Oh No, Another Curse!

Civita di Bagnoregio
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Oct. 7

By Dan

If we have a theme song for this trip so far, maybe it’s David Bowie’s “Ch-ch-ch-changes”. We left our spacious spread in the vineyards of Tuscany on Saturday. Next stop is a tiny hotel room in an ancient town on the edge of cliff. Quite a ch-ch-ch-change from our spot in Tuscany.

That next stop didn't arrive as quickly as planned, though! Twenty minutes into the drive, a certain unnamed child mentioned that she might no longer have her (oops, gave away the identity of the certain unnamed child) rain shell. Since the same certain unnamed child had left her fleece in a toilette stall in Chartres, France, that unnamed child would have been living in short sleeves for the remainder of the trip if we didn’t turn around.

Our hotel in Pitigliano
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Rain shell back in our possession, we headed out east and then south. After a typical adventure in Italian navigation (with road signs like those that the Italians have, it’s no wonder that they haven’t won a war since the Medicis were running things), we managed to find our way to Civita di Bagnoregio. Our friends in the guidebook business at Lonely Planet really miss the boat sometimes, and they certainly did so in neglecting to mention Bagnoregio as a must-see spot. (Tony Wheeler, are you listening??) After curving through funky fields full of sheep, you suddenly find yourself at the end of a precipice, looking out at a sort of pedestrian bridge that walks you out to a tiny old town perched on the top of a rocky outcropping. The town is another one of those with every view meriting a postcard. (In fact, there was a movie crew setting up to shoot scenes when we were there - we think the movie is “Holy Money”.) Christina tried to talk the movie lingo with them and inspect gaffs and best boys, but didn’t make much progress due to the language issues. . . .)

Hot springs at Saturnia
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Sadly, I have another Curse upon me, supplementing the Curse of Milan, since we took up the invitation of a toothless little old lady to see the view from her back yard, and then declined to compensate her for the privilege. I don’t know exactly what she was yelling at me, but I don’t think it was good. Hopefully, the Curse of Bagnoregio can be attributed solely to language troubles, and thus ignored. . . .

In honor of Abby’s ninth birthday, we spent two nights in a very cool town in the far southwest corner of Tuscany called Pitigliano. (In memory of college days and a certain game that began with Zoom, Schwartz, I refuse to call it anything other than Profigliano, which has accomplished nothing other than to confuse Christina thoroughly ----- Related side note: we have taught the kids “Bizz, Buzz” as a game for long drives in the car, which I expect will be excellent preparation for college . . . .) Profigliano (I mean Pitigliano) is another of those impossibly cool Italian towns, where every shot qualifies for a postcard. We laugh at the fact that we are so immune to gorgeous settings, these days.

Pitigliano
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Remember that opener about ch-ch-changes? Well, our spacious digs in Tuscany just weren't repeated at Pitigliano. It was a perfectly pleasant little place, with very nice people, but they didn't have quads and we're too cheap to pay for two rooms. Since it was Abby's birthday, the princess scored the single bed in a separate alcove, where she was able to spread out her hedgehogs. Christina, Grayson, and I (yes, the three largest members of the traveling team) shared a double (and, yes, I do mean double, rather than queen or king) bed for two nights. I'm recalling that one of the goals for the trip was family togetherness, but . . . .

We spent most of Sunday at some hot springs about 30 km away, called Saturnia. Showing our frugality, we didn’t drop 22 euros apiece and go to the fancy spa, and instead walked down a dirt path to enjoy for free the warm water flowing over a series of little water falls and pools with a few hundred of our closest Italian friends. Apart from the fact that we still smell like sulphur 8 hours later, it was fun. The water was probably 90 degrees F, and there were all sorts of little waterfalls and other setups that allowed for great massage experiences. Plus, the people-watching was spectacular. Italians seem to be very attached to their robes – everybody came down the dirt path in their terry-cloth bath robes of various colors, and shed them to reveal Speedos or bikinis. My kids are going to be the first stylish Euro-kids at swim meets next year, when they strut out in their terry robes. Remember, you heard about the latest style here, first!

On our way back from the hot springs, we decided to do a little wine-tasting. Theoretically, we’re pretty close to Orvieto, whose wines we’ve enjoyed over the years in California. (How close, I couldn’t say, because we seem to have done a few extra loops getting to Pitigliano.) A sign in front of a vineyard said “Tasting Today”, so we decided to check it out. The fact that tasting in Italian is “Degustazione”, which sounds awfully like “disgusting”, should be ignored. . . . Unlike the slick, Napa Valley experience where you pay $10 to stand behind a tour bus load of folks, this was back country Italy at its finest. We drove down a dirt driveway, and ended up at a locked front door. As we were getting ready to pull out, though, an older gentleman came running down the path. This, it turned out, was the owner and wine-maker. His English was roughly equivalent to our Italian, meaning that we didn’t have a lot of enlightening interaction. He was friendly as can be, though, and proudly poured a couple of whites and a couple of reds from his fields. We felt a little guilty dragging him away from a Sunday afternoon with the grandkids, but couldn’t figure out how to fit a case into our duffel bags. So, one bottle heavier, we headed home to Profigliano. (Oops, sorry, Pitigliano.)

It’s still wild boar hunting season in Italy, and menus are loaded with cinghiale this and cinghiale that. At Abby’s birthday dinner, I had a delicious wild boar stew, and Christina enjoyed a pappardelle with wild boar in a red sauce. Wow! We’re trying to figure out how many wild boar we could raise in our back yard when we get home, without irritating the neighbors too much. Abby had her 97th straight meal of raviolis, and Grayson for once opted against ordering some really funky item that could only be described as “gamy”. We might be making progress. The chocolate cake from a local paninoteca didn’t quite match the cakes that Christina churns out twice a year for the kids’ birthdays, but I think that Abby felt sufficiently celebrated.

On to Rome on Monday, to return the car and squeeze in a final few days of Italy. This country is going to be hard to beat. . . .