THE RHYTHM OF THE DAY (Village Style)
I think it's safe to say that here the rhythm of the day is dictated by meal times. Body clocks are set for the consumption of huge quantities of food at 1:00pm and 8:00pm. The day begins with shopping for the day's groceries. Next, a religious moment at about 10:30.....cappuccino and a quick chat with the girlfriends. Then it's back to the kitchen to cook, cook,cook like crazy so that everything is ready to eat at 1:30.
Shops and workplaces are closed from 2-5pm. Everyone heads home for lunch; usually a first course of pasta, followed by cooked vegetables and/or salad and bread. Then fruit and caffe'.
It might appear that afternoons are spent in leisure.But there is an undercurrent of activity in many households that goes unobserved. In reality, la signora is doing household chores and making preparations for the evening meal....roasting or braising meats, washing and cleaning vegetables, peeling potatoes, soaking beans. These meals don't just materialize. There's a ton of work that goes into these twice- daily family gatherings.
At 5pm, the village comes back to life. Women are shopping again for last minute items for dinner. Men are back to work or if retired, hanging around the bars and the piazza discussing the latest political scandal or speculating about that foreign couple that is still in town after so many months. Children are out with their friends,presumably having completed their homework during the afternoon.
The bars start filling up at 6ish- time for an aperitivo or a gelato- something light and social to hold you over until the 8:00 dinner hour. In summer, many go out for a passaggiata after dinner. If there's entertainment in the piazza, it won't start before 10pm, even though it's advertised to begin at 9:15. When fireworks are included in the events, they kick-off around midnight.
Even after 6 months, we are still adjusting to this daily rhythm. Some days, we just get going around noon time......which is pretty useless when village life comes to a standstill at 1:00. Typically unaccustomed to making a big deal about lunch, we now spend way too much time deciding what to prepare and sitting at table. Occasionally, we're even lulled into drowsiness by the afternoon stillness and silence surrounding us. Some afternoons we walk to the park to read or wander through the empty streets of some hill town that we've wanted to visit. Aperitivos at 6:30 suits us very well. We're usually needing a little munchie by then. After all, that's pretty close to our former dinner time. Among the advice I've received as an always dieting person is “don't eat anything after 8pm”. Duh! There is no place to eat BEFORE 8pm. I'll deal with it when I go back to the States! We've adjusted very well to later dinners.
But we're not night people, and it's a huge adjustment to even think about going out at 9:30 or 10:PM. I mean, we don't want to miss any of the locally colorful events, but not since our college days have we been wired for these late nights.
And fireworks at midnight? Now there's a story. We are used to big city fireworks displays, where the staging area is a great distance (half a mile?) from the viewing area and the display is very high up in the sky. Our local fireworks, however, are set off very nearby and they explode lower to the ground, making the displays amazingly brilliant and spectactular. But if you're sleeping away at midnight, and they start shooting off fireworks nearby.....well, let's just say it's quite an awakening....and the rhythm of that day was certainly shot to hell!
Tuesday, October 9, 2012
LA PASSAGGIATA
Orvieto, Italy
La Passeggiata
La Passeggiata
This is a guest post written by Grace at livinginaboot.blogspot.com. When I was searching for pictures to illustrate my own post about La Passaggiata, I came across Grace's eloquent description of this uniquely Italian ritual. It says it all and so much more...
Don't be fooled by their futuristic footwear; the Orvietani are an old-fashioned folk. Don't assume that the expediency with which they shoot their espresso is any indication of a rushed existence. Life to them is, in fact, steeped in an intentional, historical slowness. It is to be savored. Orvieto’s citizens observe set times of day reserved for sitting, eating, sleeping, ambling, and eating again. This phenomenon remains impervious to the generation gap and largely aloof to the inevitable pressures of a tourist economy.
I find myself now in the midst of one such convention. I intended to enjoy a pre-dinner cocktail at the sleepy bar I walked by during my morning shopping. Instead, my prosecco and I are surrounded. It's seven o'clock and, rather than slouching in front of Wheel of Fortune, the townspeople have emerged en masse to admire one another. There is a seamless interaction between young and old, learner and learnéd. Each has a part to play in this pageant down Corso Cavour and each performs that part with skill and grace.
By now I've risen to join the performance. From this more vertical vantage point, I can satisfy my curiosity about the contents of the countless baby carriages rattling past me. A particularly extravagant carriage catches my eye and the bambina inside is no less stunning.
She won't pick out her own clothes for a few years yet, but she's Gucci from bonnet to booties. Skinny jeans squeeze her well-rounded legs. She won't walk until August, so for now she strolls with us aboard a private coach. It's fully loaded, having more cup holders than there will ever be sippy cups. She doesn't suggest Cafe Cavour for tonight's aperitivo, yet there she's parked. She is tucked among the patio furniture and the discourse.
Her role tonight is that of a student of leisure. She notes every ensemble; she hears every "Sera!"; she giggles at every terrier and pug on parade. Her hands flap to mirror her father's animation. All the details combine to form a bedtime preamble that is also her induction into the culture of her future.
She rejoins the throng when the crodini have been drained. Excited for another round of moseying, she shares her newly mastered wave/"Ciao" combination with an elderly woman poking her head out of a window above. She gets the desired response from the nosey nonna and lays back into her cushions. Already, she's becoming an active member of this community of inveterate meanderers.
Eventually, the rumble of the cobblestones weighs on her eyes. The crowds are thinning and she is drifting. Tonight she will sleep for the final leg of her passeggiata.
The nonna in the window disappears from view. Not a moment later, she has joined us by way of massive double doors, which her husband closes by yanking with all his scant weight on one of the golden lion-head knockers. I can tell they have timed their emergence to coordinate with the latter portion of the parade, when they can negotiate the cobblestones unrushed.
For now, her husband accompanies her up the corso. They have a shared tempo, an understanding established years before. At the first piazza, he nods to her and peels off to join his bench posse for their nightly quarrel. She, however, will navigate the full circuit, only stopping for a chat or a necessity. She models a woolen skirt, nylons and practical heels—always heels. She's laden with bags, some in the crook of her arm, some under her eyes and where a jaw line used to be. She's regal in her wrinkles, somehow . . . or maybe she just looks a bit like Queen Elizabeth. The enormous onyx ring on her pinky betrays an enduring vanity—the result of dressing for decades in a couture country.
She's out now in search of a bit of gossip as much as a head of lettuce. The grocer up the road is happy to oblige on both counts. She parts from him having added a bundle of greens and some juicy details to her baggage.
Back on the move, I catch her faintly nodding in approval at the families passing by. This ritual seems to rejuvenate her. She's pleased to see the congregation of her neighbors, her family. Now she has found the energy to finish preparing dinner for her own portion of this flock, who should be assembling by her doors any minute.
She must make her way back to collect her husband and to stir the stewing cinghiale. She wends her way through the street towards home surrounded by Orvietani—her rhythmic limp is the pulse of this town.
~
Caught somewhere in the purgatory between youth and wisdom, one Orvietano generation takes its place behind the gelato cases and bar counters. They are an intriguing collection of beautifully polished faces and as-yet unpolished ambitions. They are the dreamers of this town-set-in-stone whose discontent flashes on their faces only when they think no one is looking.
My spritz server tonight lives in this limbo. He embodies Italian trendiness with his narrow jeans, metallic sneakers and hawked hair. He seems too young to be so adept with a tray full of prosecco flutes, but he whirls them past me with ease. His confident, practiced strut takes him smoothly between tables. He flashes his shining smile to any willing swooner. He is attentive to his customers and to potential customers streaming down the corso.
It is in these flickers of connection with those beyond the umbrellas of Caffe Cavour that I sense his regret. He blends with the crowd whenever he can, finding quick escapes from the inevitable refill request. Pride in full glasses and crisp crostini for his patrons can't fully satisfy him tonight. Could a stroller filled with his own heir and pushed by his own inamorata be the answer? Perhaps an affair with one of the new American girls in town who will sweep him off to a new life? OThis is a guest post by Grace at livinginaboot.blogspot.com. When I was searching for pictures to illustrate my own post about La Passaggiata, I came across Grace's eloquent discription of this uniquely Italian ritual. It says it all and more...r maybe this young man wants a fast-forward button to bring him closer to a time when he has nothing more to worry about than finding an empty bench on which he can rest. Yes, he covets his neighbor's spot in the corso parade and the tourist's transient time in his small town. Yet, in and instant, his tray is full again and his smile is vibrant. He'll find another moment to dream before the night is over. For now, his must do his part to fuel our passeggiata.
~
Don't be fooled by their futuristic footwear; the Orvietani are an old-fashioned folk. Don't assume that the expediency with which they shoot their espresso is any indication of a rushed existence. Life to them is, in fact, steeped in an intentional, historical slowness. It is to be savored. Orvieto’s citizens observe set times of day reserved for sitting, eating, sleeping, ambling, and eating again. This phenomenon remains impervious to the generation gap and largely aloof to the inevitable pressures of a tourist economy.
I find myself now in the midst of one such convention. I intended to enjoy a pre-dinner cocktail at the sleepy bar I walked by during my morning shopping. Instead, my prosecco and I are surrounded. It's seven o'clock and, rather than slouching in front of Wheel of Fortune, the townspeople have emerged en masse to admire one another. There is a seamless interaction between young and old, learner and learnéd. Each has a part to play in this pageant down Corso Cavour and each performs that part with skill and grace.
By now I've risen to join the performance. From this more vertical vantage point, I can satisfy my curiosity about the contents of the countless baby carriages rattling past me. A particularly extravagant carriage catches my eye and the bambina inside is no less stunning.
She won't pick out her own clothes for a few years yet, but she's Gucci from bonnet to booties. Skinny jeans squeeze her well-rounded legs. She won't walk until August, so for now she strolls with us aboard a private coach. It's fully loaded, having more cup holders than there will ever be sippy cups. She doesn't suggest Cafe Cavour for tonight's aperitivo, yet there she's parked. She is tucked among the patio furniture and the discourse.
Her role tonight is that of a student of leisure. She notes every ensemble; she hears every "Sera!"; she giggles at every terrier and pug on parade. Her hands flap to mirror her father's animation. All the details combine to form a bedtime preamble that is also her induction into the culture of her future.
She rejoins the throng when the crodini have been drained. Excited for another round of moseying, she shares her newly mastered wave/"Ciao" combination with an elderly woman poking her head out of a window above. She gets the desired response from the nosey nonna and lays back into her cushions. Already, she's becoming an active member of this community of inveterate meanderers.
Eventually, the rumble of the cobblestones weighs on her eyes. The crowds are thinning and she is drifting. Tonight she will sleep for the final leg of her passeggiata.
The nonna in the window disappears from view. Not a moment later, she has joined us by way of massive double doors, which her husband closes by yanking with all his scant weight on one of the golden lion-head knockers. I can tell they have timed their emergence to coordinate with the latter portion of the parade, when they can negotiate the cobblestones unrushed.
For now, her husband accompanies her up the corso. They have a shared tempo, an understanding established years before. At the first piazza, he nods to her and peels off to join his bench posse for their nightly quarrel. She, however, will navigate the full circuit, only stopping for a chat or a necessity. She models a woolen skirt, nylons and practical heels—always heels. She's laden with bags, some in the crook of her arm, some under her eyes and where a jaw line used to be. She's regal in her wrinkles, somehow . . . or maybe she just looks a bit like Queen Elizabeth. The enormous onyx ring on her pinky betrays an enduring vanity—the result of dressing for decades in a couture country.
She's out now in search of a bit of gossip as much as a head of lettuce. The grocer up the road is happy to oblige on both counts. She parts from him having added a bundle of greens and some juicy details to her baggage.
Back on the move, I catch her faintly nodding in approval at the families passing by. This ritual seems to rejuvenate her. She's pleased to see the congregation of her neighbors, her family. Now she has found the energy to finish preparing dinner for her own portion of this flock, who should be assembling by her doors any minute.
She must make her way back to collect her husband and to stir the stewing cinghiale. She wends her way through the street towards home surrounded by Orvietani—her rhythmic limp is the pulse of this town.
~
Caught somewhere in the purgatory between youth and wisdom, one Orvietano generation takes its place behind the gelato cases and bar counters. They are an intriguing collection of beautifully polished faces and as-yet unpolished ambitions. They are the dreamers of this town-set-in-stone whose discontent flashes on their faces only when they think no one is looking.
My spritz server tonight lives in this limbo. He embodies Italian trendiness with his narrow jeans, metallic sneakers and hawked hair. He seems too young to be so adept with a tray full of prosecco flutes, but he whirls them past me with ease. His confident, practiced strut takes him smoothly between tables. He flashes his shining smile to any willing swooner. He is attentive to his customers and to potential customers streaming down the corso.
It is in these flickers of connection with those beyond the umbrellas of Caffe Cavour that I sense his regret. He blends with the crowd whenever he can, finding quick escapes from the inevitable refill request. Pride in full glasses and crisp crostini for his patrons can't fully satisfy him tonight. Could a stroller filled with his own heir and pushed by his own inamorata be the answer? Perhaps an affair with one of the new American girls in town who will sweep him off to a new life? OThis is a guest post by Grace at livinginaboot.blogspot.com. When I was searching for pictures to illustrate my own post about La Passaggiata, I came across Grace's eloquent discription of this uniquely Italian ritual. It says it all and more...r maybe this young man wants a fast-forward button to bring him closer to a time when he has nothing more to worry about than finding an empty bench on which he can rest. Yes, he covets his neighbor's spot in the corso parade and the tourist's transient time in his small town. Yet, in and instant, his tray is full again and his smile is vibrant. He'll find another moment to dream before the night is over. For now, his must do his part to fuel our passeggiata.
~
DEPARTING? RETURNING? IN GIRO!
We should have named this blog Eight Months in Italy. When we began our “gap year” last March, some silly airline restriction wouldn't let us book our return for later than October 2010. But“Our Year in Italy” was the original plan and, besides, it sounded more solid, definite and lyrical, So that's what it became. We had no real clue where we'd go with blogging. Although I had been reading blogs for years (vicariously living in Italy via Michelle, Cherrye, Valerie, Nikki, Linda, Bryan, Laura and countless others), we had no idea whether we could make our adventures, observations and insights sound interesting enough to read about. But, alas, we've had lots of fun sharing our travels and have made new friends on this blog, so I guess we can conclude that it has been a very worthwhile endeavor.
We are now five weeks away from our departure (or is it our return?) and I suppose I thought it would feel sad to write about the end of “Our Year in Italy”. But in fact, it's not sad at all. So as the Gap Year closes with The Chestnut Festival in Soriano, our Italian adventures will continue.
We still have a backlog of curious and interesting things to write about and loads more pictures to share. Hopefully we'll find the time to catch up regularly over the winter, so please do stick around. We have so totally enjoyed all your comments and this amazing opportunity to stay in touch with old friends and to make new ones. Thanks so much to you all. Ciao for now. See you soon.
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