Orvieto People

Orvieto is of course its people.

Orvieto is … well Orvieto.

Not just the streets and the buildings but Orvieto is its people.

There are those we encounter every day when we move into the center of town. Coming up from the parking lot down below, there’s the young man in the shop before one crosses over into Via Garibaldi. Well, he’s not all that young any more as he fashions small dwarfs and towers from clay. With a fine grey beard, he replaced the Capitano del Popolo in the yearly procession for Corpus Domini and one can’t but help remember Sergio Riccetti, the Capitano del Popolo. as there were no others, who let his beard get longer when the time came, and if we try hard enough we can still see him sitting on a bench near the Torre del Moro, his knobby cane by his side. If you wanted to see what the Etruscans looked like, he was a perfect example, and perhaps Alberto is as well, for he comes from generations of Orvietani.

As one crosses under the arch from Piazza Ranieri to Via Garibaldi, signaling the cars to stop and wait, how can we not think of “l’avvocato”, the lawyer par excellence, who used to walk up the Via  from his office. We can still see him in his greatcoat, reading some Latin author, as he stops to greet every other person he meets, telling you how when it came to vote whether Italy should be a monarchy or a republic his mother had given him a copy of the American constitution to read. (I wonder how she would explain what is happening in America now). He was only a boy, he would tell you, when the Germans occupied Orvieto and what he remembered most was that he was always hungry. 

Traditions continue, for the lawyer who walks up every morning to the Blue Bar for his cappuccino is his nephew. As he enters the coffee bar he exchanges a few words with Antony, the curly-haired guitar-playing owner, who greets everyone with a hug or a high five. If it’s already eleven, you’ll find an elderly lady with a walker sitting at a table, waiting for Antony to have five free minutes so they can read some English together. I suppose you can call her an Orvietana too since she’s lived here for almost 70 years.

First though on the corner you have to greet the rather fashionably lady who owns the wine shop, so tightly packed with outstanding wines and other specialties one can only sidle in. She is originally from Serbia – but that was years ago – and she saw Ghedaffi as a child. If she lets you get a word in edgewise, she’ll tell you the latest gossip as she smiles and watches you continue on your way.

Orvieto is of course its people.

Further up, under the arch that leads into main square, the street takes you to the Palomba, a restaurant with red geranium plants along the wall. It used to be the favorite haunt of Don Marcello, the priest of Sant’ Andrea, the church across the way. A big booming priest who loved his food, his spirit still watches over his parishioners, as he races around to smaller parishes on his motorcycle. He and my archaeological husband, Mario, used to argue about what the Etruscan stones under the church actually were. The Palomba has been in the family for generations and has now been turned over to the daughter, a lovely young woman who doesn’t just walk but floats over the ground like a ballet dancer, and with whom all the study-abroad students used to fall in love.

Once we cross under the Municipal arch and over into the piazza and move on to the Corso we might run into Pietruzza who helped me with my children when they were little. She is now almost a hundred but still quite alert and always asks after them as she is accompanied by her caretaker. I would say that at least half of the people one now encounters are Orvietani by adoption for they have come here from the Ukraine, Moldovia, or Romania.

Up on the Corso in the coffee bar Gualverio had lined with his wooden figures,  the rather sullen nephew of Reno Montanucci has replaced his uncle but has kept the Ukrainian and Moldovian waitresses his uncle had befriended.  Reno’s mother, Rosina, used to sit in a corner and offer a cappuccino with whipped cream to some of us, with Reno frowning, as if admonishing us to pay.

Wandering by at any time of day is the music teacher who organizes courses for the so-called terza età or third age. Mostly older ladies can study philosophy or sculpture or music. Dressed in somber black, he comes from a small hill town and greets all with a smile. He still lives with his mother, but I’ve never seen her.  Often, he will be surpassed by a small elderly man bent over his walker who skims over the Corso like a water strider as he scoots back and forth for his exercise, generally not speaking to anyone. I have no idea who he is. But he is Orvietano and is there every day as he passes a shop window where a little white dog peers out on the street as his rather plump owner sits at the back.  

Market day. The Orvieto market has everything you might need and not only in the way of vegetables,  but it’s not sure how much is grown on the hillsides of Orvieto. Paolo whose fields are on the shores of Lake Bolsena knows just when a melon is properly ripe and may charge more than the other venders but one can be sure of their quality. And then there is the “skin and bones” man who looks rather like an Etruscan demon as he carts zucchini and seasonal fruit to the various restaurants. Years ago the produce used to be brought in by donkey.

The second of the Michelangeli daughters may walk by with her doctor daughter. Her father, Gualverio, gone now for many years, would smile seriously as he cornered his workers and asked them to figure out how to make a better three-legged table while the smaller children climbed up on the big wooden horses on either side the street.

Yes, Orvieto is its people, although some are no longer here. Their memory remains and we wonder how many photos were taken of the boar’s head on the wall outside Emilio’s shop on Via Duomo before it was ceded to a restaurant. No one made panini better than Emilio, layering artichokes in oil, truffle cream, prosciutto, in a crispy bun. He was a real gentleman and served his clients with the grace of a ballet dancer.

Further up, right under the clock tower at the corner of Piazza Duomo, is Marino Moretti’s shop with his brilliant ceramic vases attracting daily visitors. Not all realize that they are not simply the creations of a potter but of an artist and are each unique in their way. The spirit of Marino’s father, a true Orvietano, still hovers around, encouraging his son, inspired by the medieval shards that have lain for centuries under the castle his family now inhabits.

And how about the lady in an elaborate costume and make up to be seen summer evenings sitting at one of the outside tables with her companion. Surely, she’s a very recognizable fixture in town, even though she too is originally American. One wonders how long it takes her to get herself together every morning, at times with long braids hanging down over her shoulders and a fur shawl and a voluminous skirt.

There are other Orvietani, many now only part-time residents, those who live in other parts of the city and are not seen by those like me who never get down past the post office or the theater. My “Orvietani” are limited to those who keep to the older part of town, although I can mention a few not in my area, including a photographer, a shoemaker and a painter of strange forlorn scenes of skinny horses and dogs. Perhaps one day if I am a bit more mobile I will get down that way again.

We are all, those who live on the cliff, Orvietani, and feel it is our home. There are of course buses and funiculars to get us back and forth but we are not as aware of the story each person has to tell. I shall have to do like the “mapmaker”, the friar in Venice who never left his cell but let travelers come to him and tell him their tales so he could make his map of the world.