I Heart Castiglion Fiorentino

After sitting for an hour and a half in the Florence train station’s McDonalds, (it always strikes me funny as how much of traveling involves waiting, and as I am a naturally impatient person and I continuously surprise myself by enjoying traveling- but not the waiting part of course) we boarded a train to Castiglion Fiorentino- a place I called my home seven years ago, where I found my passion for new places, where I found wonderful friends, and a place that holds some of my favorite and happiest memories.

The day was clear, blue and chilly, and although the train windows were a bit dirty, you could see the brown patchwork hills and knarled husks of grapevines. I was shocked as the memories came flooding back to me as we passed small stations, towns and landmarks. I would point and tug at my moms coat like a child at a parade, each thrill passing us in succession. What was even more surprising, and admittedly a bit disarming, were the things that were unfamiliar. I warred with myself on whether it was something I just never noticed, something that was new, or that I had changed so much myself I had a different impression of it altogether, making it seem like something totally different from when I saw it the first time.

The more I travel the more I realize some things begin to look similar. I think it is in our nature to find the commonality in things and see the similarity first, allowing us to relate them to something we already know. A seasoned traveler will tell you that there is something special in each cathedral you see, in each castle, in each town, but the initial spurt of joy, of the initial thump of the unknown beating in your chest is not always as intense as it was the first time you experience something. It is like losing the unbridled joy you had as a child for Christmas morning. I was afraid this would be the case when I returned to Castiglion Fiorentino. I was afraid that the place would hold no more excitement, no more mystery, that it would just be an old town on a hill. But when I saw the tall ancient tower overlooking the valley, my valley- I sighed with relief and glee that it hadn’t changed, and the little jump my heart gave at the sight of the beacon had not changed either.

When we stepped out onto the platform, everything came back to me. It looked exactly the same. The large green sign, the double doors, the cramped, dusty interior, the oversized yellow ticket machines, it had not changed a bit. I intentionally walked from the platform through the inside with its white walls and crumpled mini-blinds over the ticketing window, small rows of dirty plastic chairs, and out through the front doors, to make sure everything was as it was. But as I walked out onto the street I was shocked. What sat on the other side of the small station was modern progress. There, staring me in the face, was a newly constructed apartment building, with creamy yellow stucco, white stone railings, and modest, yet to be open shops on the ground floor. It stood three floors high, and you could hear the music blaring from the inside as workers finished the construction. For sale and rent signs were posted in the collected rubble representing an artistic rendition of the completed posh exterior, beaconing buyers with imagined flower and blue skies. The street had been expanded up to the first intersection as you walk up the hill toward the old town. There was a large traffic light and reflective highway signs pointing the way to Arezzo and Florence. I sighed and resigned that Castiglion had definitely grown in seven years.

I held my breath as we continued up the street, and slowly exhaled as it started to look more familiar. The same large trees, the same shops, the same family grocer on the corner before the street wound up the hill. We found our Bed and Breakfast easily, as it was only about a five minute walk from the train station in the home of one of the locals, and quickly checked in and unburdened ourselves with the baggage we had been toting for the last 30 hours so we could go explore.

I lead the way up the winding residential streets, walking backwards and talking quickly as my mom trudged along after me. As we gained altitude the town began to show its soul. Castiglion Firoentino has an old soul to say the least- people have lived, died, celebrated, worshiped, and made their lives within the circling arms of its fortification for centuries. The walls and the town within them is the color of the valley. Something you may see in an impressionist painting, like the valley was made of water and all the gold, brown, and green shimmered and reflected below it.

We soon approached the outer piazza that is flanked on one side by the looming stone walls and the other by jagged cliff adorned in poplar trees. The piazza is mainly used as a makeshift bus depot or parking lot, but in the spring time it is prime real estate for carnivals, festivities, the Friday morning market and the a natural backdrop of the cliff makes for the perfect set for the Passion Play performed there every Easter.

I noticed one addition- A small square, crude building, painted in forest green lacquer that said ‘Tourist Information’ along the front awning in stark white letters. That is new I said to my mother, walking by it quickly. She knows me well enough to probably guess I didn’t really like it much. I wondered if Castiglion had enough tourists now to warrant a tourist office, and I had conflicting feelings about it. Part of me thought everyone should come here, it is beautiful and indigenous and wonderful, yet the other part of me wanted to hide it away, keep it to myself so that it would be preserved and never tainted by growth or ambition, but that my dear chaps, is never reality. And although I can accept the tourist office, and the English translations on information signs and at the train station, I hope I never become a realist.

We passed through the piazza and I recounted tails of bumper cars and gelato, waiving our fists and yelling in gibberish as part of the angry Jewish mob during the Easter play, and meeting our busses here to go to the next town on our list for our art history class each Wednesday. We then made our way down the road to the arched stone gate that leads to Santa Chiara.

Santa Chiara was originally a 16^th century monastery, and as mentioned before in my previous monologues I am destined to live in a monastery of some sort ever time I am in Europe for longer than a week. Santa Chiara was what we called home for the duration of our time in Italy, we ate there, laughed there, slept there, learned there and played there. The four floors of the horse-shoe shaped complex that wrapped around a huge courtyard overlooking the valley is virtually undetectable from the main street, it blends right in with the other weather worn buildings. I tried the front door and found it locked, and then rang the bell. I was disappointed to find no one there. I had hoped to give my mom a tour and see our old stomp again, but I guess it will have to be in the next lifetime.

We continued our trek up through the steep streets of the town, some of them nearly at 45 degree angle, with slick cobblestones and only small metal railings nailed into the sides of some houses to help the climb. The streets started to become more familiar and I lead the way up into the main interior piazza. It is lined on one side by a causeway of stone arches the look out over the valley below and provide one of the best views of the area. On a clear day you can see the detail in the hills, lined in vineyards, sunflower fields and farm houses. I stopped there and took a deep breath, taking in the cold air, the smell of the pines and old leaves. It smelled of age, a familiar earthy smell that whisked me straight back to the fist step off the bus that January almost seven years ago.

After getting our fill of the valley we continued to climb up toward the tower, navigating the curving streets and stone steps. When I lived in Castiglion, I remember visiting the tower once, when we first arrived. I don’t think we ever returned. It is strange to have something you know so well look over you for so long yet never have the agenda or ambition to see it up close. It is like taking advantage of something because you know it will be there. We do it with objects in our towns, we do it with people- we don’t make the effort to get to know them because you always think there is time, but is there?

The tower had a lovely park around its base, one that I did not readily remember. It was green and fresh and provided a nice contrast to the blue sky and the winter wildflowers attempting to grow in the stones. We walked around it, strained our necks upwards towards the top of the oldest structure in the town, and I wondered what it would have been like to have the necessity to build such a tower, to build such high walls, to be constantly threatened. I hope I never find out. When I see very old structures such as that one, I wonder what modern buildings, the ones made of glass and steel, will be around in five hundred years.

We continued our tour through the town, and I squeaked in glee to see a sign for Roggi’s Restaurant, see the dark shop of Bobo’s Bar, all dark and abandoned for the holiday festivities, the Velvet Underground where we would dance on the smallest stage in life to the everlasting entertainment of the Italian locals. We continued down the main shopping thoroughfare, which to say the least is smaller than most of our residential streets, and popped in for a wonderful, greasy, square slice of pizza margarita. Now, the Italians need to go to France and give them a few tips on pizza.

I was full of pizza and full of memories, and after exiting the main gate near the ‘Old Men’s’ bar, or so we dubbed it and kept our distance when trying to pass because every perverted old Italian man would frequent the place, we sat on a bench and looked our over the valley again.

The view you have of a place when you can see it from a high vantage point is sometimes so poignant, it makes you never want to live somewhere flat again. I imagine God has endless joy in his vantage point and He doesn’t even have to worry about climbing the steep hills, or arriving anywhere out of breath.

As we continued to wonder and explore I became more and more content with the day. Despite the rocky start with the trains and the anxiety of returning, I felt at peace and was happy that my mom was able to come to a place that had changed me and my choices in life in a lot of ways. It was definitely different, but then again so am I, and although I felt emptiness without the presence of my friends, who really made Castiglion come alive, it retained its unique form and purpose in me.