Orvietto Italy

Meandering through the busy streets of Orvietto, I admire the Italian custom of evening strolls.  It’s a small hill town dating from Etruscan times, built on tuff cliffs towering above fields and vineyards, those cliff walls an ideal defense.  Tuff is a porous stone and Orvietto is known for the caves carved out beneath the city; wine cellars sure, but also pigeon coteries in event of a siege. The pigeons provided communication, meat and eggs.  I so admire good planning. 

We’d arrived mid-day by bus, delivered to the station at the bottom of the hill.  Rather than schlepping our bags, we splurged on a taxi for a thrilling ride up the cliffs, through narrow streets, the taxi whizzing along barely clearing the spaces between buildings, and certainly at the peril of any pedestrians.  A tossup between sheer terror or adrenaline – it was definitely a buzz.

Orvietto was the Italy I’d come to see.  The rave is always about Sienna; I couldn’t wait to leave that place with its blood red walls and ghosts haunting the streets and my dreams.  Sienna has a violent, violent past, not unusual for anyplace that ancient, but when my photos came back (film, you know) all the Sienna shots had a red cast, while subsequent shots on the same roll of film, did not.  It’s creepy.

The vibe in Orvietto was magical in contrast.  This town has about 20,000 souls these days with many hotels.  We secured rooms in a most comfortable one then explored the city.  Picturesque houses built of tuffa stone line cobblestone streets, (okay, I was enchanted.)  This was a warm May.  The peaches were ripe, as were the tomatoes and strawberries.

We dined at a small restaurant that first night; I on local wild boar over polenta. Tyler (going through her white-food phase the entire trip,) had pasta with white cheese sauce.  We toured their wine cellars, down many winding steps into a coolness that makes wine age beautifully.   

After a fashionably late dinner, we were off on a postprandial walk.  The locals were out in force, meeting and greeting their friends and neighbors.  It’s a delightful custom.   

Where I’ve been going with this recounting is right here.  I’m people watching while we stroll.  I notice an attractive woman of a certain age, tall and lithe, and her male companion.  They are on a similar circuit as we, so I notice them enthusiastically greet another man.  They talk animatedly – this is Italy with dramatic hand gestures after all.  In the blink of an eye, the woman pales and I see her struggle for composure.  Someone died.  Or a love betrayed.  I’ll never know the details yet I still see her face.