Category: View

I woke at about 2:00 am with a terrible stomach ache. I lay in bed for awhile calculating what time it must be on the East Coast. Polls in New York closing about now. I took an antacid. No effect. Finally, I got up at about quarter to three, may as well check Facebook, news sites, see what’s going on. Nothing yet. Too early. Took Maalox, that helped, went back to bed.

Had a dream that Hillary won. Not a huge win like I was imagining might happen, just a gentle one, celebrated deftly and with humility as would be the delivery of a beautiful cappuccino first thing in the morning at your favorite bar. I’m not embroidering, here, that was the dream.

I awoke again at 6:30 and the news, as we all know, was quite different.

More than anything, I wanted to be out in my lovely Orvieto. The people here balance me. Friend Roy posted on Facebook. He was at Capitano del Popolo, I posted back, stay! I’ll be there in a minute.

He sat, pinked-eyed, said he’d been on the verge of tears all morning. My reaction was more of the numb and tight-throated type. Perhaps resisting tears, I don’t know. I’m not always in touch with where my emotions want to take me. We sat, sipped, wondered, hoped, despaired, and metaphorically scratched our heads. Roy is one of the best conversationalists I’ve ever met, yet it was difficult sometimes to continue. Words don’t always serve. But this morning the connection with someone who spoke my mother tongue was my first need, and Roy is so honest and true.

Back in the piazza, we were joined by a couple of other distraught Americans. I excused myself, and went on to the farmacia. The tight throat was partly emotional, partly because I’ve been experiencing a lot of stubborn mucous, so I asked the nice lady there (one of them, anyway) for a remedy.

I asked how she was feeling. “Okay. Not so good. I dunno.” Yeah. It’s a tough day. “The election?” Yep. “I’m devastated, disappointed, astonished, have no words.” I heard senza parole in both languages quite regularly this morning. But finding the words is somehow important. They create realities, and in the midst of the unreal, discovering them again helps us regain a balance. “And I have to speak carefully, because I am afraid.”

I left for Blue Bar. Antonio, the waiter at Ristorante Il Cocco was out front cleaning the storm drain. I have said hello and admired this young man for years. He works at whatever is in front of him with the concentration of an artist, always, and with joyful absorption. We’d not met or been introduced, but nonetheless have always waved and smiled whenever we passed. Last spring, on my last day here, he walked up and shook my hand. “We should know one another’s names.” We don’t know much more than that these six months later, but an exchange with him is always valued.

“How are you?” So, so. “Yeah, but the weather seems…” No, not the weather. “Oh! Yeah. I know. Affected me the same way. I’d started to forget about the U. S. election, it seemed a foregone conclusion, then suddenly, Trump. I have no words,” and he proceeded, as we all have done, to try to find some anyway. “This is a great danger to the world. But we can’t stop working, can we?” We shook hands again. That picked me up a notch.

Blue Bar was my destination. Antonny would be an oddly steadying influence in his highly animated fashion. The counter was strewn with dishes and cups. The performer, the clown, the affectionate teddy bear that Antonny is, was fully engaged. “Everyone in here because of Trump! Very busy, all a mess.” He was flying, but not because he was happy about the election. “World War Three” he said while making his lower jaw tremble, his favorite expression of fear and sadness. “I have no words.”

Keagan was at the bar. He’s the son of an American mother (who lives nearby) was born in the U. S., but raised here. His English is exceptional. “I have no words, either. My mother can’t believe it. It’s a dangerous development, also for us.” It seems to me that the next few weeks are going to be tumultuous. “In Italian we say, chi vivrà, vedrà. Whoever’s alive will find out.” Antonny enthused that they have the same expression in France. “In America?”

Had I been able to formulate a response, it may have been this: “In the two-hundred fifty or so years since the birth of the Republic, Italy and France have been through numerous political and cultural upheavals, have survived wars and catastrophes of every kind. Perhaps, the U. S. just hasn’t needed that expression yet. But somehow, a lot of Americans have come to fear that things are dire enough that we do. And maybe will.” But there were no words.

The phrase touches on the existential core of why I feel as I do, today. The events of the last few hours are a reminder that we all have to give up the story at some point, pass it on to others. I can imagine a dozen horrible outcomes from this day, ones that will haunt the planet for decades. I can imagine that all my work is worthless. It is that imagining, and the fears it engenders, that has brought us to this point, and we mustn’t indulge in that imagining, no matter who we are, any further. It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy and fails to make the story we pass on more interesting.

A friend’s wife who is suffering dementia was in the next room with her caregiver. She smiled as I came in. I half envied her at that moment. As I left, she smiled again, and we spoke Italian to one another, how glad we were to see each other, that kind of thing. “Give me a kiss.” I’d love to. And a hug? “And a hug.” I kissed her on the cheek and hugged her. Still smiling, “That was a nice kiss.”

I returned my dishes to the counter – American behavior, comporatmento americano, they call it here. My friend’s wife turned to Antonny and asked him for a kiss. He was immediately forthcoming with both kiss and hug. He returned to the counter. I told him that she had asked me for a kiss, too. “We are rivals, then! She cannot love us both! This is very serious, Mr. Zarko.” He winked, threw a saucer up his back and caught it over his shoulder, then pulled a coffee.

When a group of us first stayed at Casalini summer of 1995, I suggested, based on my experience of twenty years prior, that we not bother renting a car. Bus and train service is excellent, I told them. Well, it was. In the meantime, the Italian government, in an effort to encourage its citizens to buy newer, safer, more efficient automobiles, subsidized their purchase, and suddenly people who could never have afforded anything that would take them reliably beyond local shopping, had station wagons. And public transport became more about commuting than about travel.

When I was here forty years ago, you could take a bus or a train just about anywhere, most anytime of the day or night. Perhaps my memory exaggerates reality, but I do vividly recall going ten kilometers, by train, from Firenze to Prato to catch a play at nine, and returning well after midnight. In 1995, that was no longer possible. [The first of five tram lines has since been built that connects Firenze with nearby cities; it runs continuously from 6 am to 1 am.]

After a few days of trying to conform to my halcyon memories with scant success, we rented a car. The clown car, we called it. Piaggio, the company that makes motor scooters, had just come out with its first (and last) automobile. It was a van in shape and intent, but not necessarily in the usual meaning of the word. It would seat eight, we were told, and could be rented on an introductory offer for something like $180 for two weeks. A bargain and we took it. It wasn’t all that comfortable, and it took hills with the power of a commercial sewing machine, but it carried us to Siena and back, and was very fuel efficient, indeed.

Consequently, every other time I’ve stayed at Casalini, I’ve opted for automotive transportation. Just getting there without it can be a chore. This time, I could not bear either the expense nor the… what? responsibility?.. of driving, anywhere, particularly in a rental, for any reason. So I decided to wing it. It would shape my days and change my experience, but perhaps for the better.

As I was in La Romola for two nights only, there was neither need nor desire to heavily invest in foodstuffs. Even a bottle of water seemed frivolous. Regards breakfast, Maria Teresa explained that there are two bars in town, the white and the red one. I thought she meant building color. No, the red bar is Italian Communist, the white, Social Democrat. Only an Italian can discern the difference, either between bars or political philosophies, but somewhere, perhaps buried in upheavals of the past, a difference does exist. For me the only important distinction was that the red bar serves breakfast. A cappuccino and a richly flavored cornetto presented by a friendly young man began my day, plus a look at one of the newspapers scattered across the tables (over red table cloths, the only hint of Communist décor.)

I bought a sandwich at the alimentari on the way back to Casalini. It consisted of three slices of pecorino fresco on a hard roll, and promised to be dull, but I ate half as a snack a couple of hours later and found it delicious.

At about eleven, I decided to walk to a neighboring town on the hope that one of them would have more on offer than bar food. The directional and distance signs told me that Cerbaia was four kilometers, and Chiesanuova, in the opposite direction, was three.

In 1995, two of us (myself included) walked down to Cerbaia. We later discovered that we’d taken the long way. It looked good on the map. The day was hot, the sun intense, and the climb back seemed incredibly steep. But was it gorgeous? Yes, it was gorgeous. My friend and I still trade memories of that walk.

So, I was inclined to take the road to Cerbaia, but first, I checked Google Maps. It told me that Cerbaia, using the route estimated as four kilometers on the sign, was 2.7 kilometers and 37 minutes away. Chiesanuova, shown as three kilometers, was 4.2 kilometers and almost an hour.

I think the people who make distance signs – here, there and everywhere – come into a town, ask how far is Cerbaia, for instance, and round up or down on whatever they’re told. I suspect in Italy, the rationale goes something like this: “if it’s downhill, and we round up, people will arrive sooner than expected and everyone likes that, while if it’s uphill and we round down the climb will feel less arduous.” Luigi Barzini wrote that Italian trains used to keep their clocks ten or fifteen minutes slow so that they would seem to arrive on time. Such accommodations to reality are humorous to us humorless Americans, but here they’re common sense. Life can be hard. People need to feel good. End of story. Nice sentiment, but I’m not sure I buy it.

So, I walked to Cerbaia for lunch. While on Google Maps, I had also researched where to eat. There were two places that appeared to be open, one with the appealing name of La Tenda Rossa, the red tent.

The walk was even more gorgeous than I remembered, aided I think by autumn, fresh breezes, dramatic clouds, and newly plowed fields. It was also mostly downhill, which meant one of two things, depending on your point of view; I would be ascending on a full stomach, or, I would be climbing newly nourished. I decided not to project artificial distinctions.

I arrived in Cerbaia right on time according to Google’s prediction, and within a couple of meters of joining the main road, was treated to a directional sign for the same road, going back; La Romola, two kilometers. Half the distance returning uphill than it is coming down. My suspicions about sign methodology seemed validated.

The restaurant I had enjoyed in May 2015 – and that I imagined might be the one appealingly named La Tenda Rossa – I could not find. Perhaps I confused Cerbaia with another town, possibly San Casciano which is six kilometers on. And once I arrived in town I could not for the life of me remember either restaurant’s name, though as soon as I left, they leaped to mind.

So, after ten or fifteen minutes of being unable to inquire about the places whose names I’d forgotten, I found a natural foods store. I asked if they had items I could assemble into a lunch. She had a better idea. “Go to Casa del Popolo,” (another red establishment?) “They’ll put together a nice lunch for you there.” She took me out front, pointed, and promised I’d recognize the building by the two columns at the main entrance. I recognized it just standing there. It was the same place my friend and I were referred to on our walk twenty-one years ago.

I had my doubts, however. I vaguely recalled something uninviting and complicated about dining at the Casa, and I’m not sure we ever got past that. But, I was hungry and six kilometers away from the next possible source of food, so I took the option at hand.

The place was exactly as I remembered it. Its formal name is Arci Babilonia and except for at that moment, is quite a lively community center. The main lobby, which was practically deserted, holds a rather large airport-style bar with meager offerings. I resigned myself to an industrially wrapped tramezzino, when a gentleman of about my age came over and pointed to a homemade sign on an obscure door hidden in a corner to the right that had scrawled on it in red magic marker “pizzeria.” Oh!

I followed him into an alternate reality.

The place was larger than the door had promised, and bustling. It looked like a coffee shop at a provincial American college; sparse and institutional, but clean. A small counter had computer-generated signs in plastic sleeves hanging above it that described the selection of pizzas and their prices. As I looked up to formulate an order, an extremely gracious man with multiple piercings asked if I wanted a table. I stammered in my attempt to ask if there was table service; the university association had wiped that possibility, and most of my Italian vocabulary, right out of mind. He invited me to take a seat.

He soon returned carrying a pad and a piece of note paper. On the note paper were written the choices for lunch. “No pizza, today.” No? “No.” Instead, they had four pastas (including rice) with four choices of sauce, mix as you may, several side dishes (including salads) and five or six main courses. I chose rice with mushroom sauce and sauteed spinach.

The meal he delivered was among the best I have ever eaten. The rice with mushrooms was beautiful to look at, the flavors rich and varied, and the was spinach was perfectly cooked, not mushy, not tough, with just enough garlic to give it a tang. Even the oil they served to dress it with was exceptionally good. On the placemat it seemed to say that service was handled by volunteers from the “association.” I became unsure of my status there. Was I an interloper who, because of my linguistic blackout, was permitted to stay, or are they lax about the rules? Or are there any rules at all? Or was it Communism, realized?

I went up to the counter to pay the man who had lead me in, and began to verbally report my lunch. He stopped me with a command, holding up his figure and wagging it, “No! The table number.” I screwed my head around to find it. He announced it first – in a way that showed that he’d known all along, but that I had to play by at least one simple rule – and identified my tag; €6.40. I paid, thanked him, and reported the meal excellent. He laughed as if any superlative beyond buono was absurd.

The way up to La Romola was not at all arduous and the sign was correct; half the distance as the way coming down. I ascended newly nourished.

Yesterday afternoon after lunch at Casalinga and the walk up to San Miniato, I had three hours before my bus to La Romola and two hours before there was any reason to pick up my pack at the pensione. I needed a place to sit, so I walked to Piazza della Santa Trinita where stands a large, official-looking, Renaissance structure with built-in benches on all sides, and found a comfortable spot by the front door where the frame juts out to afford a place to lean. In the piazza, is a monumental column surmounted by a statue holding a scale and a sword, perhaps an Italian representation of Justice. If so, Justice here is not blind.

At the base of the column, a fellow played a pleasant, if rather lame, accordion for coins in the hat. The piazza is always filled with people walking in all directions, carriages, women on bicycles, the occasional young man on roller blades, the errant automobile or scooter, children, and dogs. They were out in droves, no order, no lanes, crisscrossing at will. To these American eyes it looked treacherous, but everyone simply paid attention. I watched for a happy quarter of an hour.

Then a round fellow – who wore a thick gold necklace resembling a Celtic torque, but was otherwise attired in the international uniform of blue jeans and pullover – began to negotiate with the accordionist. With him was a slender young man with the most immaculately trimmed sideburns I have ever seen. He was carrying a small wooden case, his larger friend, a guitar. The slender one sat down immediately to my right. In the moment of his arrival, a marvelous looking woman close to my age rode up on her bicycle and stopped to discuss something with him. She was layered in skirts and shawls and jewelry, all in shades of brown and tan, and sported a broad-brimmed felt hat. Many of the ladies in Firenze who ride bicycles are similarly dressed. I don’t know how it is that their skirts do not continually catch in the bicycle’s chain, but they don’t. They lend a wondrous quality to the ongoing parade.

The young man with guitar put up a music stand, (the accordionist had closed shop) tuned, and strummed a few introductory chords. His strumming provided background to my people watching, but when he began to sing I was startled into focussing again on him. He had a voice so sweet, and at the same time, so penetrating, that my first instinct was to search out a microphone. There was none. Yet, even when his back was turned his voice was clear and bell-like. Everyone in the piazza began to tap and sway, or to walk in time to his music. At the end of the first song, the young man to my right clapped a muffled clap; he wore knit gloves with the finger tips cut out. I joined him. Thereafter, each song received generous applause and the guitar case gradually filled with coins.

Three or four songs later, the young man with the sideburns opened his wooden box. It was an artist’s kit, palette already smeared with color. He fiddled for awhile, closed it again, and observed. A few minutes more, he moved immediately to my left, reopened the box, set up a piece of canvas board, and began to sketch the scene before him with diluted paint. His moves with the brush were easy, free, and relaxed, flicking and spreading thinned color as he massed out the scene. A young woman in front of me moved behind him to take a photo. Nothing affected his concentration.

A large man with his head shaved to reveal a scalp as wrinkled as the face of one of those Chinese dogs – the name of which I forget – sat just below and between us. With him was the most remarkable little girl. Over her blue jeans, she wore a red plaid dress and a bright yellow sweater buttoned at the top. She sat and moved and observed with easy authority, touching her father gently on the arm or leg as if to provide comfort. While he seemed a good dad, at that moment he also seemed oblivious to what a special child accompanied him. Along with the young woman and a dozen or so others, the little girl quickly developed an avid interest in the artist to my left. Her dad warned her not to disturb with a single, mumbled, “no.” She returned to the step next to him for about thirty seconds, then was up again to admire the artist as he coaxed his picture to life. His concentration never wavered. I think she knew it wouldn’t. There is something of the same concentration already alive in her.

The singer drew confidence from the swaying and tapping and applause, and stepped further into the piazza, giving his performance more dance and strut. Carriages passed, bicycles, strollers with babies, dogs straining at their leashes, the young, the old, the quick, the slow; all moved more easily, and more happily, as a result of his song.

Then, as if spit out from Dante’s Inferno, arrived a Schmidt; the little street sweepers used here that are identified by that lonely name printed in bold, black letters on a large field of white. It circled the monument, roaring its righteous call to purity like a modern Savonarola. The positions of the crowds would not let it sweep where the litter lay – and thus it must always be except for late at night or early in the day – but that did not convince it to move on and let us have our music. It continued to circle, went up the street a way, turned, and looped; back and forth, back and forth. Our singer surrendered and stowed his guitar. The Schmidt, victorious, moved on down the corso.

“Can’t compete with the sanitation department,” the singer said. He was American. I went over to his case, and dropping a two euro coin, gave him a thumbs up. He thanked me with grazie, I offered prego in return. He checked out his friend’s painting, now beginning to show depth and detail, and voiced his approval. I wanted to tell him how lovely his voice is, but couldn’t decide what language to use – as if it mattered. Or as if an imaginary language barrier were my shield and protection.

It was mid-afternoon on Monday when I decided to take a trip to Firenze. I had run out of gigabytes, so I went to Blue Bar to use their wifi to check train schedules and find lodging. The idea of leaving Orvieto terrified me, but I needed to. Sunday morning’s quake rattled more than dishes, and I couldn’t find my balance. I felt that a trip might help. Plus, I’d promised Maria Teresa I’d visit in November, and on Tuesday it became November.

Maria Teresa runs an agriturismo called Casalini with her son and daughter-in-law in the tiny village of La Romola, eleven kilometers southwest of Firenze. She immediately replied to my request for a room. It’s olive harvest and they don’t take guests during olive harvest, she explained, but an exception will be made for a friend. Because I’d be arriving in Firenze too late for a bus to La Romola, I took the cheapest room I could find in centro storico, tucked as little as possible into my small backpack, and was on the 6:30 train to Stazione Santa Maria Novella.

The pensione where I booked a room phoned while I was waiting for the funicular to take me to Orvieto station. “We are a small place,” the woman explained in beautiful English, “so when do you expect to be here?” I couldn’t recall an exact time, so I told her around eight. “Then call a half hour before you arrive so we can make sure the room is prepared.” I called as soon as I got my ticket and knew the arrival time, also to ask for directions. The booking website didn’t list an address, only that it was “in centro.” She described their location as being “just off Piazza del Duomo.”

By the time I stood in Piazza del Duomo a couple of hours later, I’d forgotten if I was to face the Duomo or the Battistero to orient myself, and the clock snuck past my announced arrival time while I looked around in confusion. She called to see where I was. “Look up,” she said, after pointing me in the right direction, “See the crazy lady waving from the top floor window?” She buzzed me in, and I climbed four flights to Soggiorno Battistero. “There’s an elevator, why didn’t you take the elevator?” Because I enjoy climbing stairs? “Okay, but next time take the elevator, it’s not dangerous.” The room was small, very comfortable, and the view from its only window was of the heart of the Italian Renaissance (see photo.)

I stashed my stuff and hit the streets. It was after nine by then, day tourists had left, and the crowds seemed mostly local. There were witches and demons of all ages prowling the piazzas, whether by tradition or as an adaptation of the American holiday, I don’t know. A mood of festivity prevailed, and there was the joy of pretending to be someone a little weird. Not all of us have to wear costumes to do that.

Oh, but the light! Street lighting has improved since the 1970’s. All of centro storico is now illuminated like a stage set, but tastefully so, nothing self-conscious or strained, just good lighting that takes full advantage of the surrounding darkness. The yellow lamps from the 70’s are mostly gone, replaced by ones that mimic daylight. The effect is gorgeous beyond description.

And the glory restored! In 1975, Firenze looked a bit like the rundown capital of a developing country. As much of Orvieto is today, plaster was cracked and crumbled, stone gouged or missing, the streets uneven and littered. Now plaster is smooth and fresh in color, stone crisply restored, streets clean and in good repair. The city is wealthy again, and displays all the gorgeous detail that wealth can afford.

And the fresh night air! All my visits of the past twenty years have been in summer, mostly between the hours of 10 am and 10 pm when the city is flooded with tourists, and sweltering. The final night in October is a wholly different experience. I walked for hours in comfort, turning onto streets shared by only by two or three others.  Most of them seemed equally enthralled, even the locals.

Tuesday, I woke shortly after five, opened the shutters, and was greeted by a view of an utterly empty Piazza del Duomo. I showered as quickly as was safe and was on the street by six. Two hours to breakfast, I was going to enjoy the magic.

There were only two of us in the breakfast room, and I sat next to her at another table so as not to force conversation. After a few minutes of this nonsense, I asked if she spoke English. She was from Tennessee, in Firenze with her husband for a week. They were in the middle of a seven week, self-guided tour of Italy. We spoke of long distance European hiking trails with accommodations a half day apart that provide good beds, hot showers, and solid meals. I suggested they hike up to San Miniato, a marvelously preserved Romanesque church above the city near Piazzale Michelangelo. She suggested I check my pack with the pensione so I didn’t have to lug it around all day.

After breakfast, I went to the bus station to buy at ticket for La Romola. At the ticket window, one of the warmest men I’ve ever encountered broke the news that the day’s only remaining bus left the city nine hours later. A day at liberty in Firenze without luggage. Could be worse.

My wanderings took me to parts of town I’d not been in since 1975, and beyond. I flirted with the more modern sections outside the old walls, but traffic forced me back. There is plenty of wandering and wondering to do within the walls, why put up with the roar of angry-sounding machines? I located the best route to my favorite trattoria, Casalinga, near Piazza Santo Spirito, so I could gauge how much time it would take to return exactly at noon. I had my reasons.

In 1975, I lunched at Casalinga almost every day and every now and then, dined as well. A full meal, in its single, vaulted-ceiling room, came in at under two thousand lire at a time when the dollar traded for eight hundred. The clientele were crafts and repairmen from the neighborhood, artists, professors, and a smattering of students. Service was provided by a round fellow with curly black hair named Paolo. He squeezed between closely set chairs and tables made closer still by standing clientele waiting for a seat, often carried three plates to an arm, took orders from across the room, and never, ever lost his happy manner.

A month or two after I arrived, seating was expanded by five or six tables along the side behind the front counter, and a waiter was hired who, according to everyone, was the worst in the history of Firenze. Paolo’s response was, sure, he’s terrible, but who else is gonna hire him? When I found the place again twenty years later, who should be in the front window but the worst waiter in the world. He waited on us in 2008, and I must say, he had improved. I didn’t see him yesterday. Perhaps he retired.

The handful of times I’ve visited since 1995, I’ve wanted to say something to Paolo, but he was always busy and I was never confident that I could work my way through a sentence before he had to run off. Yesterday, as planned, I was on the street at the front door when they opened at noon. “Paolo,” I called as he led me to a table in yet another new room (there are now four), he turned, curious as to how I knew his name. I told him about 1975 and my admiration for him as a waiter. “A long time ago,” he said, then with typical Florentine irony, “and I’m sure you’ve noticed that both me and place have gone to hell.” I laughed. He patted me on the shoulder, grinned, and prepared for the lunch rush.

The food is excellent, even better than I recall, and three courses with water came to twenty euro. After my waiter distributed bills to other foreign diners, he came to my table and said something I interpreted as “We’re taking a pause now distributing bills, Paolo…” something, something, something. So, I sat. After several minutes of not knowing how I was supposed to pay, the other waiter said, only half joking, “Sta ancora? Vai via!” You’re still here? Go away! Finally, I succeeded in hailing my waiter and explained my confusion. He laughed. “You’re a regular, pay at the front counter, pay Paolo, like you did in the old days.” I practically wept. Paolo and I shook hands at the end of the transaction. “A prossima,” he said. Until next time.

After indulging in a gelato at Vivoli (still the best) I followed my own advice and hiked up towards Piazzela Michelangelo to visit my favorite church in the world. There is no describing San Miniato. Go visit. You’ll love it or you won’t, but either way it’s worth the climb. It’s open 9 – 15 every day. No charge.

I arrived on the bus for Montespertoli via La Romola early, thanks to a driver who thought he was in a sports car, and Maria Teresa invited me to dine with her at home. We talked for three hours. Her Italian is elegant and standard, such a relief after a day among Fiorentini. Having enjoyed teaching for the three or four years before her marriage, she corrected my more egregious errors with relish. She is also a font of information about Toscana, its culture, history, and contribution to the world. And she has a wonderful sense of humor.

Maria Teresa lost her husband about six months ago. At one point, I looked away for a few seconds, and my first sight of her when I returned my gaze revealed a vanished smile and a stare focussed elsewhere. So, we spoke of Roberto. I didn’t know him well, but every experience of him was memorable. He was warm, kind, funny, and vigorous. On the evening after All Souls, we discussed the importance of keeping the departed close and alive in the heart.

Many years ago, I traveled for several weeks through Turkey with four guys from Germany. In Izmir, we visited the bazaar as they were eager to buy embroidered sheepskin coats, all the rage at the time for both men and women. But the coats were more expensive than they had been told to expect, so we wandered from stall to stall, window shopping, as it were. After a half hour or so a young man approached us. “Follow me, I’ll take you to the factory.” We looked at each other and shrugged. Why not? There are five of us, one of him, we’re probably safe. Ah, youth.

We followed him out of the bazaar and down a few blocks to a large five or six story building, up several long flights of stairs, and into a vast room where sheepskin coats were indeed being created. We were introduced to a man who seemed to be the owner. All the right biographical questions were asked in all directions, some in German, some in English. We were offered soft drinks and snacks, coffee and tea, as we sat on divans surrounded by hundreds of coats. For almost an hour, nothing was said of our reason for being there.

Then, on an invisible cue, the owner and his associates invited us to try on coats. Several were examined. Prices were quoted in the $250 – $300 range. That was rejected, and my friends began the apologies and shuffles of calling an end to the session. The owner, also most apologetic, began to show us out. Another man came over at a fast pace as if to deliver a message, and said something softly to the owner. “But wait, perhaps we can do something for you after all!” More snacks, more conversation, more drinks at divans. “So, what would you consider a favorable price?” Oh, a lot less than $250. “Well, try more coats, perhaps we will find a number you enjoy.”

This dance continued into the evening. After about four hours of chatting, eating, and trying on coats, my friends all walked out with one of their choosing; the top price paid – $18. The fellow we had met in the bazaar accompanied the five of us, victorious and giddy with our newfound skill at bargaining, down to the street. At the first landing, he drew us close in confidence. “You did okay, these are okay prices. But I am going to tell you a secret. In Turkey, never buy anything the first day. You paid double today what you would have paid tomorrow. You were too eager, and they took advantage of that.”

Orvieto, Italy 2016 is not Izmir, Turkey 1972, but I suspect I would not run afoul of custom were I to bargain at certain stalls at the market in Piazza del Popolo. Instead, as a native Californian anxious to be perceived as agreeable and open, when a price is quoted I say that it is a very good price indeed and pay it. In fact, compared to similar items I’ve bought in the past, the prices generally are good, but I suspect not quite as locked down as I take them to be.

The dance is alive here in other ways, too. An experience I had on the Gran Raccordo Anelare outside of Rome several years ago, still plays in my mind when I think of Italian culture. Something had caused a traffic jam, I forget what. All four lanes were slowed to a crawl. With no apparent signaling or confusion, the four lanes morphed into six, thereby allowing traffic to move at a slightly faster pace. When the source of the problem was reached, the six lanes re-morphed into five, circumvented the inconvenience, and stabilized at four. No panic, no alarm, no hysteria.

As an American Boomer, efforts on my parent’s part to teach me patience were ceaselessly countered by the burgeoning culture of distraction that surrounded me. So while I have always theoretically ascribed to the virtue of patience, its practice has been elusive. When something provokes, surprises, or intimidates me, I am more of the disposition to wade in without consideration for consequences, than I am to weigh in on the best approaches. There is, to be sure, an advantage at a certain point in learning a language, at least, to simply open your mouth and hope for the best. But there is also advantage in acknowledging the dance that is expected to happen, and not short-circuiting those expectations because I believe my view of what should happen to be so obviously “correct.” This applies to everything from buying a frying pan to trying out new words or making new friends. What seems spontaneous and open to me, is often perceived by others as suspiciously abrupt, or just plain odd. What seems like appropriate back and forth to others, feels like dragging of feet to me, or outright rejection.

I didn’t buy a sheepskin coat that day in Izmir because I was traveling with a backpack and had no desire to carry more than I already had. But in the next few months I did find a coat for about thirty-five dollars, though I cannot remember where. It was an affectation to have such a thing in Felton, California, where I lived at the time. Never did I use it for warmth. I wore very light clothes under the coat, left it open, and employed it for grand entrances. I imagine I looked pretty good with my long hair untied, sporting a pair of aviator shades, even at night.

In 1995, desperately missing Italian life, I organized what would become the first of various groups to spend a several weeks vacation or study trip in Italy. Because we were mostly Americans, my very slight blush of Italian usually made of me a group’s designated speaker. Like the coat, it was an affectation, but, also like the coat, an enjoyable one. In the process I picked up habits and words that do not exist outside of my mind.

Today in class, I ventured to use a slang I had heard somewhere (possibly in New Jersey, now that I think of it; not the best place to learn standard Italian) substituting the slightly too-formal word for food, cibo, with the imaginary slang, la mangia. Yes, you may use cose da mangiare as a more casual alternative, but la mangia, while hilarious and amusing, it is not at all useful. An affectation. Such a small thing, but seeing that bit of inaccurate arcana slide into the sea was as painful as it was a relief.

One night, my Felton housemates and I went dancing. I wore the sheepskin coat, and apparently cut quite a figure walking in for someone watching. We hung, had a couple of beers, dancing was done, and when we decided to move on the coat was no longer where I had left it. My friends were outraged. I had the same reaction as today when I lost my imaginary slang – with a dizzying mix of humiliation and relief, I watched as an affectation fell into the sea.

And so it goes in Orvieto. The experience of learning the cultural dance is as much a piecemeal letting go as it is a gradual taking on. I have a house and garden I love, and they are much, much smaller (and manageable) than anything I’ve had to reside in for fifteen years. Sometimes it startles me to be living so simply and precisely, but mostly I feel that once again I can breathe. What was all that acquisition about, anyway? Anything to do with the disquieting roar I keep hearing in the distance? Oh right, that is the sound of affectations crashing into the sea. Happily, I’m told they’re swiftly biodegradable.

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 not among 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 make yourself ready to 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.

A non-specific ache has bothered me for several months. Sometimes in my lower right jaw, sometimes upper, sometimes – just to keep the intrigue alive – it showed up in my left jaw. It never lasted long and there were weeks without any ache at all. I asked a dentist in the States about it. He ground a tooth down by less than a millimeter, and said it was nothing to worry about.

Then last Friday at lunch I bit into a delicious slice of hot pizza and discovered, without any ambiguity, the source of pain. As my dentist Giuseppe is in the next street over from where I live, I took myself there, posthaste. I told one of his assistants that I had experienced a sudden pain in a tooth. She clucked and immediately began to call other patients to find one who could change an appointment. Three calls, and she put me down for Monday at noon.

For Friday’s supper at Montanucci with friends, following conventional wisdom for when one has a toothache, I ordered soup. Wrong. The tooth was, as it turned out, not sensitive to pressure but to heat. I poured all the croutons into the soup plate, and after they absorbed the broth was able to finish my meal in relative comfort. On Saturday, sensitivity expanded to include cold and pressure. On Sunday it was better. By Monday morning I was wondering if I had been faking the whole thing, though I was stumped as to what advantage there was in pretending to myself that I have a toothache.

Because things often work that way, my appointment at the questura, or police station, for my permesso di soggiorno was also on Monday – at 10:50. Two things back to back, neither of which I could change or be late for. I had to pay an unanticipated fee for the permesso application, which meant dashing up to the post office after my time at the questura, and back again to prove payment. That I had allowed my anxiety regards time to coax me into an early arrival for my appointment turned out to be a good thing. I had ample leisure to walk home, make a couple of required copies, and take a photo before returning to the questura with my receipt, then strolling on to Giuseppe’s.

As I turned into a cross street, I passed the young man who had waited on me Friday evening. There was a moment of “do we know each other well enough to nod?” We decided to politely respect one another’s privacy.

I arrived in Via Montemarte and rang Giuseppe’s bell. The young man I’d passed a few minutes earlier passed again. I turned to ring just in time to avoid another decision about nodding, but this time it felt not polite, but evasive. I was buzzed into Giuseppe’s newly remodeled waiting room, and took a seat.

After a few minutes, someone else buzzed. I was gazing into a corner, contemplating tight schedules, as the dental assistant who had made the appointment possible came in, perhaps returning from an early lunch. Out of the corner of my eye I saw her greet me, but I was too late in looking up to return it. I have a notion that people here don’t space out much. I don’t much anymore myself, but when I do and miss an opportunity to acknowledge someone’s greeting, I feel bad.

A few minutes later a tall gentlemen of an advanced age strode out of Giuseppe’s office. He had a magisterial quality, was obviously in wonderful health, and physically very graceful. Giuseppe soon followed, looked me in the eye, shook my hand, and invited me into his office. I always feel honored to see him. He’s so utterly competent, focused, and relaxed at the same time (see Dental Health for a more whimsical – though still accurate – description.)

I explained as best I could what had been bothering me. This is stuff I rehearse even in English where I more or less have the vocabulary. When I describe symptoms I always feel like I’m complaining, and even though I can whine and complain with the best of them, I never like myself after I do, so conversations with medical professionals are usually awkward and inadequate. But I got through the basics. Giuseppe poked around a bit, then tapped the suspected tooth with the end of a metal tool. That’s it! He moved in for a closer examination.

“There is an old-style amalgam filling that is falling apart,” he said in Italian, “and a possibility that the tooth is fractured. There may also be an infection, and it may need a root canal.” Oh, boy! “Are you following this?” More or less. “Okay, in English,” and he repeated it all with me helping him out with a word here and there. “I’m sorry for my English.” I’m sorry for my Italian. “I’m trying to learn French so… it… I don’t know how to say it.” They get mixed up? “That’s it.” I wanted to say that the same happens to me, but as there was no third language involved couldn’t figure out how that would work, so remained silent.

“He’s 83 years old.” The man who just left? “Very tall, strong. He was my judo instructor was I was ten.” I hope I’m in as good a shape as he is when I’m seventy. “Oh, yes. I’d be happy to be that healthy now.”

Returning to the tooth, Giuseppe explained that he would remove the filling to better know its condition, then possibly make a hole so that any infection could be dealt with. He donned his gear, his male assistant joined him, and they set to work. The assistant had cleaned my teeth early last March. As he entered the office I missed his acknowledgement, as I had with the female assistant, this time because I assumed he couldn’t possibly remember me. As before, I felt bad for missing his greeting – disconnected. Someday I will learn never to underestimate the memory of an Orvietano.

Giuseppe is noted for his preparedness, and my experience with him bears that out. But this problem called for other more impromptu skills, and I can now attest to his excellence in those, as well. He isolated the tooth with a small rubber blanket and administered a pain killer that did its job without making my face numb. They went to work with such ease and intensity that all I could do is gaze up in admiration. Now and then a stab of pain reminded me that I was there for reasons other than appreciating expertise, but mostly I remained in awe.

After the first few minutes, Giuseppe took up an instrument unfamiliar to me, and said “Look at that.” Me? “Yes.” Where?  He pointed to an LCD screen next to the chair where my x-rays had previously been displayed. The cylinder in his hand was a camera, and the screen switched from shots of zebras and giraffes to one of my tooth. He explained what was what. Because he was wearing a full face mask – like a welder would, or riot police – whatever I might have understood was muffled beyond my ability to grasp, but the picture sure was interesting. I believe the bloodied line to the left was the predicted fracture.

They went back to work: lots of activity, many tools, liquids, routings, and twists. Occasional pain. The energy of their work had nothing in it that was overbearing or trying to prove itself. It was attentive, careful, and necessary. No apologies, no showing off, no rough behavior; just good clean care. I melted back into admiration as I watched their eyes, intensely focused.

At one point about half way through, another man came into the room. I eventually guessed he may have been Giuseppe’s lunch companion. They chatted and joked. Occasionally, when the work was routine, Giuseppe looked away and talked to his friend directly. Other people came and went, the same good energy prevailed. Then Giuseppe said something, detached, and left the final bits to the assistant.

“It was fractured,” he explained after releasing my tooth from its apron. “Giuseppe glued it back together and ground the tooth down so the fracture is less likely to reopen. We’ll check again in a few days, see if that worked. If not, then we’ll go to whatever the next best step might be.” He handed me a prescription for an antibiotic, and was off.

I wandered out to the waiting room. The dental assistant was there with her iPad. “He wants three more appointments, just in case they’re needed.” We found them stretched over the next five weeks. “Va bene, arrivederci.” Buona giornata, grazie! I wanted to bow, kiss her hand, and thank everyone in the office for being so wonderful, but they offered no opportunity. They were all off to the next thing, work as usual, and the grateful American was left standing alone surrounded by fresh, white plaster walls.

The real connection is, I guess – here, there, now, and always – between hearts and it is often silent. For this Californiano who grew up feeling that he has to be demonstratively “nice” at all times (no matter how often or how badly he fails) it is a steep lesson to learn that to shut up and be appreciative can be thanks enough.

Yes, Orvieto is beautiful, historic, perfectly sited, graced with wonderful civic amenities, home to a twice weekly market and dozens of mercatini throughout the year, and overflowing with cultural opportunities. So what? What keeps my motor going are daily encounters with people. I tell folks here that this is the closest I can come right now to moving back to New York. They laugh. I’m serious. I can’t afford New York any more. But living in Orvieto reminds me of a really great Manhattan neighborhood – or at least as they used to be. And that is fine with me.

Just now, my stomach told me without any equivocation that it was time for dinner. I have stuff I could have fixed, but it felt better (and quicker) to exit my garden, turn right down Via delle Pertiche, right again on Corso Cavour, and ten meters further into the pizza shop owned by a man whose name I don’t know and his son, whose name I also don’t know.

I figured out long ago that they are not of Italian ancestry. That the father (the smaller of the two) talks to me in a melange of languages ranging from Arabic to French to English, is a pretty good hint. But I think his son was raised here. He is tall and forever smiling, an infectious, welcoming smile. The kind of smile that makes a person feel that life is worth the risk. They make wonderful pizza; perfect crust, succulent, fabulously flavorful. They also offer felafel wraps and sandwiches, some of the best I’ve ever had, New York City included. They’re open from early morning to midnight, and are an open challenge to every minute I’ve ever even wanted to indulge in grumpiness or self-pity.

As I approached their shop, the father was out front munching on some of their own product and chatting with a man of about my age, who I of course immediately interpreted as being much older. The father waved his hand across the threshold when he saw me and said something about sand. I didn’t quite get it, but I suspected a traditional Arab greeting, there being a lot of sand in Arabia, or so I’ve concluded from my many formative years scanning National Geographic Magazines.

Behind the counter, the son pointed his knife at the various flavors on offer this evening, and identified each, briefly noting his favorites. I picked one with tomatoes. He gave me another slice of the same size, also with tomatoes, but a better edition according to him. I complimented him on their pizza. He replied that they sample everything. If it’s not perfect, they throw it out. “A system that works well,” I said. He smiled even more broadly and threw in a couple of small pieces of the funghi slice for free.

The father joined us, saying something I didn’t understand. “Parla arabo?” the son asked. We went back and forth on that one a dozen or so times until I understood that he was asking if I spoke Arabic. “Not in this lifetime,” I offered. “I barely speak Italian, barely speak English.” His grin grew wider.

On the way to my pizza experience, I ran into Puni, my neighbor Patrizia’s mother and Renzo’s mother-in-law. We traded niceties, then she told me, in Italian, “You have to trim that plant,” referring to a point somewhere above my mailbox. There is a violet growing in the wall there, and it is, granted, getting rather large, so I wracked my brain for how politely to say that I understood her concern, but I kind of liked it that way. “No!” she laughed when I finally was able to identify the plant I thought she was referring to. “The big one.” Oh! The apricot tree. “Yes! It’s way too big, needs pruning.” I agreed. Except for what I could reach to give a person some headroom, no one has pruned it in years. “If you don’t prune it, the roots will grow into the house!”

I explained to Puni that my family had apricot orchards in California, and best I can recall, they are best pruned in February. “Yes, February,” But it’s a science. You have to allow for the buds to begin to show so it will bear fruit come summer. I didn’t actually say all that in words, mind you, but she figured it out. “Renzo knows everything about plants.” Please mention something to him. “Oh, I will!”

Renzo is, at heart, an artist. Best I can tell, he is the force behind the seasonal decorations on Via delle Pertiche Prima; the lights and poles and swags at Christmas, the pots of flowers all year long, the banners during the big festivals. He’s the organizer. He collects the funds from neighbors, buys what’s needed, brings people together to do the actual decorating. And when the plants suffer, he replaces them. And when they become dry, he’s on his stepladder after work giving them water. He knows what they are called, not just in general, but the specific varietal of each. Somewhere off towards the west (or maybe it’s north) he has a garden. He pointed, I followed his finger, and he explained in his Orvieto accent exactly where it lay. I nodded. That’s where the bag of tomatoes that lasted me three weeks came from when he appeared at my gate one day. This is a neighbor mightily worth his salt. As a living, Renzo drives a truck for a construction enterprise.

The other neighbor who has a balcony overlooking my yard is called Marianna. She has a daughter of about 12 or 13 and a son of about 8. I hear their lives at full volume whenever they are in the kitchen, which is much of the time after five in the afternoon. The daughter waves when we catch one another’s eye, and she strikes me as bright and charming. The son hasn’t noticed me yet.

Marianna is almost unreasonably pretty, and when we converse between her balcony and my steps, has a sweet, melodious, flute-like voice. When she is speaking to her son, however, she’s all mamma; she makes her point, she doesn’t hold back, and sounds more oboe than flute. A concert oboe, a loud oboe. She has no choice. The son’s default tone is, as with many Italian boys his age, something between a sustained shout and a whine. Maybe because I can’t understand but a word here and there, it’s all music to me, and not only do I not mind, I rather enjoy it. As I climbed the outside steps after supper, mamma and son were both on the balcony painting the divan she’s cleverly designed from delivery pallets. He was murmuring something, she was cooing back, the crisis of a few minutes before having passed into love.

Earlier this evening I went to the “supermercato” – in quotes because it’s the size of a medium-large New York bodega. Perhaps because it remains open during the afternoon risposa and offers cleaning products, it’s granted a more exalted position in the hierarchy of Italian retail. It is run by a bunch of guys in their twenties. They work like demons, and are open twelve hours straight, every day, maybe even Sunday. (I never go in on Sunday because even if they don’t take their Sunday, I want to give it to them.)

The guys are always helpful, friendly, and courteous, each with a quality so distinct and memorable that going in is a little like a visit to an Umbrian Lake Woebegone. I have a feeling many people, especially foreign people, don’t try to make conversation. But I like these guys so much that I try always to ask them how they are, comment on something, inquire about a product I can’t find even if I don’t really need it. I can’t always elicit a response, but when I can it’s like childhood all over again.

Today I asked the fellow with the beard how he was doing. He explained that the change in weather was giving him some respiratory problems. I told him I seemed to be fighting a cold, as well. A simple exchange, but I, for one, felt as if something major had been achieved in international relations. When any of them pass in their Ape (two syllables, a little three-wheeled vehicle widely used for deliveries) we always wave and smile. The guy with the glasses who strides about town like a Renaissance prince in his red grocer’s smock, bows and gestures with a sweeping hand whenever we meet.

In consideration of space and your valuable time, I’m leaving out many others who are equally dear to me, but who I didn’t happen to see this evening. I honestly enjoy these people so much, and our simple relationships, that I sometimes hide at home for fear of coming off like a starstruck fool. Who needs the movies?

I think his name is Fabrizio. On his receipt the business is registered under Fabrizio Something – though it proves nothing, that could be his grandfather’s uncle. But it’s a good hunch, so let’s call him that for now. Although I’ve come to him whenever I was here over the years for dried fruits and nuts, and regularly since I’ve been living here, we never arrived at an exchange of names.

Because he’s kind, simpatico, and happy at what he does, all those I know who have visited Orvieto have specifically commented on Fabrizio and how he’s treated them with the most courtesy of anyone here. He deserves the stellar reputation.

During my last extended stay, I discovered that eating dried fruit has a marvelous effect on the regularity of eliminative functions, so I visited Fabrizio at least once a week for una manciata o due of dried apricots, strawberries (delicious!) kiwi, pineapple, and papaya. Those are my favorites. But it wasn’t just the dried fruit. Fabrizio likes doing things with a flourish. So, the plastic glove goes on with a snap, the handful of fruit is placed in the plastic bag with a twist of the wrist, and the bag is tied up with a few more rotations of the fingers than is physically necessary to do the job. Numbers on his cash register are punched with the sort of spritely rebound I imagine Franz Liszt may have cultivated for the piano.

Great entertainment coupled with genuine kindness is rare and worthy of praise.

Fabrizio has had Competition. Another vendor of pretty much the same stuff occupied a stall right around the corner. But while Fabrizio’s stall was vast and protected by a canopy that folded out from his blue van, The Competition had a folding table crowded with plastic tubs and a beach umbrella. I shopped The Competition once when, as he later told me, Fabrizio thought it was going to storm and didn’t show. The Competition pointedly mentioned that his own fruit had no added sugar. As far as I knew, neither did Fabrizio’s. That business tactic rubbed me the wrong way, so afterwards if Fabrizio was ill or afraid of bad weather, I got along on what fruit I had.

Now to be sure, The Competition is very nice, the product was as good as – and in the case of the apricots that particular week, a little better than – Fabrizio’s, but the flair was not present, the conversation was conventional, and there was, even though it was Saturday, no “buona domenica” upon conclusion of business. I’m being picky, maybe even unfair, but that’s what insane loyalty does to a person.

Last spring as I readied to leave, I put the leftover dried fruit – my previous purchase from Fabrizio – in a sealed container and hoped for the best. When I returned three months later, it was still plump and soft, moist and delicious. So, I had no reason to visit Fabrizio until a couple of weeks ago. Besides, my first week here was the last week of the Folk Festival in Piazza del Popolo where the market is traditionally held, so all the stalls had been moved down to Piazza Cahen without anyone having informed me. (A shocking oversight.) A week later, the market returned to its customary piazza and I found my way back to purchase dried fruit and nuts, but I was cautious about stocking too much food with the house in chaos, so took only two handfuls of apricots and strawberries. Fabrizio seemed pleased to see me, we shook hands, he transacted business as usual, but – as I noted even then – with a little less flair and verve than is his custom.

I also noted that just one stall over was The Competition, now spread out in much the same manner and order as Fabrizio’s stall, with both a canopy and an equally lavish display. As I turned to leave, Fabrizio called me back. “I should tell you, I’m only here on Saturdays now, only on Saturday.” He seemed a bit stressed. There was no “buona domenica.”

I went back yesterday morning truly in need of several manciate of fruit. No blue van. The Competition was in, or very near, Fabrizio’s spot.

Now, this is the time of the feria. Everyone who can possibly manage it will take off work for up to a month sometime between mid-July and the end of October, and so may have Fabrizio. But because I am of the theatre, I prefer to imagine every possible variation of behind-the-scenes intrigue, just to be safe. Here’s one of my typical scenarios.

Licenses first granted to his family in the 15^th century were purloined by devious and malignant notaries who gather after midnight beneath Torre del Moro dressed in large-hooded cloaks to collect kick-backs from a vast fruit and nut syndicate that desires Fabrizio’s entrepreneurial demise for his having so openly enjoyed the vending of his product. All this anticipates resurgent family warfare, a bellicose remnant of medieval Orvieto when intramural struggles were the norm and clans built towers in order to protect their sundries from below and stone their enemies from above.  A desperate struggle ensues between the incomprehensible power of the corporate shill and the spunky little guy, followed by the defeat of our flourishing hero, and his wait – crouching bitter and glum in a protracted skulk beneath the steps of Palazzo del Capitano del Popolo – while he plots his terrible revenge.

That drama may not even distantly resemble reality, but who cares?  During this, the age of Facebook, reality proves increasingly difficult to pin down, anyhow.  To indulge, however, in a short fact-based(ish) speculation: none of the vendors is from Orvieto. They all have regular spots at markets all over the region. Fabrizio and The Competition may, in fact, have worked out some sort of trade; Thursdays in Orvieto for Mondays in Fabro. Fabrizio may be back at market in a week or two.

Or maybe he won’t. And what then?

That is why I find it most satisfying to picture myself seeking out Fabrizio’s home base to demonstrate my insane loyalty by renting a car for quarterly runs to purchase huge sacks of dried fruit that last three months in sealed containers. At a certain age, flourish and a hearty buona domenica is more than worth the trouble. In the meantime, and regards regular bowel movements, I will have to rely on fresh fruit and prayer, because damned if I’m going to shop The Competition until I know exactly what happened. Or such is my mood at the moment. As we know, even a short bout of constipation is capable of undermining the staunchest of resolves and the most fanatic of loyalties.

* * *

BREAKING NEWS: September 24, 2016

As I approached the mercato this morning, at about where Piazza Vivaria spills into Piazza del Popolo I caught a glimpse of the blue that distinguishes Fabrizio’s van. My heart (and my digestive tract) leapt in anticipation. And there he was, his goods spread out facing opposite from his usual direction and nose to nose with The Competition. The effect was similar, though not the same, as one of those aisles in an American supermarket where all the products are variations on a very slim theme, like potato chips.

He was doing a brisk business from others of his insanely loyal customers. When he glanced my way, there was a little jolt and smile of recognition. He served his product with the same joyous vitality and flair as ever. It was almost as good as reconnecting with a long lost cousin.

I was afraid you’d disappeared, I told him. “There was a little bit of trouble with my spot, but that’s all resolved. I’m here on Saturdays for sure.” The cloaked notaries sprung to mind, but I said nothing.  I got apricots, strawberries, papaya, and the good feeling of having a piece of my world slide back into place.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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