Quiet Reflections on the Enchanting Italian Village of Panicale


At the onset of the coronavirus pandemic, with journey restrictions in place worldwide, we launched a brand new collection — The World Through a Lens — wherein photojournalists assist transport you, just about, to some of our planet’s most stunning and intriguing locations. This week, Barry L. Schwartz shares a set of photographs from the central Italian area of Umbria.


In 2017, a couple of months after we received married, my spouse, Maggie, and I took a six-week journey — half honeymoon, half yearslong delayed trip. Leaving California, our first cease was in Brooklyn to see Maggie’s oldest pal, who all of us knew was not going to outlive a most cancers that had returned after a few years. It was go to.

Next, we flew to Barcelona and drove to a small coastal city, Sitges. While there, I discovered that one my oldest mates had simply died, additionally from most cancers, additionally at the finish of a collection of therapies.

A number of days later we flew to Florence, driving a couple of hours south to Panicale, a small hilltop city in Umbria. A pal — Steve Siegelman, a meals author in California — had lent us his renovated brick-and-stone rowhouse in what he jokingly refers to as the “new neighborhood,” as a result of it was in-built the 1500s, whereas the city’s principal middle, the piazza, dates again to the 10th century.

Early on, we badly needed to do our laundry. The washing machine in the basement could not be convinced to do the job, resulting in texts to Steve in California asking whom to call for help. He wrote back that his local fixer would get a plumber over at some point; in the meantime, he put us in contact with an expat couple, dear friends of his, Elida and Guenter, a half-mile away, with an olive grove and a brick house overlooking a valley. They immediately invited us to come for a meal and to use their laundry machines, which were set into a hillside like a wine cellar.

Steve supplies his guests with a 21-page manual: how the house works, where to go, whom to call for advice and help. At the time, there were three grocers in town, and we were instructed to buy from each, as everyone in town did, partly to keep them in business and partly because everyone is so nice. (Iolanda’s had great fresh fruits and vegetables.)

Unlike Maggie, I had never been to Italy. Raised in Los Angeles, I’ve had a lifelong obsession with authenticity, an elusive quality in my hometown. It was a balm to find cobblestone streets and peeling plaster walls that were not aged by artificial means, and to buy ordinary fruits and vegetables, not “heirlooms.”

One place in particular I documented at all times of the day: a spot where four streets converged at a short wall, below which sat a garden. The wall provided an overlook to the agricultural plain to the north — toward the town of Castiglione del Lago, on Lake Trasimeno.

A few days after arriving, we were invited by friends of Elida and Guenter to a meal in that garden; arriving, I was a little thrilled to realize I had photographed their garden wall and front door many times.

Steve suggested we take an official tour of the town. When we did, we had the guide to ourselves: a young Italian woman in a graduate art history program who gave tours as a summer job.

Upstairs was a small museum with a few paintings, and behind glass in the old hermitages were an assortment of artifacts: a Bible, censers, goblets, well-preserved silk vestments.

Maggie and I married in middle age, the first marriage for both of us. In the years preceding our wedding, we each buried our mothers, other relatives, a few friends. Not unusual at our age. Our ill friends were part of the inspiration for the trip; while we remained healthy and ambulatory, it was time to take our version of a Grand Tour.

In that way, wandering around a thousand-year-old town was instructive. Beyond the too-obvious metaphor of surviving well into old age, there remained a lot of life and beauty in the old stone walls, in the people we met, in the sky above the plain, which stretched — crowded with farms — to the horizon.



Source link Nytimes.com

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