I needed that more than the EKG. In fact, that may have been all I needed. But given how long it’s been since my last EKG, it was pretty nice to have had it – especially one so bland and unexciting.

The stomach discomfort continues, but at a much lower level. I’m told there’s a virus going around, with exactly these symptoms. Andrea just told me that my Italian has improved considerably. I think I’ll make it.

The Vanishing Point:

When I was staying in Firenze in 1975, there was a graffito sprawled across a wall that I passed almost daily. It said “Basta con la violenza dei fascisti! Morte ai tutti fascisti!”

“Enough with fascist violence. Death to all fascists.” Was that meant to be ironic or sincere? I’ve wondered now for forty years. Depending on what comes up in the news, or in daily experience, I flip opinions.

I notice that as soon as a thing is written down, even on a wall, I give it credit for nuance far greater than were I to hear the same thing spoken. Is that because when it’s said to me, I can see the person saying it, so if there is no ironic content, its lack can be observed? On a wall, or in a book or a blog post or a comment on Facebook – or sometimes even in a video – it is up to my mood to determine the slant, the implication, the intension.

Or am I just avoiding the obvious?

I was waiting to see Alessandro the immigration expert the other day and fell into a conversation with a woman also waiting. After the customary, and inaccurate, comment of “your Italian is very good” she asked where I was from. I told her and responded in kind. “Moldova.” How long have you been here? “Thirteen years.” Almost an Italian, then. “I hate Italians. Oh, not all Italians of course, Alessandro is a very good man, and so are many, even most, people I know here, but Italians as a whole I don’t like. They’re too dramatic. They generalize, and make a big deal out of everything. I’m calm, I think before I react. None of them do.”

Any irony there?

My creative life today was Trumped. I got fascinated by Facebook. You know, after two or three posts about the peculiar American political shenanigans of the day, I learn nothing further. The rest is repetition in different words. There’s a certain emotional pleasure derived thereby, but that’s it. When I go from an hour of that to a play I’m working on, all my writing looks like crap. Indeed it may be so, but if I wish to continue to write, I need to get past that phase. All rough drafts are crap. They need rewriting. That’s why they’re called rough. That’s why they’re called drafts.

The American Experiment is an ongoing rough draft.

The Italian political evolution is an even rougher draft.

The woman from Moldova is an rough-draft resident, only she doesn’t know it, so every misunderstanding, every unintended slight, every disappointed expectation that some nice American will take her away from all this, looks like crap to her.

After an hour on Facebook I can’t write plays because I want to jump on a soapbox and make my characters say things they have no organic interest in saying. Anything less seems like crap to me. I must save the world single-handedly! And immediately! And I don’t like those other Americans, either, most of them stupid, and all of them “the problem” – they get too excited, too dramatic, while I think everything through carefully before I react as if I didn’t.

That’s not to say there are not genuinely, stupidly, opportunistic people out there entrancing us all, one way or another, but I can’t do what needs to be done if I’m always in a tizzy about them. Being in a tizzy feels too good, feels somehow like I’ve done something just by being in a tizzy, while the crap draft molders in a file, going nowhere.

I keep expecting Trump to reveal that his whole campaign has been performance art, that it has been a send up of what the American electoral system has turned into. Maybe he was masquerading as the woman from Moldova, too. You think?

A friend here asked if I’d heard the rumor that Orvieto was run by the Mafia. I had not. What I have heard people say that the “mafia” (small “m”) has everyone outside their acquaintance as a member; not in so many words, but in essence. The Mafia, however real and expansive, cloaked as the “mafia”, is a wonderful all-purpose enemy that can explain the always unsolvable “problem.” Why did that person sell his restaurant so suddenly? The mafia. Now the conundrum can pass from thought into history, resolved, tied up – and forgotten.

The phrase “stupid people” (or a topical variation) can serve the same function as the “mafia.” Because there are opportunists duping people, as is their wont, does not mean the duped are all stupid. I’ve been duped. I’m not stupid. Most of the time.

No one is “the problem” either. Thinking that “the problem” can be heaped upon a subset of human being is the problem. Individuals who have run amok in their need for attention, however, can themselves be very problematic; pretty astonishingly so. They go forth to dupe and entrance because that feels at least as good to them as being in a tizzy does to me.

Now, to the point. (pause) I don’t think I have one. If I really had a point here, I wouldn’t be rambling like this. I’d have made my point, attempted to justify it, and been done.

I think instead of a point, I have a question or two. And an anecdote or three. And a hope that the question and anecdote do, in some fashion, relate. And that you (whoever you are reading this) will identify a question, ponder a relationship with some part of this post, and come up with a point. It may not be my point, but that’s okay. I doubt I would have arrived at Ultimate Wisdom in this blog post, even if I had had a point – perhaps especially.

In the meantime, let us accept the obvious crap for what it is and work hard to offer a strong contribution to the next draft. That will make things better. To prepare yourself for work on the next draft of whatever is “rough” in your view of life at the moment, you might want to close Facebook this instant. And use a timer for subsequent visits.

Maybe that’s my point. Even if not, it most certainly is my goal.

Boar in the Piazza:

I ran into a friend just now I’ve not seen in eight years. We are both grayer, him a bit, me a lot. Otherwise, we seemed younger than we were eight years ago. He’s divorced now and comes up from Lecce in the south almost every weekend to stay with his mother and visit his daughter. He conducts research on ecological matters regarding marine biology.

About ten years ago he accompanied a group of students to New York City and asked me if I could set up an theatre experience for them, something out of the ordinary. I had a friend in a chase-around production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream that was being performed in Central Park, it was free, it was fun, so we arranged to meet near Strawberry Fields. Somehow, I explained to the students, in Italian, what was about to happen and how to participate. The production was great. They loved it. They got to meet some actors afterward.

Today, after the first few astonished words of reconnection, the next thing my friend said was how that experience in the Park had opened new doors for him, was a turning point. He talked about Shakespeare, and theatrical format, and the students’ appreciation, but I felt there was something more, something he’d not the words to express – or that it was a flood not yet forded.

We went for coffee. I asked if he’d been back to New York since we’d met there, years ago. No, he said, but he’d returned to the States three times. Miami twice and Baltimore for five days. Baltimore? “Ever heard of Chesapeake blue crab?” Vaguely. “Well, it’s become an invasive species in the Mediterranean, so we’re studying it, trying to find out how to deal with it.” What have you come up with? “That it’s delicious and we should eat it.” I laughed. “You make fun, but seriously, it’s the best way to manage them. They’re huge. Our native crab are small and can’t compete. Our Italian and Greek crabbers who work so hard catching these small creatures, would make more money, and more easily, catching the big guys. Whole new systems of transport, processing, distribution would be created, and in the meantime, we’d give our native species a chance at survival. We can’t get rid of the blue crab, but we can adapt.”

I laughed again. Not because what he said was funny, but because the idea was elegant.

“We’ve gone to Brussels with this, but they’re having a hard time grasping it. They’re used to programs, to policies that can be put in place to eliminate (or make them feel they’ve eliminated) a problem. So, management is puzzling to them. And it’s way too cheap for their habit. If they can’t dream up programs that cost a fortune, they don’t feel they’ve done their job. But all we have to do is teach the crabbers to use traps instead of nets, and help advertise this new type of crab as a culinary sensation, and the rest takes care of itself. The guys in Brussels will get it eventually.”

I giggled again, again because of elegance.

I ask him how he travels for his weekends in Orvieto. He says he likes most to travel by train, but occasionally he flies. “It takes about the same time, either way, and in a train you can sit and read and work the whole way instead of catching local transit, standing in line, and constantly dealing with logistics. And when I have to fly, it means leaving the house at 3:30 in the morning.”

Eager to seem that I understand the wee hours, I offered that I sometimes wake at 3:30 and spend a couple of hours meditating and reading. That it’s a pleasant hour of morning.

“Sure great for that, but try leaving the house. It’s a bit different.”

Not wanting to appear the wimp I am, I said what a good idea! I’ll take a walk next time that happens.

“You’ll see fox and wild boar.”

Well, I’ll stay in the city.

“In the city. That’s what I mean. I saw a rather large pig and her six little ones in Piazza Cahen a couple of weeks ago.” and he shows me what it was like displaying his cautious harmlessness to the alarmed mom of six. “They come up looking for garbage to eat. That’s probably because they’re not real Italians. The Umbrian boar were over-hunted, so much larger ones were brought in from Central Europe. They fell in love with the few Umbrians that remained, and now we have medium-sized pigs who are more successful then either and must be hunted or we’ll have to start keeping them as pets.”

I stated my preference for pets without tusks.

“I wake up sometimes thinking about all this, all the things I study, then about climate change which overshadows everything and makes it all seem hopeless. And I breathe, go about my work, and realize again that we can’t stop what we’ve started. But we can adapt. And we need to adapt quickly, and that includes changing the way we think. The reason we’re in this mess is because we believe we can control things and we can’t, but we can work with them, and we can do that very successfully.”

His last words echoed over millennia, and the echo validates beyond my meager agreement.

We exchanged contact info in the magic, electronic way people do now. We will walk, “have coffee” or dine one of these weekends. He seemed happy to have run into me. I am, too. So good to know people whose lives have followed completely different paths. Trading notes on the journey is what humans have always done. Accompanied by good humor, enthusiasm, courage, and hope, it is among the best of pastimes.

New doors were opened for me, too (beyond the prospect of encountering wild boar in Piazza Cahen) but I don’t quite have the words to describe them – I have yet to ford the flood.

Zia Maria:

Every day as I cross Piazza Sant’Andrea I am blessed to observe a flock of small children, beautifully dressed, and so cute it causes me to wonder if they’ve been coached. I always slow my steps to take in the marvel of them. We’re not related, I have no responsibility for their well-being, but they have my admiration. I’m beginning to take that small inflection towards this latest crop of youth rather to heart, and to treasure it. Often, time explodes and memories of the young crop I was once a part of come flooding back.

The first of those memories – when they are not of my parents – are of my aunt, Mary Schmidt, a woman so filled with love of children that even to talk to her on the phone was to receive a warm hug. Her husband, Jack, was a carpenter. He built their house in his spare time during the spring and summer of 1940 on a large lot in what was actually Santa Clara, California, but had a postal address of San Jose. Jack, a native San Josean and proud of it, liked to say that he wouldn’t have considered building there had it not been for that postal address.

Theirs was as lovely a little home as one might expect; a central dining room with an arch to a living room and foyer, a breakfast room off a generous kitchen, a small court, and a wing with two bedrooms. They never had children, so their nieces and nephews were who they tucked under the heavy quilts of Aunt Mary’s manufacture in the front bedroom. There were about a dozen of us, and the rotational overnights were frequent. Jack had made a lamp for the bedside table that was switched on and off by turning a ship’s wheel. Perfect.

Their yard was enormous, especially in the back. A small lawn sat beyond the arbor and the huge Japanese Elm, fenced with white pickets, a potting shed stood at one end. To the right of the shed, was a clothes line. Beyond the lawn, a generous vegetable garden. Along the southern perimeter of their property were fruit trees; peach, apricot, plum. When Mary was in her late forties she decided to try her hand at brick work. On her own, with perhaps a few hints from Jack but not many, she laid a labyrinth of paths, sitting areas, planting circles, and steps. We all watched it grow, visit to visit, seemingly without a plan, so when she finally decided she’d had enough the brick looked as if it had always been there, grown from an exotic seed.

The energy that Mary would have given to her own children, and that was not expended on the children of others, went into creative endeavor. She baked, canned, cooked, sewed, crocheted, knitted, gardened, painted water colors, organized outings for her church group, held family events, and taught English as a second language. She also managed household practicalities. She did all this while leaving the impression that she was a ditzy, jolly, dame who never could find a reason not to laugh. To us kids lucky to fall into her sphere, she was also a master story teller. She spun tales from whole cloth, never missing a beat between the interconnected adventures of children caught in dire circumstances. I don’t recall the specific plots, and they may not have hung together under examination, but the enthusiasm of her delivery made them captivating.

Mary was my mother’s sister – Ann and Mary, and Mary’s confirmation name was Ann. Ann seemed more serious than Mary, but Mary was more structured than Ann. That different approach to time was the only thing I ever saw fall between them that was not happy, and it was due almost entirely to the schedules and temperaments of their husbands. Jack, a union carpenter, was off work exactly at four, usually home before four-thirty, and expected dinner on the table by five. My father, Pete, was a self-employed auto mechanic who finished the repairs his two hires either didn’t or couldn’t, and was often not home until seven-thirty or later. He didn’t have a phone at the garage until I was in high school, so Ann would begin dinner more or less at six-thirty and hope for the best. So, the phrase “time’s flying” that Ann would find so annoying from Mary’s mouth, was only ever relevant to Mary. Otherwise, they were picture-perfect sisters.

When Mary became suddenly ill in the late summer of 1985, she faced it as bravely as she did anything in life. I was in New York – on a visit before I decided to move there – when I was told the news. “She’s filled with cancer” my father said during one of the few phone conversations we ever had of more substance than the weather. I cried for hours. I’m sure my mother did too, but I never saw it; that was probably why it was my father who broke the news. I flew back in time to see Mary for her final three days. As I massaged her feet, she remarked that she had never been so sick. My mother whispered an injunction to rub all the cancer out of her body through the feet. I dearly wished I could.

At her funeral, the priest extolled Mary’s commitment to life by quoting her from only ten days prior, before the symptoms had exploded. She had been organizing a trip for a woman’s group to botanical gardens in San Francisco. “Why are you going to all this trouble? Collecting money, renting a bus, reserving tickets, plans for lunch?” he asked her. “Because I think the ladies will enjoy it.” As I recall, the trip was made in her memory, and yes, they did enjoy it.

My mother helped Jack refresh the house when he returned to find it suddenly empty of Mary’s presence. She had to teach him how to balance his check book, how to pay bills. He had never done either himself. Jack lived another couple of years, and kept up a steady stream of jokes and quips when around family, but the front drapes of the house he built for his wife were never opened again. My mother tried once, and he jumped like a frightened cat. It was as if by leaving them drawn he could keep Mary’s spirit home and within easy reach.

By the way, Mary and Jack’s place recently sold, this time for over a million. I doubt that it cost Jack more than ten thousand to build, land included. The back and side yards have gone to weed. No one has time to maintain such a property anymore, they’re too busy trying to pay it off. I hope my young friends in Piazza Sant’Andrea, and as many of their generational cohort as possible, will grow up to have more balanced choices.

I also hope they all have a zia Maria. I suspect most of them do.

(I wish I could post photos, of Mary at least, but I have none with me. There will be by June.)

The Origin of the Wheel:

In 1975, I lived in Firenze for a little over three months. It was a different city forty-one years ago, if not in form, very much so in tone. Always a destination, in those days it also seemed provincial, intimate, local. Gelateria Vivoli was a unadorned counter open to the street where a small cup of ice cream cost 350 lire (something like 35 cents.) I dined almost every day at Trattoria La Casalinga for about two dollars in its single high-ceilinged room, Paolo amazing me by his dexterous way with dishes and good-humored dealings with customers. I waited for friends on Ponte Vecchio while watching Italians of my age, arms linking them into human chains, tease and flirt and rebuff. I learned to identify the provenance of tourists crossing the bridge by the manner of their gait. The open air markets near San Lorenzo offered more than leather. Blood oranges, the preferred citrus, were exotic and luxurious.

All those particulars have changed. Tastes, styles, customs, and economies do that. That it was special for me in those special weeks of four decades ago, means nothing to the enormity of time. I alone am responsible for casing those memories in amber so I can look at them now and again and relive the warmth of their distant sun.

Towards the end of that Florentine spring, my Italo-American friend suggested that with the challenges of life and money and time ahead of us, it was likely neither he nor I would return for at least ten years. To a twenty-five year old man ready for adventure, the idea was terrifying and absurd.

For years afterward, I only visited Firenze in a dream. I’d arrive by train, the towers and domes of the town visible in the distance. I’d run from the station into the streets, tears streaming as I neared Piazza delle Signorie, then before the copy of Michelangelo’s David would fall to my knees to kiss the ground. There is probably enough Jungian symbolism in that dream to fill a dissertation. The nocturnal opera played in repertory for two decades.

In 1995, I finally returned to the city while awake. Seven of us lived in a restored 15th century farmhouse set among olive groves and vineyards. To the forty-five year old man still ready for adventure, being there was more relief than thrill, and strangely, a little bit sad. Firenze had become more prosperous. I felt stuck in time.

Two years later, another group of us visited Lazio; we lived in a 16th century farmhouse set among olives and vines. The nearest town, Roccalvecce, though not geographically remote, was remote in other ways – suspended, not of any particular era. We cooked, feasted, hunted scorpion, toured neighboring towns, and sat on the terrace at nights, debriefing our days while we gazed at a floodlit Palazzo Costaguti, the moon courting its ramparts.

A dozen more visits — Lazio, then Orvieto, then both with Firenze tucked in whenever possible — spread over another rapidly flowing twenty years. Though I grew older, my friends here never did; a pleasant and somehow necessary illusion. I worked hard to know Italy, to understand its culture, to learn the language, to be a part. As I am a man of the theatre, I cultivated a faith in confidence, that it could outstrip actual knowledge. Another level down I feared that real knowledge was out of reach, that pretense would always have to suffice.

When I visited Orvieto and Firenze with my friend Barbara last May it was, in part, to see if I liked it enough to allow weeks to turn into months, even years. By the end of the first day here, it had become clear that were these flirtations with Italy ever to turn serious, they had better turn soon. My knees already depended on glucosamine for flexibility, other inflexibilities would soon follow. To delay was to be foolish with time.

Touring gorgeous countryside, dining at superb restaurants where prices are lower than at mediocre ones at home, meeting kind people who praise my rudimentary Italian; I could like that, but it didn’t convince me I belong. Then one afternoon while driving alone (after failing to rouse friends in Monterubiaglio by ringing a doorbell I later found did not work) I passed through an industrial zone on a rough road and heard myself say over and over “I really love it here.”

I scooped up the life maps I’d been peering at, and tossed them away. The new map was a list of things official and logistical that needed doing: deadlines, timelines, underlines, airlines, passport lines, train lines, credit lines. Such things frighten me. The actor’s confidence has never extended to believing I can find my way through the complications human society throws in front of all forward motion. However, I had heard myself say how much I loved being in Italy while driving on a back road that offered only the autostrada and an industrial installation as scenery. It was no longer a matter of choice.

I have a habit – one likely shared with almost every human being on the planet – of needing to justify… well, almost everything I do. Multiply that by a factor of six hundred when that thing I’m doing is outside the life I believe I am supposed to lead. The life I believe I am supposed to lead should a) make me lots of money, b) get me lots of renown, c) gain me lots of security in all the ways in which that word can possibly be interpreted. Obviously, I’ve been a long time straying from the life I believe I am supposed to lead.

Take a breath. Ah yes, that internal river. There’s a storm on the horizon. Looks like a big one. Here it comes! The river crests powerfully, the mill wheel catches, turns. That’s better.

Bits of emotional detritus fly into space. Desires float away. Needs are ground into powder. That showers should not fluctuate in temperature, that everyone must be kind or charming or at least comprehensible, that efficiency will be the meter by which we judge our days; all washed downstream. The people around me – the beautiful, the fascinating, the crooked, the old, the toddling, the dour, the sweet, the desperate – they all deserve a good hug, and when that cannot happen physically without causing a stir, there’s always a mental alternative. Is it Italy that does this? Is it the flood? What is that flood made of, anyway? What is Italy?

Italy is a place made fascinating by a difficult past, a challenging present, and traditions that treat such obstacles as unworthy excuses for neglecting enjoyment of good food, good company, and the good experience of seasonal rotation; each season special, each brimming with potential for a delicious and festive sagra. Enter a Californian who views his past as a placid pond and with only a vague memory of what a season is, but who has nevertheless found ways to suffer dearth in the midst of plenty. Bang the two together. What do you get?

I’m talking too much. Pass the polenta, would you please? Now then, what was it we were discussing?

A Requisite Balance:

I’ve not been very clear about this, but I’m in Orvieto during these months for more than Italian language and culture. It is also a kind of self-styled writer’s retreat. This fact remained hidden even to me until I described my days to a friend and he clarified by giving them a name.

I spend three to seven hours a day writing, how much depending on I know not what. Initially it was all on plays. I resisted beginning this blog because I didn’t want to steal writing time from theatrical projects, but have found instead that these essays support the plays. I’ve learned much about narrative structure writing this blog, and all learning slops around like beer in a barrel on a bouncing ship; the pressure builds up and eventually it foams over everything.

At first, I cleaned up older projects that I’d never had time, perspective, or inspiration to finish. There were a number of them. I had had a play read by actors in Washington DC just before I left for Italy, and was feeling empowered as a writer. So, I began with revisions on that project, and kept right on going through the list. In late November, I picked up the single, very vague, opening scene for a play I thought I might begin work on last spring but never did, and in a single week a remarkably taut first draft flowed from it. I was so excited I went out for dinner. Of course, first drafts are tricky animals because while writing them I see connections in the story that barely exist on the page. I have to quickly return so as not to forget all the brilliance that is not actually there, and even then much of it escapes into the ether.

But this play (called Risotto) was different. It’s based on real people and events, even though the setting and circumstances of the play are invented, and I have a strong personal connection to the material. So, subsequent drafts rolled out as easily as the first throughout the month of December. On the last day of 2015, I felt good enough about the play to submit to a festival in upstate New York.

But there are spiders in the attic that don’t hatch for weeks. Here’s an example.

I wrote a short play three years ago for a festival in New York City. It was a rush job, I never really got it to submittable fit, and it predictably went nowhere. But I liked the story and characters and the overall shape. I last took it out in November, just before I began Risotto, and spend a few days on it — cut five or six pages and clarified the storyline. I was so pleased with myself, I submitted that one, too, in early December.

Then I continued to write everyday for a half-dozen hours for two and a half months.

Last Friday was the deadline for a short play festival. The script I had worked on (The Loyalist) was the only short play I had that seemed to qualify, so I planned to submit it, confident that November’s revisions had brought it up to snuff. On Tuesday night I decided to glory in my own fine work and read it through before submitting the play a few days early.

Good god. I was horrified! Horrified, I tell you! It was in no shape whatsoever to submit as anything other than an example of a meandering, formless, over-written early draft.

I experience an odd phenomenon of feeling embarrassed by unfinished writing even when no one else has read it. I shift into furious editing mode, slashing away, humiliated by what I previously thought good. Of course, it’s just me humiliating myself, but I often forget that’s the case. With The Loyalist, however, others had read it; or at least, I’d sent it out quite confident that those who did read would find it mighty and irresistible. The more public nature of that humiliation spurred immediate revisions late Tuesday night, as if I could take back the sloppy, meaningless, and pretentious dialog — that I had, in some distant way, forced on others — by wasting no time in changing it.

Wednesday and Thursday flew by in a flash. Seven and eight hours a day. Each morning I opened the file to read, and was horrified all over again at what I had thought was fine work the night before. By Friday, either the play had become stronger, though as yet unready, or I was growing accustomed to being horrified, and horror downgraded to despair. Despair being a more passive mood than horror, I had to work at keeping myself going on Friday, but I did, for another eight hours or so. When I put it and myself to bed that night, I felt like the piece had finally seen the beginnings of being a possible candidate for something someone might actually call a play, someday, maybe.

Blest by time zones, the Friday midnight deadline didn’t happen here until six the next morning, so I was able to rise early and take a final swipe at the script before sending it off. I’ve not read it again since. I’m a bit frightened . There is nothing can be done to improve its chances as a festival entry; and if it’s still bad, I don’t want to know until March.

In the meantime, I’ve discovered that Ristotto has a sequel, and that the sequel is a prequel to what will someday be the third in the series based on a script begun in 2014. The new, middle, play is called Fried Prawns. All three are pretty conventional in form, but seem to have potential for being otherwise pleasantly quirky. I would really rather love to end my self-styled writer’s retreat with a trilogy, or at least the bones for one. Lots of hours between now and then, but divided up by days, it is surely doable.

How does one ever declare a script (or a blogpost) finished? That is, I suppose, the next great lesson, and like all lessons so far in this hall of mirrors, one that will shape itself for me and me alone — just as it does for all of us who plunge into the night hoping to discover candles.

La Scarzuola:

Today, thanks to my friends Andrea and Natsuko, I left the confines of the rock upon which rests Orvieto. I actually climbed into an automobile. Emelio the anthropologist drove. We went north on the autostrada to the Fabro exit, then took back roads to Montegabbione.

Emelio is thirty-three and an Orvietano from birth. Andrea has lived in Orvieto since the nineties, and had worked here before that. That’s the setup.

“What’s that town over there?” I ask. Um. Silence. Um. Andrea? I don’t know. Maybe Monterubiaglio? No too large. Fabro? No, we went through Fabro already. Maybe it’s… silence. Panicale? No, that’s much further north. Well, everyone, we’re going to be really early if we go straight to La Scarzuola from here, how about we stop at a bar for a bite to eat? All agree that is a good idea. What about Montegiove, do they have a good bar? I don’t know. Okay, let’s try. Where is it? The sign says left. (We arrive.) Nothing here at all. How about Montegabbione? (Back in the car.) Hey, I don’t see anything. I’ll get out and ask. Okay. (Andrea returns.) The only bar in town is over there. It’s Eva’s Bar. (Eva is charming, sweet, and very slow.) Do we have time? Probably not. Okay, let’s go on to La Scarzuola. I brought bananas. “Thank god! I’m hungry.”

Wending our way towards La Scarzuola was familiar and comfortable. Like traveling here with anyone else I’ve ever traveled with here – normally Americans, all of us perpetually lost. I’m about as savvy with the countryside in Northeastern Pennsylvania, so I don’t complain. We ate fruit. We found our destination. And we arrived on time. Very important according to Emilio. The guy who runs the place is a little weird – two minutes late, you don’t get in.

Saint Francis lived here here in 1218. He built a hut out of a brush called scarza, so the site became known as La Scarzuola. He also planted a rose bush that opened up a miraculous spring. Thereafter the Counts of Marsciano erected a church and founded a convent on the site. Then in December 1956 the complex was purchased by Tomaso Buzzi from Milan, a famous architect. He restored the convent and church, and drew up plans for what he called The Ideal City — la Città Ideale. It is neo-mannerist in form, scenographic, deliberately theatrical, a stylistic composite of classical, medieval, renaissance, baroque, and a touch of 1950’s surrealism mixed in with inspirational guidance from Prince Orsini’s Sacro Bosco in Bomarzo. Construction continued from 1958 to 1978. Buzzi died in 1981, the project incomplete.

The only member of his family who had an interest in the property, or perhaps who had nothing else to do, was Buzzi’s nephew, Marco Solari. He finished realizing his uncle’s dream. Not himself personally, mind you, the family has money, but he oversaw the completion of the project. What resulted is not easily described. That is why pictures were invented.

The nephew still owns the property. He lives there with his boyfriend. It’s their home. One imagines that living on such a property might create some strange habits of mind. One only has to listen to Marco Solari for a few minutes to realize it has done exactly that. The man is funny. He is quirky. He guides the tour, speaking easily in a trumpet voice that could carry over a pitched battle. He poses a question, hovers a moment, answers it himself, then laughs a laugh that could be described as a gay, Italian, male version of Phyllis Diller. Then he holds forth and repeats the cycle. I don’t imagine he would be an easy person to have dinner with.

His partner was speaking with guests on our way out. They asked if tours were given in English. Yes, he said, I do them. They are nothing like that, he said, pointing towards Marco.

This is all correct and as it should be. Two men with opposite styles. One of them, at least, generously quirky. No one more suited could possibly be associated with the place, to live there, lead guests through the property, or to have completed Buzzi’s work. Some day they will turn it over to a foundation or a comune. The experience may then become more conventional, but it won’t be as rich, as flavorful, or as much of a piece.

Buzzi described the project as his inner life in stone. To paraphrase; I’m conventional in my business. I design buildings people like. I do my job. But inside, another spirit stirs. The Ideal City is an expression of my true personality, the one that is hidden, secret, unknown in my other work.

The Ideal City seems at first glance to be an architectural installation with no purpose but to be beautiful, bizarre, and evocative. Not quite true. The literature says there are seven theatres on the property. Counting smaller, non-traditional spaces, I found five of them. Andrea and I went around staging Shakespeare’s plays in those spaces we could identify. Almost any classic or epic play could have a happy home somewhere among the sculptural tangle. Rumor is that concerts are offered at La Scarzuola from time to time, but because the website is either under construction or will never be complete, that’s difficult to verify. It would be grand to hear music in these environs.

Our group filters out after about two hours, and we hop back into the car to wind our way home. A beautiful town appears on the hill ahead of us. “What’s that town?” Silence. Time. We pass a blue-arrowed sign pointing up the hill. The sign says, Carnaiola. That’s Carnaiola, Emilio tells me. “Thank you.”

Shops and Shiatsu:

There are good language days, and there are bad language days. Today was one of the latter. I twisted my tongue around Italian words I’ve known for decades – simple stuff – all the way through my lesson this morning. Mariella, as always, was patient and encouraging, virtues I am only just learning to cultivate regards myself.

I slept well last night, a welcome change after a few weeks of fitful rest. I may be able to attribute the change to having eliminated espresso from my morning routine. However much I miss the buzz, the sacrifice is an outsized trade for a full night’s sleep. So, this morning was without jolt, and I severely felt the lack. Unwilling to forego the ceremony of the cup, I have been allowing myself a single decaf cappuccino or macchiato before noon. Thus, a perfect decaf cappuccino appeared in front me at Bar Sant’Andrea, site of today’s lesson. As was expected, it had little to no effect on composition of mouth or brain.

A few things needed purchasing after the lesson. A two-week supply of hypertension and cholesterol medications that together run at least 30% more in the States even with insurance, are available here without prescription. Bread, pastry, pasta, odds and ends.

Getting close to one, now, so my step quickens as I rush towards the bakery. They don’t always reopen in the evening, I’ve not figured why, and no hours are posted. I make it on time and am happy to discover my favorites behind the counter: the young Filipino who is kind and plays with his words until they are music, and the Italian lady with a gracious demeanor. I order and ask how to call a pastry item I’d not noticed before. “Sigaretti.” A good name for a short tube filled with chocolate. For the first time in my life I buy cigarettes. They are delicious.

I arrive at the tortellini shop just after it closes, so cross the street to the “supermarket” for their offerings in the same general category – not as good as the fresh, but tasty enough for lunch.

A note about the “supermarket.” When applied to this particular store the word will always appear in quotes. The “supermarket” is the size of a medium-large bodega in Manhattan, but because it’s open through the day it earns an exalted distinction. A bunch of guys in their twenties operate it. Going in feels like a college reunion where everyone has miraculously regained their youth. I mostly come for the company.

Then a quick lunch at home, the aforementioned stuffed pasta with pesto from a jar (not the best, but remarkably good) a salad of tender lettuce from the market in Piazza del Popolo topped with artichoke hearts from the fair trade store nearby, and a dessert of dried fruit. And two sigaretti.

A few minutes on the computer and it’s time for my first-ever Shiatsu massage. Last Friday, I awoke to a neck so sore it frightened me. It had been sore on Thursday, but rationally sore. Friday’s sore was unreasonable. A friend, Katrin, has a studio di fisioterapia three minutes walk from here. Her studio partner is a Shiatsu therapist named Michele. I thought Katrin only worked on trauma, so I wrote Michele, first. I took his earliest slot for today, and called Katrin anyway. I was a little desperate. As it happens I was fussy to think she only treated accident victims. Even had that been the case, she treated my neck as a victim of catastrophic sleep. She fixed it instantly. She’s good – another one of those people for whom I’d be willing to throw myself down a flight of stairs just so she could heal me.

I appeared for this afternoon’s appointment with Michele with no pain whatsoever. It was a little embarrassing. Michele arranged me onto his contoured massage cushions and went to work. He probed and poked and rubbed and held. At times his hands became as hot as sun-baked stones. I don’t know how long it lasted. It was one of the most intense experiences of my life, certainly within the realm of massage.

I complimented Michele on his generosity. “It’s just my work.” “Well then, your work is generous,” I countered. Not to be outdone, “It’s a generous system of massage.” I’m making a regular appointment. Every muscle in my neck and shoulders relaxed. Anyone who knows me understands that for the miracle it is.

I’m on my way home when I become distracted by the valley. It’s been raining, and the fields seem to have greened up by a factor of ten since this morning. The channels between paving stones on the streets are filled with the same green. All that freshness lures me down to the Anello.

I meander at the base of the cliff. The rain intensifies the color of the rock, the vegetation, the soil. I stroll past my buddy Arlecchino – still in the same spot patiently musing – climb up through Porta Romana, then left past Blue Bar.

I seldom visit in the afternoon, but today I’m in the mood for a snack. Antonny sits behind the bar with his guitar, playing real good for free – improvised music plus a few songs of the sixties and early seventies, songs from before he was born. He strums, we sing a bit (neither of us know lyrics.) A man comes in, picks a beer from the fridge, leaves money on the counter, nods, and exits.

A young man, a regular, comes in. He’s quite reserved. He orders a coffee and water. Antonny leaves his guitar, flips the cup, tosses the saucer and spoon. He pours the water with a flourish, then flips the glass, while full, and spills nothing. (I wonder at the messes Antonny has wrought while teaching himself to perform these barcrobatics.) The young man watches tolerantly as if it were normal for a barista to behave in this way and represents something to be quietly endured. Of course, it is normal – at Blue Bar.

A few more minutes on the guitar, the ceramicist from down the street arrives for an afternoon something hot in a cup. He smiles and nods; I’m starting to become familiar. The two men admire the luxurious camellias on the counter. Antonny, flips, tosses, fills, then drops the cup he’s delivering. It spills and smashes, and scatters across the floor.

The ceramicist, without a beat, goes to the broom closet (well-hidden in a corner) sweeps up the glass, returns for a dust pan, and once the floor is clear, returns again for a mop. Antonny swabs the counter and refills the order. They talk their way through, teasing and blaming each other. In retrospect, I regret not having anticipated the dustpan. I would have liked to have been a part of the communal clean up.

“Be sure you’re here for summer,” Antonny says to me a little later, “there’ll be music on the street in front. You’ll help me with my words, yes?” I agree to do that. I tell him it is my plan, or at least my hope, to be here this summer. “It’s nice in Orvieto, you know, but the people can be boring. You don’t think so?”

I recharge my phone at the tabaccaio. A woman with a shrieking voice tries to make herself understood by increasing volume. I ask the tabaccaio if he can check my phone’s credit (he can’t,) and two young men shout questions about lottery tickets. He’s a bit harried.

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