Civita di Bagnoregio – The Dying City

Photo: AndreaPucci

I first visited Civita di Bagnoregio twenty years ago. Through the fog of mist and rain, only the memory of the dank odor of damp tuff and the image of desolate alleyways endure. Most appropriate for the Italian town that is known as La Città che Muore—the Dying City.

I saw her again ten years later, on a golden November day. Gloriously clinging to her high rock amidst a vast valley, Civita etched herself in my memory as she resisted her epithet.

No cars, no busloads of tourists. Only a Vespa buzzing past as I climbed the 300-meter long footbridge to the Porta Santa Maria—the only one left of the original five city gates. Sculptures of lions grasping human heads witnessed of an older resistance, when the city threw off the yoke of feudal oppression at the end of the fifteenth century. A worthy entrance to a place little changed since the Middle Ages.

When I entered the tiny souvenir shop behind the gate, the shopkeeper laid aside her needlework to share Civita’s tragedy with me. “Although the city looks like she’s been pulled from a fairy tale, in reality she’s been suffering from erosion and earthquakes. In 800 B.C., the Etruscans founded Civita on a large plateau between two valleys. However, the plateau wasn’t solid rock—it was brittle volcanic tuff.”

“So it just weathered?”

“About 1500 years ago, the erosion increased when the area was deforested to create farmland. The rivers and the rain had free reign and steadily washed away the sides of the plateau, leaving nothing but a narrow ridge.”

“And the earthquakes?”

She nodded. “Two earthquakes, in the seventeenth and eighteenth century, reduced the ridge to a pinnacle. And the erosion continues. A hundred years ago, Civita could still be accessed by a donkey path. Now we need a bridge.”

I suddenly became conscious of the fragility of the ground under my feet. “Aren’t people afraid to live here?”

“Most families fled after the last earthquake, because their houses were damaged. Despite the recent restorations, there are now fewer than ten residents.” Her face softened. “One of them is Maria. I’m sure you’ll meet her.”

Strolling through the narrow streets, I marveled at the omnipresent traces of history. The windows of a facade showing the blue sky—the house probably swallowed by an earthquake. Column stubs of a Roman temple in front of a Renaissance church. An alleyway ending in a chest-high wall that prevented me from stepping into the void. The grindstone of an ancient olive press that used to be operated by a donkey-powered treadmill until the 1960s.

I could not imagine that one day this timeless city would slide away.

As I rounded a corner, a soft voice greeted me.

“Buon giorno, signora. Do you want to see my garden? It gives a good view over the Calanchi Valley.” Blue eyes under silvery, well-groomed hair gently beckoned to me. Her right arm hung limp against her floral dress; her right foot was bent at an awkward angle.

Maria.

“I’d love to, grazie.” I reached inside my purse and placed two Euro in her opened left hand.

She smiled. “You will also love my little museum.”

On one side of her yard, a wall displayed a collection of worn garden tools, Etruscan artefacts, and giant potsherds.

“Look, there’s a Roman armor piece.” Maria pointed to something that could be a breastplate.

On the other side, the oblong garden invited me to walk to its far end, where a surreal landscape awaited me. Across the valley, gulches cut through barren hillsides, leaving sharp crests of white clay. In the distance rose the purple silhouette of the Apennines Mountains.

I sat on the wall that enclosed the garden, absorbing the view and the silence, amazed that such destruction can birth such a beauty.

This year, I returned to Civita, hoping to spend time in Maria’s garden. The small town was still perched fiercely atop its pinnacle, seemingly unaffected by wind and water. Flowerpots adorned balconies and staircases. From an open window, the aroma of garlic and tomato sauce wafted towards me. Cats were dozing in patches of sunshine. But I didn’t find Maria. Her garden was closed, the artefacts removed.

At the souvenir shop, I learned that Maria had deceased.

As I left Civita that day, I realized that the city is dying. But it is not only because she is losing her ground. She is dying because she is losing her souls.

***

This article was first published at the FaithWriters Weekly Writing Challenge.

For an aerial view of Civita di Bagnoregio, watch this short video on Youtube.

Sotto una buona stella

I’ve never been in a cinema so often as since I’m a mother. I’ve seen most cartoons and animation films that have been produced the last five years. From The Princess and the Frog to Despicable Me 2. And I loved them all.

However, our daughter is getting older and we encourage her to broaden her horizon. Watching something different than the latest animation film is just one the ways to introduce her to “real life” and open her eyes to situations other than living in a small village in the Umbrian countryside. We don’t like action, horror, thriller or any other genre in which there’s a high probability of seeing people bleeding or hurting one another. Furthermore, in Italy, all films are dubbed and I prefer hearing the original voices and languages.

Therefore, last month, we opted for Sotto Una Buona Stella (which means literally, “under a good star”), an Italian comedy. At least, that was the official description. It’s the story of a man in his fifties. Divorced when his kids were still little, he has a good job as a broker, and a much younger, nice-looking girlfriend with whom he shares an expensive apartment and a mundane life. He isn’t the handsome, big spender type of man though. He’s short, a bit chubby, balding, and he wears big glasses before eyes that glimmer with a kind of clumsy innocence.

His life takes a very different turn when his ex-wife unexpectedly dies and his grown-up but immature children, who still lived with their mother–as is normal in Italy–, come to live in his apartment. His son dreams of becoming a guitar-playing singer; his daughter, a poet and a single mother of a less than two-year old girl, makes very little money with some translating work. Both children treat their father with disdain, full of bitterness, still mad at him for abandoning his family while they were only toddlers. On top of that, he loses his job because his employer is arrested for fraud. His beautiful girlfriend, unable to cope with the changed situation, leaves him.

Now, where’s the fun? The situation is rather tragic, I would say. Luckily, there’s a neighbor who breaks into the story and takes care of the comic touch. But overall, the tone of the film remains a bit sad. It gives an idea of how life is for Italian young people. One phrase, said by the daughter, still keeps coming back in my mind. “In this country, we [young people] don’t exist. We’re ghosts. This isn’t a country for young people.” At the end of the film, both young adults emigrate to the UK.

Obviously, the film reveals something about the economical situation in Italy, with a youth unemployment rate of more than 42% (http://www.tradingeconomics.com/italy/youth-unemployment-rate), in spite of the fact that many of them have a university degree. Numerous young academics, indeed, “flee” abroad to find work; they call this phenomenon la fuga dei cervelli, the brain flight or “brain drain.”

Moreover, the young ones have no hope, no spiritual anchor. They loath the religious tradition of their parents. At the same time, they long to give a sense to their life, to find a scope in what they’re doing, to see a ray of hope for their future. Many of them seek to still their spiritual thirst in New Age activities; they “create” their own religion. (In fact, the film title Sotto Una Buona Stella refers to the name of the song that the son wrote for his dead mother, who he now sees as a star in heaven.) However, as their self-built spirituality lacks the fundamentals of truth, they keep floating aimlessly through life.

Through the film, our daughter caught a glimpse of the state of mind–and spirit–of the generation that walks ahead of her, here in Italy. We can only hope that she won’t follow them, but, instead, goes where Jesus will lead her.

It is our heart-felt prayer that countless young people in Italy will come to know the only One who can give them a hope and a future, who has a purpose for each of them, and in whom they will find abundant life.

And, o yeah, at the end of the film, after his kids left for the UK, the father and the neighbor get together. But does the film really have a happy ending?

Love from the heart

When I checked Facebook this morning, I saw that someone from the US had published a nice list of ten ways to show our love to other people. The first item on the list was, “Listen without interrupting,” with a reference to Proverbs 18. It made me smile. In Italy, interrupting people when they speak is part of the communication style. A website describing national etiquettes states:

• [In Italy] It is common to be interrupted while speaking or for several people to speak at once.
• People often raise their voice to be heard over other speakers, not because they are angry.

During our very first parent-teacher conference, we found ourselves sitting in front of four friendly teachers who started talking all at the same time, while we were trying to phrase our first question. We don’t have a television, but sometimes we catch a glimpse of Italian talk shows on a TV in a bar or restaurant and then we see people who talk loudly and simultaneously. Also during tasty dinners with friends, we keep wondering about the multi-tasking skills of Italian people. Can they really listen and talk at the same moment?

I have to admit, being born and raised in northern Europe, where we were taught to wait for our turn in a conversation, it is sometimes difficult to have to “defend” our speaking time, especially when we are counseling people. “Would you like to hear what God is saying about your situation?”

Yet, Italians don’t interrupt because they are disrespectful or impolite–not always, at least–but because they are vivacious and enthusiastic. Most people actually think they are helpful as they start responding before their discussion partners have finished talking. And if their interlocutors are convinced that they need to complete their line of thought, they simply interrupt right back. Obviously, to be heard while other people talk, you need to increase the volume.

Perhaps, to “listen without interrupting” isn’t a universal way to show other people how much you love them. It might simply be a matter of cultural difference. What matters, is the heart.

We love Italy.

“For the Lord sees not as man sees: man looks on the outward appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart” (1 Samuel 16:7).