ORVIETO - A POSTSCRIPT

The play that I participated in as one of three narrators was deemed a success by Lorenzo, the director. Apparently, my pronunciation of each Italian word in the narration was loud and clear enough for all in attendance to hear. Prior to the first and only performance, I was ordered to wear black as part of my costume. Luckily I brought along a pair of black trousers and a jacket. Underneath the jacket I wore a short sleeved, black nylon top.  But what if I had not? What would our kind director have done about it? I was not about to go out and purchase a brand new outfit.  It was Orvieto and not Broadway, for heaven's sake!

Audience turn out was modest.  Though more people showed up than I would have expected; and there was some man there videotaping the entire program.  Made me a bit nervous.  Who was he?  And where, to whom, would the video be shown?  Of those who attended, I recognized just a few.  All in all they seemed to genuinely enjoy the program.  Most had probably learned of the event via word of mouth, because flyers that had been printed to advertise the show were not allowed to be posted anywhere in Orvieto.  The reason:  We were not tax paying members of the community.  Hence, each cast member was given two photo copies each of the flyer.  Souvenirs, I guess.

Afterwards, members of the cast, the leading professor of the Italian course and a few faces I did not know, gathered at a local restaurant for a final dinner together. (There was a visiting professor from Toronto who literally fled back to his hotel with his wife immediately after the play to prepare for his early morning departure.  He had been an extra.  When I was asked about his whereabouts by the lead professor of Italian and I told her he had left.  She responded by saying:  "That's rude." Little did she know that I had had the same thought in mind, but did not have the courage to follow through.)  It was a quiet, sort of anti-climatic, affair.  Most of the others had pizza.  I had to have pasta.  From there we straggled along toward the Piazza del Duomo.  On the way, someone snatched me away from the others.  At first, I believed the man to be someone I knew from the U.S.  Instead, it was a young gentleman who worked in the store that I frequented to buy water and some of the best Italian cookies that have ever passed my lips.  He gripped my hand hard as he struggled to speak.  He was obviously inebriated.  Still it was nice to be remembered in a pleasant way.  And I, for all that the experience was worth, shall never forget the last time I saw Orvieto.