June 2005 and a Return to Italy
Two Weeks in the Niccone Valley
Friends
In an effort to wring every moment possible with friends I don't often see, after tea, I don my summer frock and straw hat to saunter my way up the road to Il Cielo, the farmhouse my friends from SF had rented. The gravel road is a little steep but its great exercise. Besides, in the summer the road is lined with wildflowers -- blue chicory, wild roses, white yarrow, blue scabiosa, pale green arching foxtails, wild thyme (I DO know a bank where the wild thyme blows.) I head out with scissors and arrive with the bouquet of the day.
Peter and Laura have turned 40 this year. This is our excuse for returning. When we're resident and lounging on the loggia, the spectacular view seems like reason enough to come back. I'm meeting a lot of their friends for the first time. Pete is in a band (2 bands actually) and quite a few of his bandmates have come along. I feel a little shy at first, but these people are so warm, so infectiously happy to be in Italy.
The Cavaluzzo clan is large. They are all smart and funny, and literate and very welcoming. On the other side of Perugia, the extended Cavaluzzo clan was renting another house maybe 20 people full of sisters, brothers-in-law, cousins, nephews and nieces and the matriarch -- Edith. The obvious plan was to get everyone together for one large festa. And so it was, on the appointed day, a caravan of cars arrived at Il Cielo dragging pounds of white dust behind them.
An aside: The 3km strada bianca always draws commentary. It's an unpaved road, steep in spots, a bit winding and often rutted by water and by the trucks working on the restorations at the bottom of the hill. Visitors unused to these hill roads are often horrified. I like it. It's part of the adventure.
We were standing at the foot of the steps to greet them, and it became a receiving line of hellos and great to see yous. I had seen most of the clan in Sorrento two years before, just prior to leaving Italy. I didn't really think they would remember me but our hellos turned out to be mutual and effusive.
Team Cavaluzzo transformed Il Cielo. We lit all the candles. Everyone brought food to share. My friend Stefano roasted one of his lambs. The tables were covered with cheeses, bread, roasted peppers, olives, caprese -- the abundance of farm country. The wine flowed... Sagrantino, Chianti, Rosso di Montalcino & Montepulciano. Surely there were Pinot Grigios and Greco di Tufos. Stefano discovered that one of the cousins had been born in Napoli. Stefano is Romano but he can talk Napolidan with the best of them. Lots of laughter and smiles and hugs all around. Talk of other trips and visits south, of buying a house in Italy, of how clear the night sky could be, and how many satellites we could see. But the evening wound down and the caravan departed. As beautiful as the farmhouse is, it was meant to be full of people. The house seemed so empty after all that firelit camaraderie.
Breakfast at La Caccia
Whilst lounging indolently in Italy, I stayed at a cottage tucked back off the road on the hill. Originally, the structure was a hunting shack... a place for the Sorbello count/marchese/prince and his hunting party to stop off for a break and a nosh during the long, hot search for boar/pheasant/bunnies whatever they could kill. They, owning the place after all, were not limited by hunting seasons. One shot what one felt like shooting or sent the dogs to tear it to shreds, then got a fire started and cooked a snack.
La Caccia is a little jewelbox of a house... stuccoed walls of pale ochre with green shutters, golden stone inner walls and floors. The first floor has a kitchen with granite counters and rustic wooden shelves. The livingroom sports a stone mantle and small hearth. Upstairs, there is a wide hallway with a built in armoire. The bedroom is graciously sized with windows on 3 sides, plain wooden furniture (2 armoires, desk, table) and a large bed built for comfort. The bath is spectacular, not large but spacious, done in all white tiles of various sizes. Being Americans, they have outfitted the bath beautifully with a tub, handheld and overhead showers, bidet and toilet. The sink is an old marble trough fitted out as a sink and sitting in a simple wrought iron stand. I am very fond of the lighting -- simple copper cones made by Mark Wholey (now residing in Providence, RI and open to commissions). Mark also did the wooden headboard and the iron gates at the head of the driveway. Quite clever, that man.
The house is set back away from the road behind a rise on the hill. Sounds from the valley drift up but you rarely hear the cars on the drive. The days were full of the sounds of bees, birds and frogs the occasional snapping bracken as a larger critter wanders past.
Getting up in the morning, I would make tea and sit outside looking out into the valley, or at the butterflies dipping into the herb garden. Elizabeth and I planted the bones of this herb garden a few years ago. Its just a narrow triangle where the paths to the house split but it has fleshed out nicely. And its subsequent gardeners have been attentive... the thymes and sages are healthy, and orange and black butterflies abound.
Sometimes, a cup of tea and toast with marmalade would stretch on for hours, as I alternately read or stared off into the distance. This is something I miss.
Venezia
I cannot remember when the idea of going to Venice together first came up. It might have been the last time Jon and I saw each other in Italy. Or in NJ last fall, when he came to see my little house. Or maybe in one of the emails in between.
Whenever it happened, it sounded like the best idea. Venice is one of those MUST see places. Unique. Threatened. Romanticized. And Jon is well-versed in its history, culture and layout. Plus we are good travelers together... none of those annoying little differences that can plague friends who travel. (Unless Jon is keeping something from me.)
And such an adventure, to jump on a train and disembark in Venice to enter a world so steeped in history, romance and expectations.
That is the problem, isn't it. You cannot see Venice through clear glasses. We've heard too much and seen too much and have a picture in our mind's eye of what it must be like... have expectations for what it should be like. I was getting nervous that I'd experience that let down... the deflation after the hype. And the crush all around the train and the streets leading to Piazza San Marco did nothing to quell my uneasiness. Packed with tourists and shops full of kitsch and bad glass... the Disney version of Venice. I wobbled... yes, it was beautiful -- when you could erase the hordes of tshirt-shop Johnnies and Kimmies and really see the canals and the houses. And yes, it oozes history. But it can be hard not to feel like you are on the Italian version of the Pirates of the Caribbean. It had been a long day though. Day 2 would be the true test.
Day 2. We get up and have breakfast in the eaves of the pensione. It's a cute little hotel. Our room offered literally 2 feet between the bed and the walls, but if you are only there to sleep... It has a little attic common room with a dining area and a terrace overlooking the red tiles roofs. After breakfast, Jon heads back to the room and we immediately get separated. Instead of going out into the piazza as I'd indicated, I stop to write postcards out on the hotel veranda. Jon misses me, goes to the piazza and begins trying to figure out where the hell I've disappeared to... in a shop mesmerized by frightening glass clowns, or kidnapped by white slavers who haul me out (bound and gagged) in a gondola? Oblivious to it all, I get quite a few cards written then, feeling quite chuffed, traipse out to the piazza only to be met by a man who looks angry. I smile innocently and he wrestles his consternation to the ground very well. Jon is not really accustomed to my last minute changes of whim.
He forgives me quickly for the scare (what would be the word for white slaver in Italian?) and begins my historical lesson on La Serenissima. First, the Basilica with its amazingly intricate tilework and art, carvings, huge candelabra... but what sticks in my mind are the bronze horses. Gorgeous imposing regal. You can touch the replicas outside on the roof but the actual bronzes, stolen from Constantinople are protected from my grubby fingers.
Today we have agreed that the thing to do is find the Venice where the Venetians live. To walk the back streets and visit the shops and cafes that the real folks use. And that becomes Venice for me... a sense of real life, where people buy bread and produce, not mass produced glass and masks. We take the vaporetto down to the public gardens. The heat is intense so we stick to shady lanes, all the while ogling the architecture and discussing merlonations versus crenellations. (That is precisely why I love Jon.) We drop into a café for the mid-afternoon espresso pick me up and are served by a young, harried waitress. She isn't very nice. In fact she is fairly dismissive of us until her tap blows an air bubble and spatters her. She curses and Jon tells her that he has had that happen a million times, since he is a barrista in the US. ...Ah, the smiles, the delight "A barrista in the US?" Suddenly we are the new patrons at the local bar. She asks Jon for ideas for drinks recipes that might be concocted with the very limited supply she has at the coffee bar. We brainstorm and jot things on napkins. I translate the tough bits. Jon actually does very well with Italian. He has the accent down and that counts for a lot in how he is perceived. The barrista, whose name escapes me, is from South America... an interesting twist of cultures.
We wander home aimlessly, making our way along back canals and winding alleys, staying pointed in the right direction. But really, how lost can you get be on a narrow island city? Tomorrow we have to leave, so we buy fruit and bread and cheese and other snacks for the train ride. We find a pricey Chinese restaurant and while we are reading the menu, a small fleet of Asians on a tour troupe up to the door and inside. It seemed oddly incongruous, and yet, why? Its a city of tourists and travelers. We are wilted and primed to go home and close the shutters to nap. But even after a long, hot foot-weary day (thankfully) we don't get snappish or difficult with each other. We remain committed members of one another's' fanclubs.
Our last evening, we wander the piazzas and hang over the bridges watching the gondoliers slip by. We window shop, we watch the man who plays classical music on the rims of glasses, and human statues (ho hum) and find a pretty cool flea market. Search for an inexpensive place to eat -- Café Mosca. It's a dark bar that reminds me of Thomas in Germany. He would appreciate La Mosca. Right down to the cute boys. And we decide on our souvenirs. For Jon a gorgeous leather commedia mask -- handmade. For me, child of excess, an alabaster fig and a creamy green velvet handbag. Can't have too many accessories.
We fall into bed exhausted. I am a tad trepidatious about the train schedule. It is so hard to pull yourself away from a place that is half explored, half seen... I start dreaming of renting a villa for my 50th birthday and inviting everyone to join my in Venice for 3 weeks.
Sono tornata a Italia.
In other words, I have returned to Italy! Just for a visit but such a long-awaited, much anticipated visit. Buying a house has set back my travel funding considerably. But it had been almost 2 years. I was jonesing. I was living for the hour I could set foot at Fiumicino airport, roll my luggage past the fresh faced caribinieri and head north to Umbria.
It was only two weeks, but it felt like long cool drink of water. Good friends from SF had decided to rent up on the hill where we'd all gone for my 40th birthday. The perfect catalyst to return. My friend Jon and I were planning a short trip up to Venice. He'd been plying me with historical facts and descriptions. For Christmas he gave me Paradise of Cities (John Julius Norwich) so I could begin to get the feel... to create that ambiance in my mind.
While I wholeheartedly embraced the idea of seeing Venice, I also gnashed my teeth and grizzled over giving up even an hour in Umbria. After all, it was home... it was land of sheep and gardens, where my friends sleep... where a wisp of my soul still floats about the sky at sunset.
I rented a Smart car for the duration. Its like a keychain toy. A tiny two seater that gives just enough room for your purse at the feet of your passenger, and 2 small rolling bags in the hatch back behind. That's it. No big purchases, no extra friends... just you and the matchbox toy car. There was the not unexpected long, hot line at the office. But I was so happy to be in Italy and speaking a little Italian, that nothing would deflate me. Even the "nice" man who was supposed to show me how the Smart Car functions... who did nothing more than gesture dismissively toward my car... even he didn't put me off. It made me smile. Gotta love those churlish city folks. Once I deciphered enough of the car to turn it on and make it move, I hurtled out of the car park and up the A1 at breakneck speed... whizzing by trucks and other Smart Cars. It felt good, the wind in my hair, the sun at my back. I don't think I broke 70mph but in a teeny car, it felt like Mach 5.
Driving past Lago Trasimeno and up to the pass that separates Tuscany from Umbria was a homecoming... one of those moments where you aren't sure you can breathe deep enough. Every little thing -- the color of the stones, the poppies on the verge, the Terontola Station street sign... brought waves of memories. Mine... this was mine, is mine. I still carry this with me, though I misplace it more and more these days. My present displaces the memories and I get farther and farther from the immediate feelings. (Hence the visit to re-connect it all.)
Winding up and over the pass past the monastery at Cortona, past grey green olive trees and alimentari... the anticipation of reaching the top, banking through the last turn and seeing the Niccone Valley. How its hills fold unto on another, how the trees and fields create a patchwork of pine green winter wheat gold and sunflower yellow all the way down the length... how the torrente Niccone slips back and forth, just a silver sliver overhung with trees. Knowing that, although I can't see any of it yet, knowing that all my friends and favorite places are in there, hidden in this fold of the road or that dip of the hill. Stefano up at Sant' Ana, Paola in Umbertide, Elisabetta tucked into a bend of the torrente at Molina Vitelli. Even Pino, my nemesis, the twisted Buddy Holly gardener... somewhere even Pino was there to help reconnect me to the valley. (Though Pino would rather dismember me in the valley, I suspect.)
I zoomed down the road (again, breakneck speed) round the bend at Pierle Castle, over the bridge and toward Mercatale remembering the first time I did this, with Steve and Sally, back in 2000. How beautiful it was and how so much changed after that visit. Remembering late lunch at Mimmi's, all of us aghast at the seemingly endless platters of ravioli and mixed grill. Then the bottomless tiramisu. The sickly satisfied feeling of knowing you should not have eaten half of what you ate and loving every forkful.
Mercatale to Mengaccini (a quick blink of a town... not even a town... a grocery store, a café/bar and a smattering of houses built two inches off of the road. Open your front door too fast and you might lose it. Reschio Castle appears on the ridge, then Sorbello Castle (home of the reigning royal family, the Ranieri/Sorbello clan) looming on the left, a line of tall green cypress snaking up the hillside toward the top.
Then the sign for Preggio. THE landmark announcing it's the homestretch. Round the bend past Luigi, the mechanic's house with his white pigeons who circle the road. Past the 5 km marker that signals the base of the driveway... the screechingly sharp left turn onto the vertical white gravel road, a cascade of white dust and viola -- we are here -- on the 3K driveway straight up, switching back and forth, winding closer and closer to Altabella.
All those little landmarks of homecoming. I slowed my speed to savor the sounds, smells and the light in the grasses, the fluttering wings of butterflies and birds, the vineyard, the buildings... How has the restoration of the Righi property fared? Is the road looking good or is it rutted and eroded again? The road dips here and you drop into a little glade, around this bend is a grassy meadow, and here the hill drops and opens to a view across the tops of oaks and ginestra.
Every little detail whispers "home". Am I lucky to have 3 places in the world that make me feel like I'm coming home?
2005 
