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| Bettona, viewed from our apartment rental |
A
vacation from a vacation? Such it appeared to some we’ve met here who know
we’re on sabbatical when we said we were extending the Easter break a bit and
heading off to
Umbria for a week. ‘Why do you need a vacation?’ they seemed to
be thinking. To us, though, it didn’t really feel like a vacation from a
vacation, but just a vacation, which we did feel like we needed. Why go? Did we
seek relaxation? A change from our routine? Discovering new places? A break
from the ‘city’? New people? Different experiences? Sure. A little of each. And
with each passing week we sensed our time in the Peninsula winding down, our
return to the United States coming up ever sooner, our time to explore and
discover more of Italy while we’ve got the chance vanishing like espresso at
the bars. So we went.
The
luxury of being able to travel is not lost on us, especially in this country of
financial crisis, friends and acquaintances almost universally unsure of and
preoccupied with their financial future, some suddenly forced to check throats
for strep or make focaccia another five years when they thought they’d be about
to retire, others losing the extra job they had to make ends meet, polls on the
radio saying how during Easter Italians would be taking 70% fewer vacations and
for those who were leaving home that they’d reduced their time away to a day or
two. So yes, there was some mild guilt that came with our decision. We were
definitely fortunate to be able to travel in the first place.
But
of course in planning this trip there was also excitement. There would be novelty
and exploration; there was the anticipation of the wonder and delight in our
children (isn’t it funny how the inevitable upcoming fights and “I’m
bored/cold/hungry/fed up with my brother/sister” don’t figure into pre-travel
imagination?) our adventures would surely bring. I don’t know if the planning
is half of the fun, but I do enjoy it, what with the Internet searches, VRBO
listings, Wikipedia briefings, Google Maps, and all of the guidebooks and
suggestions both computer and book. Sure, it probably lessens
the sense of
discovery and novelty a little bit, but for most people it seems that the
trade-off there is worth maximizing their odds of finding what they are looking
for and ‘having a good time’ that prior research and planning can afford, not to
mention the heightened anticipation of what’s to come that it brings. Given our
research we expected a few things. We expected to see a lot of vegetation in
this region known as the ‘Green Heart of Italy’, we expected to eat well in a
land known for its wild mushrooms, fine olive oil, top-notch
truffles and
exquisite wild boar and prosciutto, we expected to sense a more easy-going
attitude in the Umbrian people, we expected tiny hill top towns, regional and
national parks, stunning vistas. We expected all of that and Umbria
delivered—and yet, when we experienced it ourselves, it didn’t seem to have
lost much of its magic for already having read about it somewhere.
And
then there were the surprises.
Our
GPS, for one, became fluent in Italian, something we never thought possible,
and now, apparently, she cannot revert to her ways of old. This unexpected
outcome was met with mixed reactions. While at times Niko used to yell out and
say he was sick of the “GPS lady” (due to her annoying, overly-americanized
version of la bella lingua), more
often than not he and Ingrid would delight in it, along with us, making fun of
her obvious mispronunciations of Italian that not even the most seriously
foreign language-challenged English speaker would make. Here is how the
transformation took place: we pushed some of her touch screen buttons one day
and found there were in fact several languages she could speak. We selected
Italian and found her now fairly perfect accent and refusal to say any street
names rather boring in comparison. “Switch her back!” the kids said, but
apparently she would have none of it and now we’re stuck with her newfound
banality. Our guide will still inform us if we’ve gone off route, but instead
of the slightly disconcerting “re-calculating” she used to utter (inevitably
met with the family’s ‘uh, not again!’) she will say, “Ricalculo”, somehow more precise, antiseptic…boring, and
refuses to even say the names of streets, simply uttering the Italian
equivalent of “in 100 meters, take a left.”
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| Assisi in the distance, Basilica to the left, Fortress above |
The
books and websites told us that Umbria was a ‘mystical’ region, having
something to due with the foggy hilltop towns and caves up high in the hills
and mountains where religious folk would go to meditate and pray:
Assisi, for
example, the home of San Francesco or, as we know him, Saint Francis. Like our
GPS lady, St. Francis went through his own transformation, albeit a bit more
substantive one. Apparently he went from being a woman-chasing, warring youth
to a man who gave away everything, divided his cloak in two to share with
another who had none and spent time preaching to his many followers, including
the occasional bird or squirrel. So far no surprises, right? But imagine our
state of confusion when, after having just visited his tomb from the thirteenth
century in the lower church of the Basilica (lost for several hundred years but
found again within the structure in the 1800s) when, while walking up the main
street leading into town trailing a small cluster of seminary students in black
robes, we seemed to see a reincarnation of St. Francis himself. The seminary
students had nudged each other, looking up. Or gaze had followed, and indeed,
this man coming toward us wore no shoes or sandals and sported only a burlap
sack-like garment. He spoke aloud as he walked, carrying a bag with some papers
and a book or two. Apparently he was preaching, headed
down from the direction
of the hermitage where St. Francis and followers would go to have some peace
and quiet, meditate and pray. We had been there, too, but the only Francesco we
saw was cast in bronze. Mysterious. When the would-be St. Francis veered over
to talk to us I asked him if I could take his picture. He brushed aside the
request saying there were more important things to talk about. “I’ve been walking
the hills for thirty years,” he said, “and have written down words of
inspiration from God.” He continued, but my shock at speaking with a ghost and
my still less than adequate Italian
combined to render his brief sermon all but
incomprehensible. When it became apparent he’d like to sell us some literature,
however, and when he said he’d spent a year in the United States back in high
school I snapped out of my reverie and asked how much. “Whatever
you are able to give,” came his reply. So we bought his book and I asked again
if I could snap a photo. “There are so many others more worthy than I,” he
replied (Of the eight people I asked to photograph on this trip he was one of
the two who refused), and hobbled away on his red and extremely swollen feet,
calling out his message just a bit louder than before, leaving me staring at
the cover of his paperback volume and its picture of an alluring—and yes,
slightly mystical—
Monte Subasio.
Heavy
incense, chanting, prayer, standing up and kneeling then sitting and then all
over again, church-goers (every one from three to one hundred and three)
crossing themselves whenever they walked before the altar and crucifix,
speaking, more incense waving, giving money, watching people go up for
Communion, shaking hands and wishing each other peace—these are some of
Ingrid’s experiences of her first Easter Mass. I’d taken her to the small hill
town of
Bettona for the service and, afterwards, some of the strange costumes
we saw people wearing during the service began to make sense and revealed our
next suprise. That large man sporting the black leather suspenders and holster
in front wasn’t dressing in typical small Umbrian hill town fashion, he was
thus bolstered to help support the cross itself he would be carrying during the
procession in which many of the more casually dressed churchgoers also seemed
to be participating.
‘Why not?’ we said, and joined in. Having townsfolk on the
side of the route watching us parade by made me feel a bit like an imposter, somewhat
sneaky, but also a tad proud and part of the club, if just for a moment, this
my “authentic vacation experience.” After a while we thought we’d had enough,
gotten out of it what we could, and decided to make our exit down one of the
many small alleyways snaking through town. “That was a neat procession, Ingrid,
eh?” I said, beginning my meaningful fatherly examination of our experience.
But before she could show her assent or ignore me we heard a chant and there,
up ahead, coming straight at us, was the priest, his acolytes, and the
villagers behind them. They were coming for us! Imposters! Or no, no, we were
just in their way, that was it. Phew. Stepping into a doorway so as not to
become the de facto leaders of this ceremony as they approached, we realized
there wasn’t much we could do but to join in again. The second time we tried to
leave was by car, but once we got up to the
main piazza we needed to drive
through to exit this tiny hill town still encircled by its Medieval (and parts of the original Etruscan) walls, the lone police officer on duty
that day had us stop as, he indicated, the procession would be coming back
through in a little while. I guessed it wasn’t just about us getting our
tourist experience out of it for ourselves, cut the motor and sat back for ten
minutes or so until they came through, beginning to feel as if I was being
delivered some sort of spiritual message myself.
Although
we’d been told
Norcia was a hotbed of food delights and had read the same,
nothing could prepare us for the heavenly meal in Umbria’s oldest restaurant,
Il Granaro del Monte. Thick wooden
tables, hand carved scenes in leather on the chairs, and the huge, bricked open
grill lent a medieval feel to the place. Having arrived to lunch somewhat early
by Italian standards, we were ushered in to the main dining room by an eager
waiter with some time on his hands who had been hanging around outside to look
for customers. We’d planned on going there anyway but let him show us the
various dining rooms and show us our choices of tables without letting on. We
sat down. Able to relish and appreciate fine food but not being “Foodies” per
se and being overwhelmed by the array of appetizing choices, Lauren and I each
chose a different set menu, mine consisting of an array of fine Norcian meats
and freshly grilled bruschetta as appetizers, homemade tagliatelle pasta with wild
mushrooms and fresh black truffle-infused, locally produced olive oil as a first
course, Norcian wild boar “in his juices” and a plate of five varieties of
grilled meat as a second course, and an artistically presented puffed barley,
chocolate and cream pastry-like delicacy for dessert.
We relaxed with the kids
as one of the chefs prepared various bits of meat on the huge open grill near
our table and the place gradually filled up with other diners ready for a big
pranzo,
leaving the waiters with less time
for chit-chat and no need to fish for customers outside. Over two hours later
we stood up, winded by the effort, struggling not to fall back into our chairs.
I had never eaten so much meat and swear that was among the top three pasta
dishes I’ve ever had. We expected good, but were surprised by how good, and
didn’t really want to leave. If heaven’s menu came close to this, we were now
ready to do what it took to be accepted through the Pearly Gates.
As
luck would have it, we didn’t have to leave…at least not yet. The owner of the
restaurant (and of the other, more exclusive restaurant and hotel nearby), a
kind, motherly figure, came over to say hello, wondering if I spoke Italian.
She took my hands when I replied that I did, wondering where I was from and
what I did there, continuing on to say how she’d love to set up a program for
American students in Norcia and beginning to talk about the facilities they
had. Maybe she was on to something. I briefly dreamt of the perks of leading
such a trimester abroad program with my students, of being prepared daily
lunches of the caliber we’d just had, but for free. It certainly was tempting.
The hotel and restaurant were quite busy by that point and the owner had to go
take care of some snafu with reservations but as we were headed out past the
front desk she began to show us a map of the area, then, due to difficulty
reading the fine print, had a colleague continue. This young woman was very
excited to practice her English as Norcia doesn’t see the volumes of Americans,
Brits and Aussies that the more touristy towns of Assisi and
Orvieto play host
to. I continued the conversation in Italian and she in English, catching the
attention of one of her colleagues who pointed out the farce. Once we were
pretty much oriented for the rest of the afternoon’s adventures the owner came
by again and told the young lady to give us a tour, too. So we got another half
hour in the place, checking out the luxury hotel next door, its various rooms,
mini spa, and restaurant, everything explained in detail in a most charming
accent, only the occasional error, like telling us they have another restaurant
in town just 250 km away, slipping past her inner editor. I know the owner was
trying to drum up business, but still, would this happen to us in Florence?
Pisa? Not likely. So we’d heard that the Umbrians were hospitable, but this
treatment (‘we’re just normal folks,’ we kept thinking, ‘what’s going on?’)
took us by surprise, and didn’t feel all that bad.
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| Piano Grande and Sibillini Mountains |
The
parts of our trip that took us far away from other travelers and locals to Mont
Subasio and the
Sibillini National Park also provided their own surprises in
the degree to which they exceeded expectation in being so amazingly beautiful,
relaxing, and inspiring. It’s said there comes a time when a teacher senses
he’s taught a student all he can and that then he must let the student go it
alone. Apparently our GPS lady thought that just such a time had come for us.
She cut us loose. After leading
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| Piano Grande and base of the Sibillinis from Castelluccio |
us through many kilometers of climbing into the
mountains and rounding the bend to the vast high plain (
Piano Grande), the Sibillini mountains towering over it on the far
side with the tiny hamlet of Castelluccio in the distance, the voice directing
us now fell silent. The map still showed our car, but going where seemingly no
car had gone before. Our digital, four-wheeled icon floated in a vast sea of
green with no roads in sight. Instead of warning us about being off road or off
the map or ‘recalculating’, at least she had the grace to let us go our own way
whether she thought there was a path leading where we wanted to go or not. The
few dozen horses grazing freely on the plain didn’t seem to
need much direction
anymore either. Had they, too, already had all the direction they needed? There
were no fences, they drank from the puddles left from melted snow, knew where
home was but walked where they wished and were in no rush to get there.
Heading
up Monte Subasio the story had been a bit reversed. There our GPS lady guide had
shown the road continuing up and over the mountain and she’d practically urged
us to continue. It was reality that stopped our progress soon enough once the
last snow drifts still melting became just too deep to crash through. We parked
up there and saw only four or five other people in the hour and a half we spent
watching the gliders they’d brought swoop silently through the wind, eating our
picnic lunch, hopping the fence into the vast, hilly pastures and running down
the open fields while dodging the thousands of cow patties left by the herd now
grazing a mile or so away on another part of the mountain.
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| Halfway up a long hill on Monte Subasio. Can you see me? |
Ritual,
tradition, following a certain belief system, and sharing within a community
can all help one’s sense of spirituality. San Francesco was a bit of a wanderer
and recluse at times, though, and he seemed to thrive on the natural world,
which brought him closer to God, but he did also bring what he gained in those
more isolated arenas back to the people and tried to lead them to a more spiritual
and kind way of life. He had done some recalculating of his own earlier on
before settling on his spiritual path and becoming a guide and role model to
others. While our guides had helped pave the way to our experiences throughout
our Umbrian vacation, and we owe them our thanks, we feel far more appreciative
of the people, the places, the food, the experiences in and of themselves. Up
in those mountains and away from many of the distractions of crowds and modern
life I even felt something… was it spirituality? I don’t know, but I sure felt
alive and connected with the world. I don’t know if I can successfully pass
that on, or if mentioning it will help anyone else in any way, but there it is.
At the very least believe me when I say I’ve gained a first-hand experience
that confirms for me why many lend the ‘mystical’ moniker to this fabulous
region.
Toward
the end of one long day when we were navigating back to our apartment near
Bettona we got turned around—“
Ricalculo” we heard yet again—and tried for a bit to follow GPS lady’s new
suggestions. But then we got off track once more almost immediately. It was
then we realized we weren’t even looking as much at the road ourselves to try
to figure out where we were but instead relying much more on her. Too much. She
was guiding us in circles! We ripped her off the windshield. She sounded out
one final time before Lauren found the ‘off ’ button and silenced her for good.
Listening to guidance from the right sources may be prudent, and a little
forethought and planning never hurt either, but at some point it’s so rewarding
to let all of that fall by the wayside and be open to surprises and to
experiencing them thoroughly, come what may, even if it’s not what you’d
planned for. What you find may completely exceed your expectations. When it
came down to it maybe we couldn’t satisfactorily articulate what we were
looking for in our “vacation from a vacation” other than to point at our week
in Umbria after the fact, no longer quite so concerned about the time in Italy
slipping away from us, and answer, with conviction, “That.”
