Laputa

“I was just asking her a question and she started chasing after the cats in the church! Scared the hell out of me!” Hannah whispered breathlessly as she joined me on the church’s steps, overlooking the town’s only piazza. We had become separated from our other American friends and it would not have been difficult to yell through the small town’s winding streets, except the wind would have taken away our voices before reaching them. Instead we had tried to find warmth from the biting weather in the town’s grand church. None of the oddly placed heat lamps were turned on and we were turned out into the cold once more after getting nowhere with the snippets of Italian we directed toward the church’s keeper. She was much more interested in keeping the town’s fifty-million cats out of her church than attempting to understand the broken dialect of two frozen tourists.

 A cheery door to congratulate us once we have crossed the treacherous bridge, our legs nearly buckling under the weight of the wind pushing and pulling at our bodies.

 The town's main square with the Church

 Trying to comfort one of the poor kittens shooed from the warmth of the church.

 A window into another world

Moving through the town I felt like a walking mummy, wrapped in my layers, a blue scarf tied around my mouth in an attempt to keep the wind from robbing me of my voice like a grave robber in an Egyptian tomb. My wool cap was pulled tight down over my brow and ears, trying to keep the howling wind from stealing inward. The borrowed mittens on my hands barely kept my hands from freezing in unknown sign language forms as we moved in the downward slope of the town. At the end of the town, the path began to descend in a switchback manner , exposing us to the harshness of the wind and then cradling us in shelter once again. Rounding about the edge of the town was Maria’s giardino. Maria is the oldest living native to Civita, but she now resides in Bagnoregio, because the terrain became too treacherous for her 95 year old walk. Maria’s garden overlooks the distant snow-covered horizon and wind-carved ravines below. Past the garden the hillside above becomes pocketed with holes and caves. These are the original dweller’s wine cellars and basements. One wine cellar has been made into a chapel the locals currently use on religious holidays. Reaching what appears to be the end of the steep path, we came upon a tunnel. Once cows were lead through here on a daily basis, and before then people escaped from the raiders above through such secret tunnels. The wind howled through this tunnel at speeds comparable to the whizzing toy cars under the control of Italian drivers. At the opposite end of the tunnel the pathway has collapsed. There is no escape.

 What once was a tomb now is a place of worship to the locals, all twelve of them.

 This cliff hanging home reminded me of the sea side house Lemony Snickett's Baudelaire siblings are sent to in an attempt to protect them from Count Olaf.

 Mike, come back!

 Distant snow-covered mountains and a storm threatening to unleash itself upon us.

 Maria's garden in the background

Moving quickly across the exposed town square, we rushed to the end of a nearby building to shudder in its shelter. Looking up I realized we were standing in front of the one bed and breakfast of the town. I had read about this particular B&B in a brief review by Rick Steve’s and knew the same owner would be nearby in his restaurant.  Antico Fornos had just opened and we poured into the restaurants warmth like gravy on warm mashed potatoes. The owner, Franco, greeted us enthusiastically as his first customers of the day and possibly of the week.  Once the rest of our group arrived we sat down and allowed Franco’s daughter suggest our meal to us. Not prepared to splurge for the veal, I ordered a safe meal I knew I wold enjoy: gnocci with basilica e formaggio. Delizioso! Hanging on the walls behind our eating forms was Franco with the man who had brought us to Civita, Rick Steves. When we were preparing to leave, Franco pulled me to the side and showed me Christmas cards dating back to 1997 from the Steves family. Franco was very pleased by his worldly connections.

 There he is, Rick Steves himself.

 First bite of veal-ahhh!

Back in town I stop in a small shop run by a lonely middle-aged man who glares at me upon first entering and then greets me with a smile after I deposit a few coins into the donation box near the entrance. The ceilings are low inside and in front of me there is a large horizontal wheel ready to grind olives to a pulp with the aid of a blindfolded donkey. There is no donkey today, just the artifacts in their unused places, watched over closely by the man with the cold, yet smiling face. He showed me into the adjacent room and pours a spoonful of the olive oil his family makes from the orchards I could see from near the tunnel’s entrance, clinging to the side of the hill, struggling for life against the never-ending tearing of the wind. The oil tastes like rosemary and something else I cannot quite distinguish. I buy a bottle to keep the smile from slipping from his face.

Outside Hannah has wrapped her body around the tiny meowing form of a kitten. The town’s population might be only a meager 12, but the cat population must reach into the hundreds. Hannah deemed the small white and brown kitten Anna Maria and she was carried like a prized child who had just won her first spelling bee throughout the entire length of Civita. Only when we were about to cross the steep bridge taking us away from this fairytale place resembling Laputa, the floating island Gulliver is rescued by, does Hannah release her precious cargo from her arms.

 I would have taken this rock for your heart collection mom, but I didn't think the locals would have approved if I left town with a part of it under my arm.

 1-2-3-4-5 and there was another up on the ledge that I could quite fit into the shot!

 One strong willed tree against the forces of the wind.

 Looking back at a wondrous place, a world all in its own.

Leaving Civita was difficult for the beauty of its location and the history in its Etruscan walls and tunnels is something I doubt I will ever come across again in this lifetime. I admit I did take a small stone from the pathway leading away from the howling tunnel. The stone is marked with a dark line across the bottom of its belly reminding it where it came from in the wind carved hillside.

I hope that I will possibly be able to spend another day in Civita, perhaps when the weather has warmed a bit and the wind is not so piercing. I would like to be able to stroll the narrow streets the Etruscan’s formed so long ago without hurrying in haste to find a cloak of warmth or to find the friends I arrived with before they leave my wandering self behind.