An American in Umbria

Gaggling my way up the Leonardo Express coach—the thirty-one-minute route direct from the Fiumicino airport to Rome Termini—with all my luggage, tagged orange “HEAVY,” to the front carriages, led by the conductor’s promise of free seating further up, I was dripping sweat, beginning to lose hope. Apologetically to my fellow passengers, I reached one of the promised-land carriages and settled in, my tank-topped back against the metal of a fold-down overflow seat tucked in the exit wing of the train. I calmed. I spent two days in Rome before making my journey into the deep heart of the country, the Umbrian town of Spoleto. 

I’ll spend a few more weeks here, but in the time I’ve already had to take in the forested mountaintops, medieval villages, and frescoed duomos, I’ve felt lighter than I have in months. Sure, I think some of this can be attributed to the general connection to the landscape present across the Umbrian region, but too, and more importantly, is the general untouched character of the region, few modernities breaking the bubble of slow living. 

Perhaps the best most palpable example I have of this character is in the site of my class meetings for the next several weeks. The Hotel Gattapone—constructed in the 60s and still true to the era with its mid-century modern sensibilities—has been said to have been the guesthouse of visionaries, not limited to Pablo Neruda and other artists on their trips to the city’s popular arts festival. I like to also imagine a smokin’ Al Pacino in his younger days, who I see immortalized on a poster tacked up to a medieval wall—the city’s old border. I pass him and remembrances of other famous attendees of the festival on my walk to class, combined with one of the few modern features found in the town’s landscape: a series of London-Underground-long escalators that take you up to the picturesque city centre of the hilltop town. 

I get out on level 2, Duomo, and head to the hotel, snapping pictures of a few cats— prowling the morning—along the way. In the hotel, an ageing Italian woman recognizes me as part of our group and points us downstairs. While I wind down a well-worn hardwood staircase, darkened against burgundy walls, I’m nervous we’ll be stuck in the basement. I come to a landing with a tucked away dining area, a bar under the staircase, and a long maroon leather couch that complimented the amber-stained flooring, warming in the light from wall-to-wall windows looking out onto the view of a valley and rising mountain. 

I’m not sure where to go, when another staff member, carrying out supplies for the bar, points me down another staircase. I thought for sure this was the descent into the basement I’d been nervous for. 

It was the most stunning basement I’d ever found myself in. Matching the mood of the upstairs level, cushiony red chairs were laid out in a circle, and the level opened to an outdoor terrace, a view obscured from the level above. The sun was easing into a slow morning, and wild poppies dotted the garden scape, soaking up its rays.

When the class filtered in, all seats filled socratic seminar style, the pre-class chatter began. The energy in our group felt natural, we eased into laughter that had come from some unexpected moments of bonding. 

The day before, Sunday, we woke early for an exciting “bike excursion along the path which once was the beautiful ‘Spoleto-Norcia Railway Line.’” (I’m quoting from our group’s itinerary here.) The promise was that “Afterwards, you will be rewarded with a delicious lunch of home-grown produce and wine.” While we were told to dress comfortably, none of us were prepared for a 12-mile ride, even the member of our group who teaches cycling classes back home. 

Between chains falling off, neverending uphills, unexpected two-kilometre tunnels—also home to a bat sanctuary— and tearing down the mountain ridge, we had quite the adventure. But at the bottom, the promised reward was well worth it. At a local farm, home to some of the sweetest Italian folks local to the area, we enjoyed a leisurely four-course meal. A sweet black lab roamed the area, and snails gathered on the old stone walls. It was an unexpected bliss, tucked away in the mountainside.

I feel more accomplished after that bike ride, and I think the group’s sentiment is similar. And this is only one of the excursions we’ve taken on this trip. There have already been many more with stranger characters and more laughter than thought imaginable. I never want to leave.