Thursday 20 October 2011
Our fairly early start out toward Orvieto, an ancient hill town less than an hour straight south of Piegaro recommended by both Colleen and Rick Steves ('nuff said!), meant grabbing breakfast on the way, which meant a stop at the bakery. (We have pretty much left traditional heavy American breakfasts behind in favor of the light European ones.) But of course we had to grab coffees and fresh mint-from-our-patio tea first.
Often it was difficult or impossible to park in those ancient towns but we charged on in and after following the traffic nearly back out of town without finding a parking space, Charles declared, "What's wrong with this?" and pulled over tight against a wall, careful not to block any doors, windows or driveways. Despite some trepidation, it followed our rule: if it fits and cars can get by you, and there are no obvious signs saying No Parking, go for it. It worked: no towey, no tickey.
Orvieto was delightful, more upscale than we figured, with way too many tempting shops.
But looking was free, and fun, and we ran into the marketplace in the square just as they were tearing down, time enough to check everything out and sample and buy cheese and dried fruit, even got a lagnappe (unexpected gift) from the fruit guy and a posed photo from the cheese/meat guy.
We ducked into a couple of bookstores as some rain fell, still searching for that elusive English-language copy of Mark Twain's (Charles' and Nicole's cousin through Charles' mom - a Clemens) The Innocents Abroad, but no luck. Then we found a gem: a small side street shop called "Il Mago di Oz", which was what the jolly proprietor, Guiseppe Rosella, called himself. We were drawn in by the large Betty Boop cutout outside, but inside was amazing and a bit beyond description. Packed floor to ceiling with cartoon figures, toys, old-timey everything, collectibles, and hundreds of music-playing devices you couldn't imagine existed. Guiseppe spoke little English, used much dramatic hand language, and his brochure seemed intentionally vague -- but he delighted in winding things up and pressing buttons and showing us how they played, some with more than 100 tunes programmed in, most synced to movable figures. The shop was lined with photographs of famous patrons. We think he made all these himself, or at least had them made, and he customized it to your life story. We left feeling we had truly 
met the wizard behind the curtain.
Finally we made our way to the duomo, the major church with an amazing facade rife with intricate architectural touches. We peeked in but skipped the entrance fee (later finding out from Colleen that we missed a remarkable work in a side chapel, oh well), also opting to skip the caves tour. Ya gotta make choices, and we tried to balance cultural opportunities with budget responsibilities. We saw the amazing 12th century salt mine in Poland and planned to hit the catacombs in Rome; our cave budget was temporarily spoken for.
Feeling a bit hungry and happy with our Orvieto excursion, we headed for the van and decided to try for Civita del Bagnoregio, a very small mountain peak town about which our travel guru, Rick Steves waxed poetic. The weather was a question mark. It looked threatening. After a 20-minute drive we pulled into a Steves-designated lookout point and couldn't see Civita, or anything. The only way to get to the town was over a very long, very steep footbridge. Did we want to chance that in that kind of weather?
Adventure won over reason and we were magnificently rewarded: the light misting rain and heavy fog made the not-that-long, not-that-steep footbridge traverse a wonder of mysterious atmosphere. When we reached the top Charles declared, "I don't even care about the town, that walk over the bridge was worth the trip." But Civita, dating back to really ancient pre-Roman Etruscan time, was a delight of really old-looking doors and arches and walkways, remarkable in a land where everything was old.
We bumped into an American couple outside the church and took a photo for them, and found out they were from our part of SoCal. Then we later found them in a little "bar" (bars here serve sandwiches, coffees, etc.) and were all amazed at what we had in common: they live in Idyllwild, we are often there staying in our getaway trailer, Wes's high school played Samohi in sports, he's a retired fireman like Dian's dad, Debbie has family in San Pedro (Dian's third generation), and more and more. We offered to drive them back to Orvieto rather than have to rush to meet their bus, and not only had a nice chat but the special experience of plunging into a herd of sheep on the road, including darling little babies and that special rear view of a herd of wagging tails, flopping ears and swinging butts of wool. With no other cars on the road, and no sheepherder in sight, we just crept along and got lots of photos. Finally a guy in a black Nissan pickup came around our left, honking and yelling, and we realized he was the shepherd, and he headed them off the side of the road back to their home pasture. OK, we're sentimental softies, but we all loved stuff like that, that you can't get at home.
Back at our Piegaro home, we delighted in hot soup and a game of scrabble on our homemade board.
Our fairly early start out toward Orvieto, an ancient hill town less than an hour straight south of Piegaro recommended by both Colleen and Rick Steves ('nuff said!), meant grabbing breakfast on the way, which meant a stop at the bakery. (We have pretty much left traditional heavy American breakfasts behind in favor of the light European ones.) But of course we had to grab coffees and fresh mint-from-our-patio tea first.
Often it was difficult or impossible to park in those ancient towns but we charged on in and after following the traffic nearly back out of town without finding a parking space, Charles declared, "What's wrong with this?" and pulled over tight against a wall, careful not to block any doors, windows or driveways. Despite some trepidation, it followed our rule: if it fits and cars can get by you, and there are no obvious signs saying No Parking, go for it. It worked: no towey, no tickey.
Orvieto was delightful, more upscale than we figured, with way too many tempting shops.
We ducked into a couple of bookstores as some rain fell, still searching for that elusive English-language copy of Mark Twain's (Charles' and Nicole's cousin through Charles' mom - a Clemens) The Innocents Abroad, but no luck. Then we found a gem: a small side street shop called "Il Mago di Oz", which was what the jolly proprietor, Guiseppe Rosella, called himself. We were drawn in by the large Betty Boop cutout outside, but inside was amazing and a bit beyond description. Packed floor to ceiling with cartoon figures, toys, old-timey everything, collectibles, and hundreds of music-playing devices you couldn't imagine existed. Guiseppe spoke little English, used much dramatic hand language, and his brochure seemed intentionally vague -- but he delighted in winding things up and pressing buttons and showing us how they played, some with more than 100 tunes programmed in, most synced to movable figures. The shop was lined with photographs of famous patrons. We think he made all these himself, or at least had them made, and he customized it to your life story. We left feeling we had truly 
 |
| Orvieto duomo |
Feeling a bit hungry and happy with our Orvieto excursion, we headed for the van and decided to try for Civita del Bagnoregio, a very small mountain peak town about which our travel guru, Rick Steves waxed poetic. The weather was a question mark. It looked threatening. After a 20-minute drive we pulled into a Steves-designated lookout point and couldn't see Civita, or anything. The only way to get to the town was over a very long, very steep footbridge. Did we want to chance that in that kind of weather?
 |
| The only way to get to Civita del Bagnoregio |
Adventure won over reason and we were magnificently rewarded: the light misting rain and heavy fog made the not-that-long, not-that-steep footbridge traverse a wonder of mysterious atmosphere. When we reached the top Charles declared, "I don't even care about the town, that walk over the bridge was worth the trip." But Civita, dating back to really ancient pre-Roman Etruscan time, was a delight of really old-looking doors and arches and walkways, remarkable in a land where everything was old. |
| We love Rick Steves! |
Back at our Piegaro home, we delighted in hot soup and a game of scrabble on our homemade board.
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