Tarquinia

I’m falling into the Sea, letting it devour me, what will be, will be.

Yesterday rather than traveling north we traveled west to the Sea! Tarquinia is a small hill top town (as all Italian towns are) with a beautiful view of the Mediterranean Sea. Stepping off of the blue bus with foggy windows, I was surprised at how incredibly close we were to the sea. Only an hour’s bus ride away and we were looking at the dazzling blue body of water. Being so near to the sea, I was surprised the smell of salt was not tickling my nose as it would have been if I were near Monterrey or Bodega Bay. Before we could dip our hands into the sand however we decided to explore the town of Tarquinia.

An ancient Etruscan town, Tarquinia has many sights, and views, worth spending your time on. Strolling the cobblestone streets, we noticed how much less traffic Tarquinia’s streets supported, in comparison to Viterbo. Here, we did not need to be constantly aware of the small zooming cars that would scrape their sides against rock walls to squeeze past pedestrians without having to stop. Our first stop was inside a large museum, housing many Etruscan sarcophagi much like the ones back in Viterbo’s main palazzo.   We did not go into the actual museum but continued on our way up the street to a few shops, each the host to a plethora of urns and discs which put me right into the time of Hercules. I was tempted to purchase something but was able to buy them with my eyes rather than my money, taking mental pictures of the clay colored pieces as we made our way back into the sunshine. Tarquinia’s sun beat down on our Viterbo frozen skin, thawing our bodies and our spirits. We had expected the day to be chilly and windy so near to the sea, but the air was calm and the sun bright, a nice change from the ever shadowed Viterbo.

 Trying really hard, and failing hysterically to imitate this odd statue

After enjoying the view of the valley stretching back toward Viterbo, we entered the cool body of a foreboding church. Inside, I was dazzled by the human ability to capture the sun with the use of high arched ceilings and narrowly placed wedge windows. In front of the altar a young, grey-robed monk was vacuuming the wooden baseboards. In the corner, another young monk was polishing the framed crucifixion of Jesus as Mary’s tear-filled eyes stared down upon his bent form. Above the altar was a brilliantly colored window lighting the front of the church in a cheerful manner contradicting the sullen attitudes of those whom stand under its rays every day. In the back of the church, a circular window shares its flowering sunlight on the congregation. This church of San Francesco is perhaps my favorite church I have seen in Italy thus far and all of the credit goes to the church’s architects of long ago. 

We were lost. The signs were pointing out of town, and yet the necropolis was nowhere in sight. As we were turning in circles a man pulled slowly up to our confused sides and offered his assistance. Redirected to the “real” necropolis—rather than the fake one we had apparently been about to pay for—we found our way inside the compound within five minutes, ready to embrace our archeological genes. Inside, sprawled before us in what must have been a very calculated manner, was a field of what looked like hobbit houses. We knew, as we climbed into these mole caves however, that no living thing had ever claimed ownership of their moist rock interiors and painted ceilings. Down twenty sets of dark, steep stairs we went, looking in awe at the handiwork of painters alive before Christ. The necropolises dated from before 500 B.C. and in order to preserve their delicate interiors were blocked off from modern day tourists by a thin piece of glass, dripping in humidity. The rock walls and floors were sweating, making the stone easy to cut into deep in the earth, but solid and dry, able to stand the sands of time above in the hardening sunlight. 

 Yep, those are bones! Right there, bones

 These are actually ancient urns, but they looked like cute lil toadstools!

After finishing the loop of twenty necropolises and enjoying the view of the ancient city of Tarquinia—resting not too far away on a neighboring hill—we realized how hungry climbing up and down those stairs had made us. We made our way back into the center of town where now even less people were filtering about. It was siesta time. All of the shops, including the pizzerias were closed. Our grumbling stomachs led us up and down the sloping streets stopping in front of one closed door after another. A small, dark boy leading a blind dog around on a leash stared at us from behind his donut which he ate feverishly with his gap toothed smile. Finally, we approached him for assistance and he directed us back toward the entrance of Tarquinia to an American Bar. When we reached the piazza right across from the museum we had first entered, we looked at the American Bar and decided we would rather go hungry than submit to such a touristy place. We found an open pizzeria where they were less than pleased to serve us pizza and where they critiqued our pronunciation of foreign plates. 

The black sand felt like such a relief after walking for a month on the harsh and unforgiving cobblestoned streets of Viterbo. Softly, the black sand swallowed my white tennis shoes as we made our way closer to the body of water we had been thirsting for all day long. For some reason I was surprised to see the same sea shells hiding in the sand I would find on the sandy colored beaches of California. Where were the Italian shells? Foreign land creatures meant there had to be foreign sea creatures willing to shed their homes for the convenience of my beach combing curiosity. I found a plastic green bucket and began my search for shells that one day would still be distinguishable from Californian shells. 

After filling my bucket, falling into the sea, running away from what appeared to be a jellyfish (but more than likely was just a fire-starter gel), watching a man reel in a fish, I began to crave some gelato. We made our way along the dock trying to find somewhere open, but again it was still before 4:00 and so everything was still closed down. Two girls passed by us on rollerblades reminding me too much of the Californian boardwalks, an idea that was quickly quelled as a shouting Italian family strolled past behind their youngest son on a mechanized vespa with training wheels—yep definitely still in Italy. 

The bus was ten, twenty, thirty minutes late. Rather than panicking I pulled out a packet of gummi worms for us to enjoy while we waited. The last bus from Tarquinia back to Viterbo was to our understanding leaving from the main entrance at 16:55. If we missed that bus we would be spending an evening in Tarquinia, and idea that appealed to me, but as greatly to my comrades. At 16:35, a bus finally pulled into the sea lot and we hopped on in relief. The bus made numerous stops, including one at the local train station. When the driver got off of the bus and slowly strolled inside the station each of us groaned in anticipation and annoyance. Frequent glances at our watches showed we only had ten minutes before we would be spending a tense evening in an unknown city. 

When we reached the town entrance a blue bus was preparing to pull out. When we began to jump onboard the driver informed us that this particular bus would not be going to Viterbo. When I asked him when the next bus to Viterbo would be coming (which I proudly might add, I asked in Italian) his answer was a slew of Italian words which I carefully picked one out of: chinque, five. The next bus would not be coming until after five o’clock. When? We didn’t know so we waited. When the bus did pull in at 17:39, two of our party had decided to disappear. I ran up to the piazza above searching for them like a frantic mother. They threw money at the woman behind the counter, gathered their souvenirs and followed my running form to the moving bus below. Sitting on the bus, laughter erupted from each of us as we thought of the cinematic event we had just partaken in. 

Reaching Viterbo, after a very bumpy bus ride, was a relief after not knowing whether or not we would be sleeping in our own beds that night or not. Although we did not go to Perugia and buy twenty pounds of chocolate, I think a seaside day was just what I needed.

Today is a day of sporting events. This afternoon we have, besides the homework I have been putting off, a soccer (cacio) game in the nearby stadium, and the SuperBowl later tonight (12:30 to be exact) at a local pub staying open late just for us Americans. Before we go to the pub however, a local café—San Sisto—is hosting a pre-game party complete with dinner prepared by the owner’s mother and karaoke, which I will not be participating in unless forced to do so. The sun is shining and I am going to my first Italian cacio match; life is good.

 It was an incredibly warm day in Viterbo-perfect for an afternoon watching soccer!

The old men in front of these flag wavers were practically more entertaining than the game itself. At one point they went underneath the stadium and were pounding on the aluminum, shouting their Italian cacio songs/cheers/insults! It was awesome! Go Viterbese!