Defining Viterbo

Early man crawled from Africa up to the craggy boot. The Villanovans sparked the history of ingenious Europeans, giving way to the Etruscans. What started with large brushstrokes in underground niches became magnificent stone temples and triumphant arches. Shiny chariots raced across the continent, claiming the newly blood-soaked lands as their own. The first Popes moved to Viterbo and initiated the conclave in the large building complex that rests on the top of a hill. During dangerous times when the Vatican City (now built) was unfit for Pope habitation, he would come back to Viterbo and distract himself with natural hot springs and a humble Catholic following. Viterbo now goes quietly unnoticed. Cities in its vicinity recognize it as the city they have never been to and never plan to visit. Rome is starting to get sick of all the tourists that clog its historic landmarks and supports the plan for a new airport in Viterbo, to divert those damn Americans.

Viterbo is most itself when the biting wind whips around the medieval walls. The sun is setting, birds are flocking to the trees, and everyone is outside. There are no seats available in the cafès and espressos shoot out of their chrome boxes every second. I hear Italian in every piazza, in every alley, in every pizzeria. Everyone knows everyone, and it is a chance for the citizens of Viterbo to recount their day to all recognizable individuals and their spouses, friends and children.

They hobble in bundled scarves and puffy winter jackets down the Corso, stopping every few steps to greet another friend. They stomp their feet in the snowless cold, but they are vivacious and happy. I smile as my sister introduces me to new friends and muster up a loud “WHEEEH CIAOOO” when someone excitedly greets me, claiming to have met me before. I nod and laugh at the small talk, shivering and making mental notes: Erika’s friend Francesca’s boyfriend Andrea’s brother Giacomo’s girlfriend Violetta’s mother Antonella and her husband Massimo. Then I study their faces, knowing that I will see them again and knowing that I will forget that I had seen them previously.

No matter the temperature, as long as there are verbose Italians and espresso, it is a good dusk in Viterbo. But they cannot stay for long because their stomachs are grumbling and their thoughts return to the best part of the day: dinner. With thoughts of heaps of spaghetti and sizzling rabbit, they make their way back home as the sun disappears behind the hills and the city lights illuminate the cobblestones.

Spending a year in Viterbo has made me the person I am now. There were days I was frustrated with my choice: when I sprinted to the bus stop at 7:10 only to watch it pass me by or when the old walls seemed to suffocate me and remove me from the outside world.

As time passed I would still glare jealously at the young children who babbled perfect Italian, forgetting that they were not showing off but were actually from the country. People live in Viterbo! It was often hard to believe. I picked up some bad habits, like a caffeine addiction and a crazed need for ritual order. When I am in Viterbo I feel much more relaxed. I can take deep breaths because the air is light and fresh, unlike Naples or Rome. The purring of stray cats comforts me and I don’t mind wiping off the dust from their matted fur on my pants. Everyone takes a special interest in cheering me up and making me feel welcome and at home.

In the morning, there is a slow rush of Italian students as they make their way to their respective public schools. My morning bus fills up with chatty students trying to impress their friends by blasting Mika from iPod speakers. I hastily scribble the last answers to my math homework, stopping only when confronted by a wide-eyed student who has heard that I lived right next to the Twin Towers. The sun rises while we roll down the deserted highway. With every lurching turn the tired students fall into one another and laugh, oblivious to the old ladies muttering about manners, fragility, noise and heavy bags.

Once my bus reaches the center of the city, the students casually leap off the cumbersome bus and search for their classmates. The students’ backpacks are thin and hang loosely off their shoulders, and the students smoke while they stroll to school, wearing skinny jeans and multiple sweaters. I pass even the tallest and most athletic boy on my own trek to school, lugging my laptop, textbooks and notebooks. My calves burn as I fight the steep incline of the city, huffing my way ahead as if it were a race. If the Italians have not already guessed my citizenship by my bright orange sweater and messy ponytail, my rushed flight to the sanctuary of an American school surely gives off red, white and blue sirens.

By nine in the morning, Viterbo is empty except for the many roaming cats. If the Italians are not at work, they are in cafès or bakeries or supermarkets. Outside drifts a silence that is soft, burnt red and bitter. At one, there is another surge of Italians: hungry students and those parents who must rush home to cook lunch for the family. The buses fill up again, Vespas zig zag dangerously and chatter almost overpowers the loud screeches of the birds. Then comes siesta and even the birds quiet down--the entire city of Viterbo naps.

I watch this scene from the second floor balcony of my school, my art history textbook open on the table to Giotto’s work or a half eaten pesto and mozzarella sandwich from up the street lying greedily, waiting for me to sit back down. It is this time every afternoon when I curse the Americans and their fastpaced track. Why do I feel the urge to quiet my fellow students as they chant Latin verbs to each other or my English teacher as he reads aloud from Metamorphoses the rap song of Pierus’s children? But I have to wait until four for American silence. By the time I leave the school and swing the huge green door behind me, the sky is already beginning to lose its radiant pulse.

At dusk, the reinvigorated Italians and I make our way back to the piazzas and main streets to socialize and munch on pizza before dinnertime, as the biting wind whips around the medieval walls.