The Sounds of Civita de Bagnoreggio

I head to the hills. Literally. Jumping a train in the termini in Rome...I slide into my compartment with five Italian women of three generations. As is the Italian way, the friendly conversation amongst strangers becomes lively, more intense, more passionate. I wonder...what are they talking about? I listen in but catch no cues. Relationships and men? Politics? Finally---I ask. Ahhhhh, religion! Fields of browning sunflowers. Sheep grazing. Vineyards. Olive groves. After an hour, I arrive in Orvieto...a small town in Umbria. My journey sounds something like this...

• I wait for the bus. Where? Here? When? Soon. It's chilly---I find the sun. It's late in the afternoon. This bus? No. This bus? No. The driver points out my red glove---one missing. Grazie! And then whoosh, with an engine surge we round the curves, windy hilly road, struggling and moving at a surprisingly brisk pace!
• Arriving in the village of Bagnoreggio, it's sleepy (everything closes here) late afternoon. I hear a renaissance flute in the distance. Fitting soundtrack for this medieval village. I wind my way through the narrow streets. Asking..."Civita?" Yes...I'm going the right way. The street is deserted.
• A kilometer later, by foot there it is. Off in the distance... rising above the canyon. On a pinnacle  I see the small, medieval village. With 2500 year old Etruscan arch entrance. It looks other-worldly. And the only way in is by a long footbridge---another 1/2 kilometer...up. I feel my backpack on my back. I hear my breathing.
• Feral cats mew. This feels almost haunted.
• In the late afternoon light Civita is gorgeous. Red vines. Flowers. The canyon falling below us. Ancient buildings. It's as if I've stepped back in time.
• My camera clicks at every turn.
• Now, my fingers are crossed. I'm hoping the three-room medieval Civita B&B is open this late in the season. And that there's a room this late in the day. The door creaks. "Si (yes)" is music to my ears. And there I am...perched in my room on the third floor, overlooking the square. Dark wood  beams on the ceiling. Two foot walls. Plenty of wool blankets---and complete with heat! 
• Back out in the village (5 minutes from one side to the next) in the waning light...I smell something. Unmistakably wine. I hear a sloosh. And look down through the open grates of the window to a cellar. There he is. A vintner in a long white now wine-stained coat, bending and  heaving as he empties a huge cask. I try not to make a sound as I back away---not wanting to startle or harm him.
• Most everything is closed down for the season. What I don't hear is people (a stark contrast to the bustle of Rome.) 35 people live here all together (double the population of 2004.) I'm drawn to the light and the warmth of the open "Bar" on the square. "Closing" says Maria. I lean in. Ask her for a place I might find dinner. She recommends Pucci's back in town and offers to drive me in, if I'll wait while she closes. That's a big yes. Maria is from Romania--has a dream to return and open her own bar there, but the economy won't support it now. I'm thankful for the lift in the dark cold. I give her "Joy." 
• Ensconced in the warmth of Pucci's, I relax. Cozy. And curiously, elephants everywhere. 860 says Pucci. She's from Germany. Appetizer of pate bruschetta, truffle oil. Pucci recommends the shaved truffles, cheese and potatoes followed by stuffed (olives, potato, fennel) rabbit. I think, "Ralph would love this meal." My lips smack. My fork clinks. A large dog barks. Laying at the feet of the diners who have appeared next to me. Time to re-enter the cold...I step out.
• Now, it's late and truly deserted. Walking the dark, narrow street, I feel the cobblestones underfoot. Worn down by thousands of travelers over hundreds of years. I feel a deep connection. And hear the dog baying faintly in the distance.
• A bell tolls.  
• The wind blows and huge leaves scrape.
• Silence. 

Thankfully, the skeleton key works... and I sleep like a baby. Sun streams in as I sip my cappucino. I'm a true wanderer now. Down past the shrine of the incarcerated (combo jail and shrine). Past the old donkey stable under the cliff...with the crashed motorcycle overgrown by vines. Around the corner to the dark cave with the cold wind blowing out. Shall I proceed? Yes. I step in, a little tentatively. And can now see light at the other end. It goes completely under the village and comes out the other side. It's the old, ancient road. I glance at my journal entry and hear one final sound. My Own Voice.  "Tonite as I, an almost 56 year old woman walked alone on a hilltop in Italy I wondered...is this the edge of crazy or fully alive? It's such a close boundary and a fine line. I believe I'm here to navigate it myself...and to help others do the same."