Orvieto

 

  As we sped along the freeway between Florence And Rome, Sabra, our tour director, pointed out the hill town of Orvieto looming five hundred feel above the plains of Umbria. "Look," she said. "You can see the walls of the old fort. You should go there. It's only an hour by train from Rome. It's wonderful."

  Right. Only an hour. No, I'll just stay in little old Rome. Have a cappuccino. Go to bed early. But it was too late. Teresa had been bitten by the Orvieto bug. I hoped she'd forget about it. But she never forgets these little jaunts into the wild.

  So, after we had seen the Colosseum and the Vatican, and while the other tour group people were sensibly descending into the catacombs of Rome, we were entering the gigantic Termini train station near our hotel.

  It was a mild sunny Saturday morning. In the busy station were rows of ticket machines. We selected English. But something was being lost in translation. The train we wanted disappeared on the English screen. And the prices were much higher.

  A guy, noticing our confusion, tried to help. His English was not good and Teresa said his clothes were raggedy. He whipped through the screens.  Did we really have to put in our home address? Both of us? Teresa said she saw a screen that said, "Don't let strangers see your card number. I didn't see that.

  Eventually we threw up our hands and walked away.  We found another machine, but it was just as hopeless. I noticed a line of people entering an office. These were ticket buyers in need of a human. They probably had complicated itineraries to Istanbul or Vladivostok. Fortunately a man at the office put us in a much shorter line for duffers. 

  It turned out we couldn't make the train we wanted. The next one was in an hour but we were worried about being back at the hotel in time to join the group for our farewell dinner so we postponed our trip till the next day, Sunday. We walked back to the hotel and had a second breakfast at the fabulous continental breakfast room just before it closed.

  When we were trying to buy tickets I saw something on the screen about service interruptions due to a work stoppage. That night Sabra confirmed there would be no trains on Sunday. The unions call these one day strikes to warn management not to be stingy during contract negotiations.

  Sunday was mild and sunny. A perfect day for visiting a hill town. It was also a perfect day for walking around Rome, my new favorite thing to do. We had seen Sabra at breakfast Sunday morning. She had just gotten the last of the tour group off to the airport. The train strike wasn't starting till ten am and before she left for her train home, she drew us a map of Orvieto on a napkin.  This would prove useful on Monday. Thank you Sabra. You were great!

  Monday dawned cool and cloudy.  We left the hotel at 8:30 planning to catch the 10:00 am train. These hourly inter urban trains run all the way to Florence. Things went smoothly at the ticket office for newbies. Now we had an hour to kill before our train. American train stations are nightmarish. Any restaurants there are an afterthought for people silly enough to take the train.

  In Europe, trains are a vital part of life.  The cafes in Termini were the equal of cafes on the street. We logged onto the station Wi-Fi and dawdled over our drinks. At twenty to ten I suggested we head for our train. No one warned us our train was an 18 minute walk away. A fast walk. Now we know for the next time.

  The train took a long time getting through the not so historical parts of Rome. At least out here there'd be no men on every corner getting in your face to buy a ticket for the Hop-on Hop-off tourist bus. Once out of the city, the train hit speeds of 100 mph. We arrived in Orvieto at 11:30. Across from the station was the funicular railway up the hill to the city.

  The high town area is kidney shaped, about a mile long and a half mile wide. I had looked up Orvieto before we left Rome and saw there was a place there called St Patrick’s Well. Had St Patrick gotten to Italy in his travels?

  It turns out the pope back in 1527 had retreated to his palace in Orvieto while the Holy Roman Emperor sacked Rome.  The pope had brought his personal army along and worried about the water supply in case Orvieto was besieged. He ordered his engineer to dig for water. What? The engineer asked. You want me to dig to St Patrick’s Purgatory? 

  So there's a well in Ireland that is so deep, people thought it went to purgatory.  It became a saying that any deep hole was called St Patrick's Purgatory, which is exactly what the pope wanted. So they began digging through the volcanic rock until they hit a good supply of water 175' down. There's a walkway spiraling around the well for the mules carrying water jugs to the bottom. They didn't want the mules going back up bumping into the mules coming down so they built another path going up. Yes, they dug a double helix, like DNA.

In Italy, when someone is asking for too much, you say, What do you think I am, St Patrick’s Well?

 I'm a sucker for anything St Patrick related. If I could walk down into this well, my trip to Orvieto would be worthwhile. According to Sabra's map, the well was a short walk to the right out of the funicular station. And there it was covered in scaffolding. Oh great, it was going to be closed. But no, it was open for the few tourists in town on a gloomy Monday. Five euros to walk down and back up the 248 steps. Only 3.50 for seniors. ID please. Teresa had left her purse back in the room. "Look," I said, rather ungallantly, "she's at least 65." Anything to save a euro. 

  Walking down into this well was the high point of the trip for me. Sure the Colosseum is nice and St Peter's is pretty, but no one goes to Italy to go down into St Patrick's Well. It's unique. That's what I loved about it. I was now ready to catch the next train home and have a late lunch in Rome. But Teresa wanted to see the cathedral. Yawn. After getting lost in the maze of medieval streets, we got back to the funicular down to the train station. On the funicular, we chatted with a woman who taught Greek and Latin in Orvieto. She had never been down in St Patrick’s Well. Unbelievable.

  We caught the two-thirty to Rome. Back in the room we (Teresa) packed for the flight home next morning and then we dined at the Cafe Washington on chicken fingers, burgers and fries. Our stomachs were getting homesick. 

Ciao Roma. Ciao Italia.