Bolsena Revisited

There’s no escaping the castle. If you’re touring an old city in Italy, it’s likely you’ll find the looming fortified structure, harking back to earlier times, way earlier.

So it is when we arrive in Bolsena, under the cover of darkness. Constructed between the 11th and 14th century, the fortress was part of the centuries-long tug of war between the Guelfs and the Ghibellines. From below we see there’s a tower and, attached to it, a medieval subdivision, apartments and homes that were homes and shops centuries ago, some updated and now businesses and wine bars and trattorie.   

We’ve driven in from San Filippo Terme, an outdoor spa where, along with what must be hundreds of others, we dunked in the steaming waters springing from the earth and rushing down a hill. It was late afternoon, in November, getting cold. We disrobed on a muddy hillside, hanging our clothes on tree branches, carefully making our way down the hill, stepping on roots and rocks, trying to feel for safe footing.

Then, wearing beach shoes into the pools, we climbed the encrusted hills toward vacant spots to sit, lie, and lounge in the hot water. Next to me, three couples drank from open wine bottles. It was, after all, festa, a holiday, All-Saints day.

A couple hours later in Bolsena, we look up. 

Bolsena, I thought I knew you. Tizi and I were here 35 years ago with the kids, then six and a little over one year old. Those years we flew to Italy on charter flights, landed in Ciampino airport in Rome, and drove north to Orvieto, where we unloaded enough bags for a night, checked into a hotel, ate some gelato, then walked more and had some dinner. It was sightseeing, but sleep-deprived sightseeing, passing time before getting to bed.

That afternoon our son threw his socks out the hotel window, into an alley below. We retrieved them and he did it again. Later we walked the streets and outer walls of Orvieto, pushing him in a stroller, and noticed people passing us on the streets, glancing at the stroller, their eyes widening. Our daughter looked down at him and burst out laughing. He was fast asleep. He had what the Italians call a candela, a long string of snot dangling from one nostril. We cleaned him up, envying his sleep, then walked back to the hotel, keeping the socks out of his hands, and slept like the dead through the night.

The next day we drove over to Lago di Bolsena and had lunch by the lake. I remember the hills, the narrow winding road, no centerline. And I remember pasta and lake fish. Most vividly we all remember a dessert of fat, sweet green grapes and small, sweet pears that we peeled and ate at the table. Pears that became the idealized version that any pear since has had to measure up to. 

After that lunch we climbed in the car, drove the two-lane road back to Orvieto, hopped on the autostrada, and headed for San Marino.

In the dark last night we saw Bolsena again. The tower we had not seen 35 years ago.  The walls.

We know there’s an Air BNB up there in the old city, but where? We call our contact. She says Via de Medici 38, which we know. But where is that?

Up there. 

Somewhere. 

Our carry-ons on wheels rattle on the stone streets. We climb a wide ramp with deep steps, take a narrow stairway. This is nice, we all agree. But it’s chilly.  And dark. If it were daylight it would be nice. Another call, we feel we’re close. Then, there it is. 

The apartment is on the second floor, so, we climb those two flights of narrow stairs. An apartment, in which, up 13 more stairs, are two bedrooms. There are questions.  WiFi? Yes. Heat, if we need it? Yes. (We don’t.) Hot water, yes. Coffee pot and coffee, good. The place is surgically clean. That’s all we need.

Thirty-five years ago we didn’t see Bolsena. After lunch we drove back to Orvieto, hopped on the autostrada and headed for San Marino.

This time we see Bolsena—a little bit of it, one night out, the walk from our fortress apartment down to the lower town, down one long street to dinner. And back. We see it the way a tourist sees an Italian town. The town is crowded. It’s holiday weekend. Except these are Italian tourists. We hear no English, no German, no French. 

We eat a nice dinner and walk back up into the old town and go to bed. 

Next day, Pitigliano. And Saturnia. I’ve never heard of these places. That’s good.  The latter, Satunia, I know is another terme. More hot water gushing from the earth. More public bathing. 

I’m in.