Our night in Olivetano Agritourismo was one of the nicer sleeps we've had so far. Perhaps being outside the city, with little to no traffic to speak of, made the difference. As well, most hotels have effective systems on the windows to block absolutely all light from the outside world; when we closed the shutters, it was so black you couldn't see your hand in front of your face. In this particular room, there are exterior shutters, with diagonal- and downward-facing slats to allow ventilation, and interior window shutters, with little window-doors inset into the room-facing side to let you open the windows and let in light without opening the windows and letting in air. That took less figuring out than the door and toilet.
The door into the room was complicated. To lock the door you had to lift the handle upwards to engage the locking mechanism, then turn your key around three times in the lock before the door would be locked. That took a bit of trial and error before we actually left the room secured. The toilet used a different flush mechanism that we hadn't encountered before, essentially an upward-pointing button that attached to a tank set high in the wall. And don't even get me started on the bidet - I have no idea how to use this thing. After seeing toilets flush with massive buttons set into the wall, pedals on the floor, and chains attached to levers, we just get to chalk this system up to another "regional difference" that you just get used to.
A little aside about "regional differences": Amy and I have come to use the term to describe something you encounter while travelling that is different than what you're used to, that you don't necessarily like, but that in the end, you really have absolutely no power over and have no capacity to change. In most instances it's because we can't explain how we'd like anything differently, so apart from the absolutely necessary, you just accept and enjoy the difference. Some travellers don't get to this point, however, and seem motivated to let you know how something is better somewhere else than the way it is here. I know that they do it out of a sense of trying to be helpful, but in some conversations with tourists I find it needlessly pessimistic. As a result, we try and showcase the good, rather than harp on the mediocre.
So, back to Olivetano Agritourismo. We awoke the next morning to head downstairs for our breakfast, served up by an older gentleman tending the bar. I wish I'd known, at the time, how to ask what his name was. Our communication was limited, but we figured out drinks (tea and cafe americano), we ate the cornettes (Italian version of a croissant, and definitely "regionally different" than same) that were hidden from sight and insect by an unfolded white paper serviette; we ate the compact melba toast and peach preserves. The gentleman then had a lengthy conversation with us in Italian, of which I got about ten percent. In the end we figured we'd go for a walk around the farm's property before settling up and heading out. It seems pretty universal that of the people we've had to talk to in order to arrange things, most of the Italians are very good about making absolutely certain the correct information has changed hands. In this case it meant we had essentially the same conversation about three times, in extremely simple English and Italian, to explain that we would take a walk for about an hour, and then pick up our things and head out. It was then that our host suggested we head up the hill to see the Casa de Domenica, which a helpful fellow with enough English and Italian to serve as a translator, explained was the region's equivalent to Disneyland.
So walk up the hill we did, passing by the groves of olive trees from which the farm surely took its name, making several turns and passing into more and more desolate and degraded roads before finally arriving at the top and the Casa. We weren't tempted to go in, even though it was set up with rides, a cowboy theme park and an honest-to-goodness Saturn V rocket (or at least, a replica). We were also on a schedule, and the view of Perugia from the hilltop was pretty spectacular. This was the first of several panoramic vistas we'd be party to seeing over the next few days.
Our removal from the Olivetano farm was simple enough, and we did get to chat to the old guy for a few minutes before we left, telling him about the places we'd been and the ones next in Italy that we were to go to. Gubbio and Lago Trasimeno got good reviews ("ah, Gubbio, si, motto bono...") but as soon as we indicated that we were going to visit places outside of Umbria, he was less complimentary. When we mentioned Montepulciano, he said something which can only be translated as "Montepulciano. Why the heck would you want to go there?" This was not to be a unique phenomenon. Later, we would come to talk to an older woman later on at a bus stop who explained (at least, I think this is what she was saying) that Perugia was the prettiest place in Umbria, if not Italy, and that we'd be crazy not to spend at least a few days here getting the most out of the city. But then, when I responded with that most universal of communication tools, the vacant stare of incomprehension, my guess is she figured that she'd packed too much into the sentence and lowered it down a notch for me. "Perugia; belissimo, si?" To which I could offer a healthy, "Si, Perugia, belissimo."
It's a bit frustrating not being able to communicate in an advanced way as I might be able to in English, and I think as a consequence it keeps one on the outside of a culture. It's one thing to see sites, but when you're surrounded by people who are lively and vibrant, you really want to get to know them. It really does encourage me to learn Italian, but then, we're here for such a short time, and we've got a couple of other countries to visit yet where we're going to have exactly the same problem: Spain, Portugal, India and Nepal; our English will only carry us so far.
Our guidebook pointed us to a new hostel in the city, but the map we had only covered the city centre; Olivetano, as well as the train station and our hostel destination, were both off the map. But from our vantage point atop the hill, I could see a building with "SPAGNOLI" emblazoned atop it in huge letters, and made the (at the time) perfectly reasonable assumption that the hotel-sized building was probably the hostel. So now we had a direction, and it didn't look so far. We hoisted our packs on our backs and started walking.
And walking: mostly up, as it turned out. We would walk on the sidewalk on the left side of the street, which would suddenly end, and be replaced by a sidewalk on the right side of the street. We would then have to wait for an opening in in traffic to dash to the other side, only to walk forty paces to the end of the new sidewalk. Repeat. I'm sure this is an exercise to keep Italians at a peak level of alertness, but then again, it seems everyone has a car and just drives everywhere. If they need to cross the street, perhaps they just drive there.
When we got to the Spagnoli building, it turned out to be, of course, not the hostel. We were greeted by a big steel gate, and absolutely no indication of the building's true purpose. A security guard did eventually come out to investigate who the heck we were, and very helpfully informed us that this was not, as we had come to understand, the Hostel Mario Spagnoli. I'm learning from prior mistakes: I had written down the address of the hostel. When I asked him where Via Cortonese was ("per favore, dove Via Cortonese?"), he did make a gesture to his right and said twenty minutes. Which took us up a hill onto a thoroughfare with no sidewalks at all, and a lot of traffic. It was one of those brisk, fun walks that leaves you sweaty and clammy.
We got directions at a gas station, confirming we were heading in the right direction, and continued on our way; after a few more twists and turns, we finally arrived at the Ostello with very sore backs and shoulders. It was a good test of just how much and how far we can go with the packs, and where we'd need extra padding and various adjustments.
After a brief siesta we headed out in search of food, and armed with a few restaurant recommendations, we set out at the (in retrospect) perfectly reasonable time of six o'clock. Monday, Perugia, six o'clock; the city might as well have been abandoned but for the constant traffic. It was only later we realized the very different schedule that Italians follow: restaurants don't even open until about seven thirty. When we did find a place that looked reasonable, a Chinese restaurant ("Ristorante Cinese Imperiale") we were the only ones there, and they were still setting up. But they did feed us very well, they themselves eating at the same time as us.
As we hadn't intended on spending any time in Perugia, we spent an hour the next morning monopolizing the hostel's pay-phone to arrange our stays in Gubbio, Lago Trasimeno and Montepulciano. We'd learned from our Perugia experience (Bruce Springsteen, remember?) that especially on the weekends, it pays to book ahead, even if it means you won't have the luxury of finding the places that aren't advertised or haven't registered with the tourist office. Sometimes, it's better to be prepared than to get lucky, as you can also get very unlucky as well. We made quite the sight, Amy and I; her on the phone doing the talking, me with the phrase book, trying to flip to the appropriate page to fill in the obvious words in Italian. It worked out surprisingly well, and we managed to make bookings in all three places. A city bus later and we were at the bus station, making our way to Gubbio.
Gubbio is a walled medieval city located in the mountains of northern Umbria, remarkable for its preservation. It's the kind of city movie producers would drool over for period pieces, except that it would be almost impossible to get the requisite vans, trailers and trucks into the city. The roads are too thin, go up very steep angles, and have buildings in the way. We stayed two nights in Gubbio, the first in the Grotto del Angelo, a restaurant-hotel in the city core, and the second in a bed & breakfast just outside the city walls.
I can't tell you the distinction between a hill and a mountain, but Gubbio is built on top of one; I know this because we climbed to the top of it by way of a tourist path that criss-crossed upwards, and I was pretty tired at the end. But it provided a spectacular view of the city and the hill / mountains in the distance. It was one of those walks that just kept on ascending, with your ears popping to remind you that yes, you are pretty high up. At the top of the hill / mountain was a church, and the silence that resonated when we entered the courtyard was very special; as a place of worship it would be very effective, as it was highly removed from the noise of the city. But the ascension up the hill / mountain wasn't complete: there was still a nature trail that rose even higher, and we continued. At the top of this trail (the very top) was an old castle ruin, which you could (of course) climb. At the top of this castle was a truly spectacular view of the entire range of hill / mountains surrounding Gubbio. It was also very cold, so while we stayed long enough to appreciate, we lingered just long enough to drink in the panoramic vista and then trekked down again.After a second day of aimless exploration through Gubbio's ancient city streets, a roman amphitheatre and excellent gelato, we moved onto Casteligano del Lago, one of four main beach towns surrounding Lago Trasimeno. We had to pass through Perugia to switch buses, and our experience with the bus the second time around wasn't nearly as smooth as the first; we waited an hour for a bus that didn't come, and then relied heavily on the kindness of the driver to know exactly when we should get off the bus. But we arrived in Casteligano del Lago without incident, called Guiseppe, our bed and breakfast host, who came and fetched us back to the room in question - not two minutes away, but it might as well have been an hour, as we had no map and no sense of the layout of the town.
During the summer, Casteligano del Lago is probably positively hopping with business, with throngs of holiday-makers. But eventually the autumn comes, people go back to work and kids go back to school, and its population and speed returns to normal. In short, we were among the very few visitors to the city, and it was very slow-paced. Which was actually exactly what we were looking for, so it worked out pretty well.
The logic behind Italian cities seems to be pretty straightforward and direct: find the tallest hill in the area, build a castle on it, build stone houses, buildings and churches around the castle, and then build a wall around the whole thing. To make it easy for carts and wagons to get around, lay down great stone tiles for a road. Finally, as you're labouring on the larger buildings, ensure there is a huge piazza in the centre of town so that people have a place to gather. If you've got a sense of humour and want to confuse visitors to the city in about a thousand years, make sure that you don't use any right angles when it comes to laying out a street, and turn the streets in curves and double-backs. To finish the deal, make a half-dozen huge portico gates and arrange them at varying points around the city wall. To those unaccustomed to walking through such a city, it's like taking a step back in time. Except that the city has adapted to the needs of its citizens as time has gone by, including adding lights, power, water lines, signs, telephone wires, and telephone booths. So you have to use your imagination a bit.
Casteligano del Lago is one of larger towns to perch upon Lago Trasimeno, and as such it's well equipped with all the stores you could need on the outskirts. Like CORA in France, COOP is a prominent supermarket chain that we've found in every city we've come across; UPIM and CONAD are also competitors. One day we shopped at the COOP that was fifteen minutes' walk from our apartment and ate our picnic meal in a meadow overlooking the Lago, but for the most part we dined and toured in the older part of the town, the walled segment that stands perched atop a small hill and is surrounded by a grove of olive trees. The trees are planted in rows, the ground scalloped in a way that makes it look like grand steps of land through which stone stairways cut upwards to form a vertical path.The olive trees themselves, like the rest of the city, have probably been standing for hundreds of years; they seem to grow impossibly, looking like they have had huge sections cut out of them, or have split apart. And yet they produce hundreds of olives, and despite the sizeable holes you could pass your hand through, the trees are obviously healthy.
We dined out twice in Casteligano del Lago, once at a restaurant called Papri-ka, and the last night of our stay at Vinolente. Papri-ka was on a Wednesday night, so it wasn't very busy, but we found ourselves among a table of Americans and a table of Australians. We didn't have much of a chance to speak with the Americans, but we did spend a fair amount of time talking with John and Lizette, sampling each other's wine, and generally having a great time. It's funny that we get to know other travellers better than we would get to know the actual residents of the cities we visit, but I suppose that given the language barrier, and the fact that we have more in common with fellow travellers (ie., we're all travelling), it makes sense.
We also met a nice trio from Ireland, Michael, Aine and her sister (whose name I forget), who live not far from my uncle Sandy in Wexford. The smallest things give rise to long conversations - in this case, we helped them take some wine down to their car, and left probably a half an hour later, addresses and travel tips exchanged.
The main fortress in Casteligano del Lago was worth a short walkabout. Overlooking the Lago, you have an impressive view, and the castle has been well-maintained, but it is an empty shell; you walk around the ramparts, but don't get to venture inside the main keep and see how it would have been used in its day. The interior of the compound was also off-limits in the off-season, but from the ramparts we could see that it had been converted into an open-air theatre space, with a large open stage sitting opposite ten rows of chairs. We surmised from the structure behind the stage that there would be a space underneath the stage, perhaps to allow setpieces to be raised and lowered.
We left Casteligano del Lago well-rested and well-fed, en route to leave Umbria and venture into Tuscany. I haven't regretted not renting a car in Italy, despite the freedom of movement it offers; the signs are deceptive, sporadic, and obviously, in Italian. At least in France we could understand the signs. In addition, we have seen parking to be a nightmare, there are astoundingly steep hills to climb, the turns are sharp, and the cars are all manual transmission. We have seen on more than one occasion two vehicles come to a sharp stop and start honking at each other until one reverses enough to let the other through. In short, I'm relatively content to let a bus or train driver do all the driving for us. However, the trip through Umbria towards Tuscany, with its panoramas of rolling hills and lush countryside, made me want to have the bus pull over to drink it all in. There's a reason people come to Italy; there's an ageless feel to the land, that is foreign and familiar all at once. I know I will come here again, hopefully armed with a better grasp on the language, to get to know the people that live here.
No comments:
Post a Comment