We realise a friend had left her purse in the rental car we dropped back off yesterday, so the first thing we do today is take the funicular down the hillside, back to Hertz. The funicular is a little tram that connects the hilltop town we’re in with the more industrial suburb below. It doesn’t have a driver, just two carts that pass each other on their way up and down all day long. There’s a small holding on the hillside, and almost every time we’ve taken the trip, I’ve seen three dogs sleeping in the shade at a 45-degree angle, beside olive trees and grape vines.
On the way, we stop off for a strange breakfast. Coffee, juice, a rosemary focaccia, and some beans with white onion. The woman at the restaurant scolds us as we sit down and order a coffee – it’s a restaurant, not a bar – but once we’ve ordered, she brings us what we’ve asked for all the same. It’s a day of real simplicity: everything we eat has at most three ingredients. The woman brings us a basket of bread, but we don’t touch it. Most of the bread served to us in Orvieto has been bad. It’s saltless, because of an 11th century trade dispute with Pisa, or a war against the pope in the 15th century, depending on who you ask. Even in this most culinary of cultures, custom tends to win out over flavour. But the focaccia is perfect: salty and crisp and moreish. With the beans, just cooked in olive oil and with a few slices of onion, it’s perfect. The picture I take is very yellow, and we realize that it’s this city’s dominant shade. Leonard Cohen is on the radio, and there’s a child selling toys from a stall they’ve set up at the side of the street. After making our way back up the funicular, I spend the afternoon in the library. A place I’ve walked past almost daily, but have hardly thought to go in. For such a small place – Orvieto has a population of 20,000 – it’s impressive. Multiple floors, with a vast central courtyard, and a cigarette-butt littered terrace on the third floor overlooking the Umbrian hills. There are lecture halls, even a rather high-tech cinema. It makes me think about how much we’ve lost over the last decade in the UK: death by a thousand cuts. Since 2010, we’ve lost a fifth of all libraries, probably more post-pandemic. Watching Liz Truss’ Cabinet picks roll in on my phone, I don’t feel good about the upcoming winter. I watch some footage from the Glasgow Enough is Enough rally and think all hope might not be lost.
We eat dinner earlier than usual & it’s finally time for the truffle pasta! Once again, the recipe is a beacon of simplicity. The fresh pasta is boiled to al dente. Oil is heated in another pan, with at least one more clove of garlic than we need. We grate the truffles into a bowl, remove the garlic from the oil and replace it with the grated truffle. After just a few minutes, we drain the pasta and add it to the truffle oil. Almost effortless, so luxurious.
I make a side salad of three different tomatoes (meaty and flavourful and nothing like the watery things we get at home), some rapidly wilting basil, salt, pepper, and olive oil. We drink the rest of last night’s wine and feel wistful that tomorrow will be the last opportunity to cook in this kitchen.
Hey, I’m Grace (she/her)(@gr_cebrown). I’m researching my PhD in Glasgow, thinking about eco-socialism, the climate crisis and queer futurity. I’m in Italy this summer, writing my thesis and eating well every day.
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