Everybody has a “happy place,” of sorts—a place in time and space that you go to, figuratively, when you’d rather be anywhere on earth than the space you’re currently taking up. I often find myself daydreaming about one of my happy places when I’m in the dentist’s chair, stuck in traffic, or trapped doing something at work that I hate. I have a couple of happy places, most of them involve wine and almost all of them are in Italy. One of my happy places is the hillside town of Orvieto, in Umbria, and I have been transporting myself there a lot recently. It’s the place I go to when I need to be reminded of a broader perspective, or when I need help believing in minor miracles.
Orvieto did not leave me with a very positive first impression. I just didn’t expect the courtyard of a medieval cathedral to be packed with RVs, as if there was some kind of giant swap meet going on inside instead of a confirmation service or funeral mass. We were in an Italian hill town, by Jove, not the Appalachians, and this was no simple Baptist chapel. We were standing in front of one of the most important cathedrals in Italy, attempting to take in the glittering mosaic façade only to have our view blocked by dozens of pop-up trailers, fifth wheels, campers, and RVs chaotically parked in the cathedral’s courtyard.
Orvieto’s Duomo houses the relic of the Miracle of Bolsena, in which a doubting priest had his faith restored by communion host that bled onto an altar cloth. Some of the most famous artists of the Renaissance contributed to the Duomo’s construction and decoration. Orvieto is a serious site for students of history, art, and white wine—hardly the kind of place where one would expect to see a Winnebago convention. But we were gradually beginning to clue in that the real Italy is different from the one you see in the brochures, so it was more out of a sense of curiosity rather than disappointment that we gawked, incredulously, at the incongruous images before us.
We ducked into a shady corner to consult our map and guidebook, searching for alternative sites to see in the hopes that we could return to the cathedral later and take in its legendary façade unspoiled. As we debated between visiting wineries and shopping for ceramics, the throng of RVs suddenly, quietly, and with remarkable efficiency given the seeming chaos of the parking configuration, revved up their tiny European engines and sped out of the courtyard. Within five minutes, they were all gone, without a wisp of exhaust, without a hint of a skidmark. At last we could face the Duomo in all of its glory, made even more impressive in its singularity.
The Duomo’s façade traces eight centuries of artistic styles and tastes, including the bas-reliefs that have adorned the lower columns since the early 1300s, the shining 17th and 18th century mosaics, and the apparently controversial central bronze doors which were sculpted in 1964. (What makes them controversial, I wonder? What kind of argument would leave a church doorless for 600 years?) The interior houses an impressive fresco cycle by Renaissance master Fra Angelico, which we were destined never to see, for the big bronze doors remained closed and locked for the entire afternoon (I found this particularly controversial). Perhaps the Duomo needed some rest and refreshment after the influx of campers and trailers, but the doors never opened, and we never found out why.
(Asking “why,” by the way, becomes an exercise in futility in Italy. In America, we expect an iron-clad reason for everything that might possibly inconvenience us, like roadwork in the summer, park closures in bad weather, or airline delays. In Italy, any reason is as indefensible and legitimate as the next, so don’t bother attempting to poke holes in the argument. Learn to live with disappointment, or better yet, learn to alter your expectations.)
If we couldn’t venerate the bloody altar cloth or the frescos d’Fra Angelico, we could certainly take part in Orvieto’s other sacred offering—the white wines of Orvieto Classico. We stopped at a charming taverna right next to the Duomo where we could sit outside, nibble on a light lunch, and experience a glass of the white wine that is arguably among Italy’s best. Made from the ubiquitous Trebbiano grape with varying amounts of Grechetto, Malvasia, and other less-than-striking varietals blended in, the resulting wine is testament to another kind of local miracle. While Orvieto Classico isn’t singularly striking, it is the perfect accompaniment to exactly what we were doing at the time—sitting in the sun-baked courtyard of an Umbrian hill town, gazing at centuries of history and dipping our toes into the ever-flowing stream of people that have trickled past this particular spot for ages.
When properly chilled, the wine is the perfect refreshment when one is sizzling—pardon the cliché—under the famous Umbrian sun. Its mouth-watering (but not puckery) acidity makes it perfect with food, especially a light lunch. A dry finish leaves your palate cleansed and ready for more. While none of the grapes in the blend has a particularly unique taste, a good Orvieto Classico will have subtle leafy, nutty qualities on the palate with a whiff of sweet white flowers on the nose. The initial impression is light, but a glass or two is all it takes to leave a permanent imprint. One sip of Orvieto now brings me back to that courtyard, to that sunny day in the shadow of the Duomo, and to the sense of curiosity raised by RVs in a cathedral, a bleeding communion host, controversial doors that never open, and, perhaps most mysteriously miraculous of all, a wine that is much more than the sum of its parts.
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