On a rainy Thursday morning, Jeremy and I left for the Orvieto station to catch the train to Milan. We had originally thought about going to France, but fall break’s time seemed to be running out, and I had heard that the duomo up there is not to be missed. Luckily, we also have some friends up north from the dig, so we were able to see them, too. More on that later. After a two-hour ride to Florence, we transferred to a Eurostar that was almost direct to Milan, and finally arrived around 3:30pm in Milan. The sky was gray, as we had left it in Orvieto. Apparently the entire country was having brutto tempo (bad weather), as we discovered. It had only just stopped raining before we arrived in Milan, and the newspaper said that Venice had, of course, started to flood, and even down in Naples they were having issues. So, we were pleased that the rain at least had stopped. Our friend Leo met us at the station and generously took our luggage from us so we could take a little jaunt to see the duomo and stroll around for a bit before dinner.
The Milan metro is super easy to use, and it made the city feel small enough to navigate easily. Milan’s duomo is one of the biggest in Europe (third biggest, perhaps?) and is a huge towering mass of spires and points. Very Gothic. Guards from the army were checking bags for security; somehow, Jeremy hadn’t realized he had brought a pocketknife with him and they turned him away. I was already past the door, but I saw him standing there. After a few moments of mouthing back and forth, “Just leave it somewhere!” (me) and “Where should I put it?!” (him), I turned to one of the young guards next to me.
“He didn’t realize he brought his knife with him. Can he leave it with you?” I asked. He looked at me for a moment, and said quietly, “You can’t leave it with me, but if you just put it somewhere around the corner, you can pick it up later.” As I had thought, but at least the esercito had confirmed that it would be safe. Safely propped up in a street-level grate, the knife found a temporary home and Jeremy was allowed into the building. It would have been ridiculous for him to have come all the way to Milan and then wait outside, all because of a silly pocketknife.
The inside is ornate, tons of stained glass, really too much to absorb in a short walk around. There were many side chapels with shrines and offertory candles, some people kneeling in prayer. I liked that the church made very clear where it was not okay for tourists to go—in the area where all the confessionals stood, a printed sign hung that forbade anyone not going to confession to enter. I was impressed with the cathedral’s size, but really the size of its organ. I tried to imagine Palestrina or Mozart being sung, and it made me miss choir.
One of my favorite sculptures of the church was one of St. Bartholomew. I’m sure I’ve seen him depicted before, but I had forgotten his fate: he was flayed alive. In this sculptural depiction, he stands boldly looking out at the viewer, his own skin draped across him like some sort of shawl of carnage. You can’t tell right away that that’s what it is, his skin. But then you notice that there’s a third leg in the scene, that his wrapping has toes and a face. It’s eerie and moving at the same time.
In the crypt (?), the remains of a saint lie, or so they say. Just like with the St. Catherine relic in Siena, I have a hard time buying it, but at least they had this guy’s whole body. His face had a gold mask covering it, and it looked like the rest of the exposed parts of his body did, too, so it was hard to tell how genuine it was. I’ll just have to take their word for it.
After the duomo, we decided to explore a bit more. Next to the Gothic is a lot of modern: Gucci, Prada, Louis Vuitton. Just looking in the store windows was enough to make me feel like I needed to take out a loan to go clothes shopping. Short dresses for almost 4,000 euro, sunglasses for 350. I break, lose or otherwise mistreat my sunglasses. I can’t imagine having paid that much for them. This area where all the shops are is called the Galeria, and along with designer clothes, it also has cafes facing the walkway where you can people watch (you can also pay 9 effing euro for a BOTTLE OF WATER at these places. I think not.) Jeremy and I had to drool over the window for an old pasticceria, and the photo should explain why. Cakes four inches in diameter, however, could cost 50 euro. We wondered what a 50 euro cake might taste like, but were absolutely not willing to indulge the curiosity.
We found La Scala, the opera house. The outside is nothing to speak of, but it was closed, so I didn’t find out on that trip what one of the world’s most famous theatres looks like inside. Next time. The Lonely Planet we had mentioned a place called Peck, a grocer, so to speak, that had been in operation since the late 19th century. Modernized, and with two of its own restaurants around the corner, it was the nicest grocer I’d ever seen. Although small, it would have put AJ’s to shame. They have 3000 types of cheese, and every meat or fish you can imagine. They even had pig feet AND pig snout. And pig ears. There were still little hairs on the pig snout. It was gross. There was also a bakery with chocolate, chocolate, chocolate, and you can order food to take away (pastas, etc). Knowing we were having dinner soon, we restrained ourselves. Next time I’m there, though, I want to buy a lunch.
Eventually we made our way to the metro and Leo picked us up from the stop. We are very lucky to have so many friends who, like Leo, are truly salt of the earth people: generous, kind, good company, the works. He took us to his home, which reminded me of somewhere my aunt, Helen, would have loved. Throughout the place were books about art and history, as well as interesting art and bits and pieces of things that could be found art. In the guest bathroom was one of the plastic bodies from the torso up that has the color coded organs and half a brain, that sort of thing. I guess it sounds weird, but it felt homey to me to be in a place like that. We were treated to an absolutely lovely evening, a home-made meal courtesy of his partner, and lots of interesting discussion that inevitably ended up at politics. By that time, though, it was getting late and our brains (especially Jeremy’s) were hurting from all the Italian. The next morning was the beginning of Fall Break, Part 4: Party in Pavia!

Last Friday was the first official day of our fall break. We have until next Sunday to do with ourselves exactly as we please. So far, we’ve been doing basically that.
Friday, our friend Gráinne arrived from the States; she’s working on some thesis research, and is staying with us until Wednesday morning. Friday evening we decided to eat at the Champagneria, a local place I had heard about countless times as being one of the best in Orvieto, but I had never found. That evening, Jeremy, Gráinne, Bonnie and I found it—luckily Bonnie had been, I would never have discovered it, tucked away in the Piazza Marconi, which is mostly a parking lot—and we ordered a bottle of white wine. My understanding had been that you order drinks and they bring out food, cooked fresh with ingredients from the owner/chef’s garden. No menus to speak of, just some excellent wine and food. No menus can also mean a surprise bill, but it was worth it.

Sunday was a day of proportionally epic eating. Enrico, Gráinne’s and my “Italian babbo” (Italian Dad) invited the three of us for lunch. At noon, his son picked us up in front of the Duomo, and we arrived ten minutes later at their home in the localita of Buon Respiro, outside of Orvieto. Interior renovations are the current project for the first floor of the main house—Enrico explained that the floor bricks were newly installed, but had been made in the ways that they had made bricks and tiles in the middle ages. His wife had been cooking lunch in the guest house. We sat at the table and the first round of food came out. Pizza of two types: stuffed with chicory and sausage, or anchovies and cooked vegetables. Next was a baked pasta with tomato sauce and cheese. Just as we were beginning to look at each other and groan about how full we were, she said, “It’s okay if you don’t eat all of it, there’s still chicken coming.” I still ate all of it. Next was a pan-cooked chicken dish, the meat of which was covered with tomatoes and peppers and flavored with herbs and spices just so. It reminded me in a way of Nana’s and Tita’s arroz con pollo. I couldn’t place why, as Cuban and Italian cuisines are so different. Maybe it was just the style of cooking the chicken and how it soaked up its juices and the sauce, the herbs that made me think of home. We were encouraged to eat the chicken with our hands, “otherwise you won’t get the good parts.” At that point, we thought we couldn’t eat any more, and out came a light salad, fruit, and a perfect torta di mele (apple cake). Of course, all of this is accompanied by white wine, the last bit with spumante. I thought someone was going to have to roll us home. It’s funny to me that this is a traditional Italian lunch, in the sense of the amount. Our Italian family friends complain about how much weight they or relatives have gained going to the US; Americans have the same experience coming to Italy! It’s a different diet, is all.

That night, we ate leftover pizza and cake while listening to the most recent episode of Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me! Thank goodness for iTunes and podcast directories for another taste of home.

This afternoon around 3:30pm was a beautiful rainstorm. The clouds had begun gathering hours before, but patches of blue and light had also been in the sky. But by 3:30, the sky was overcast and the rain began like in movies. You know in movies when the rain just starts pouring and it seems so unrealistic? It was almost like that—a few big drops, and then-BAM-a down pour that eventually became a sideways pour. It only lasted maybe half an hour, but it was enough to fog the windows.

Around 6ish, I decided to take a walk. I wanted to explore a bit of Orvieto; although I have been here many times, and it’s been three months that I’ve been back, there is still a lot of the city I haven’t discovered. Just the other day, I found the path that leads from one of the playgrounds alone the side of the rupa that goes all the way to Piazza Cahen. So, I went out with my camera, a scarf, and a jacket. The temperature had dropped to about 45, or at least it felt like it had. I contemplated going back home for my gloves, but decided not to. I wandered past San Giovenale to the edge of the cliff where there is a view that looks out onto Gabelletta and Tamburino, where we had spent two months of the summer. The sun wasn’t quite setting. Sunsets here are nothing like those of my home, but the view of the valley is still impressive. Green is a color I’m still not used to; a deep sort of green, at least, not like the leathery greens of cacti. From there, I saw a sign mentioning a giardino, a garden. I wandered through a gate and down some uneven steps to a part of the cliff that was overgrown with uncut grass. Two or three benches had been placed under some trees, although I wondered if anyone ever used them.

Nearby were two hollows that could be called caves. One was larger, and someone had spray painted something on a ledge inside: bright red, it looked like a warning. A sheet was hanging so as to block the back of the cave. If someone was living there or just setting it up as a hideout, I wasn’t sure. The image was eerie, though, especially since I couldn’t read the graffiti.

From there I wandered back towards the main road, Corso Cavour. A detour or two later, I found graffiti that said, “Hitler puzzava” (Hitler stunk) with a Communist hammer and sickle, which I found to be a slight understatement. I also took a photo of the shutters in one of the side streets. The shutters here are almost all green—in Siena, shutter colors are regulated by the comune. I’ve never asked if it’s the same here.

By the time I reached Corso Cavour, many people were out taking a stroll. Not as many as whne the weather is warmer, but shops were open and people were out. One brave soul I passed was eating a gelato. Pasqualetti will do that to you. I did some of my own shopping and decided that the chill warranted a hot chocolate. The first bar I stopped at didn’t have any! So, I went to Montanucci.

I have been anti-Montanucci since 2007 when they deliberately overcharged a friend for a bottle of wine, thinking that she was too blond to notice. Also, they charge ridiculous prices for their internet, when other places it’s free with any purchase. I know, I know, they’re a business, they have a right to charge for their services, but I guess the fact that guidebooks list it as a good place for internet really bothers me. Rick Steve’s I can understand, since most of his readers are middle-aged or retired, but Lonely Planet? Come on! There are at least two other cafes that offer internet with drinks and food that isn’t bad, either. Ok, rant is over. In any case, I went to Montanucci, and asked the barista for hot chocolate. With whipped cream. And although it was four euro, it was delicious. The whipped cream was some of the best I’ve ever had. I sat at a table, spooning out slurps of hot chocolate, reading D.H. Lawrence’s Etruscan Places, an account of his travels through Etruria, full of voice but arguably a lot of condescension towards the Italian locals who guided him in a lot of locales.

9ish meant dinner at home with Jeremy. Pasta with fresh gnocchi (we didn’t make it, but there are some great fresh pasta shops in town) and pesto, spinach salad and lemon vodka tonics. Overall, a lovely afternoon.

Fall has begun. In the mornings as I walk to work, I turn a corner that leads me up Via Malabranca, overlooking the other half of the medieval quarter and all I see is the tiled rooftops cloaked in this fog. It is such a foreign image to me. Mornings in Tucson are crisp, usually, with a different light than here. But in Orvieto, when there is sun, there is now a hint of chill; when there is rain, the cobblestones are slippery and dark. I will try to take a picture sometime soon in an attempt to capture this fog phenomenon. The Duomo rising out of the mist is both eerie and beautiful at the same time. I hope the fall for you all, wherever you may be, is a peaceful one.

This past weekend we took a trip with the school to Campania, which is home to many lovely things: Neapolitan driving, mozzarella di bufala, Mt. Vesuvius, and some of the most incredible examples of archaeological remains. Our first stop was in Napoli, where the National Archaeological Museum is. Thanks to the Farnese family and their benefactors/colleagues/inordinate amount of wealth, the museum holds artifacts like the frescoes from the Temple of Isis at Pompeii, and the bronze statues from the Villa of Papyri at Herculaneum, not to mention the Gabinetto Segreto (Secret Cabinet, where they stored all the “obscene” materials from Pompeii), mosaics and more. One of the copies of the Doryphoros stands in a corridor. The Farnese Hercules tiredly nods his head in one of the great rooms. The mosaic version of Alexander the Great, beautiful hair in all its glory, graces a wall. We could have spent all day in that museum; we did not.

Next stop was Pompeii. Approximately 2000 residents lost their lives as a result of the eruption of Mt. Vesuvius on August 24th, 79 A.D. Many of the people found had tried to escape with their life savings or precious belongings. Some hoped the walls would save them from the ash; unfortunately, walls can’t stop the mephitic fumes. Fun stuff. The cool thing about Pompeii, other than the obvious, was that this time the weather was beautiful and cool; as the afternoon waned on, the shadows passed along the old buildings and the tourists cleared out. It seemed that we were some of the last to leave. We saw the one of the lupanares (brothels), where there were paintings outside the bedroom walls for clientèle to choose their preferences; the Villa of Mysteries, most famous for its frescoes depicting a woman being initiated into the mystery cult of Dionysus; the Eumachia building, which was paid for by a woman; the Temple of Isis, which had been rebuilt after the earthquake of 62 AD with the generosity of a six-year-old boy who must have had a very wealthy and pushy father; the Odeon, where poetry readings and concerts could take place; the amphitheater, where in 59 AD, citizens of Pompeii and a neighboring town rioted so riotously that the government required its closure for 10 years (not that they lasted), and much more.

Another highlight of the trip was Paestum, where ruins of Greek temples still stand. The Greeks had been one of the cultures that colonized southern Italy, and they left behind some important examples of Greek architecture. We were followed by a hungry doggie, who helped Alba give her explanations to the temple structures. The museum houses one of my favorite ever pieces of art—the Tomb of the Diver paintings. It was a less common practice for people to paint the insides of their sarcophagi; the Etruscans painted the insides of their tombs, but this was a sarcophagus. One of the paintings is a man, presumably the deceased, diving into the water; the background is sparse, but the symbolic transition between life and death is powerful nonetheless.
That day I had one of the tastiest lunches to date; spaghetti alla vongole (clams) with a mixed plate of bufala cheeses. Yum!

We got a chance to see where the future of museums may be going (we’ll see…)–the MAV. I don’t remember what it stands for; somehow, Virtual fits in there. Inside are interactive features, where students can “uncover” frescoes with the brush of a hand across a screen and “experience” what it must have been like for the archaeologists to find them. Maybe if the rooms were heated to 95 degrees with 30 percent humidity and they had pickaxes and shovels it would be more realistic, but who’s keeping track? It was a cool idea. They also were able to recreate ancient sites like Pompeii and certain buildings, villas, etc. digitally, so visitors can go on virtual tours of these sites. There were virtual components galore, and it was a fun experience, albeit partially misleading. (For example, most depictions of the forum of Pompeii showed it as being completely white in its heyday! FALSE. Statues and columns were painted; the Roman world was a colorful one, in many ways.) A funny thing was the guest book; flipping through it were the generic “this was great!” comments, but some were totally irrelevant. One was “When will Berlusconi die?” Good question.

The next day was the last of the trip: the Reggia di Caserta. Considered the Italian Versailles, the Reggia has a huge expanse of gardens on the grounds, including an English garden with a cryptoporticus of Venus and little temples recreated, that sort of thing. The reggia itself is enormous; the historic apartments had towering ceilings, all painted or gold leafed. It was easy to imagine them having balls and dancing on the beautifully polished floors. We had a chance to meet up with a friend from the dig who lives in Caserta, and we wandered around the gardens together. Lunch consisted of a giant ball of bufala mozzarella, baguette and Toblerone. I highly recommend it.

Another school week is beginning; the weather is rainy off and on, but I’m enjoying this fall transition.