The Hundred Ways This Move Nearly Killed Us

There may be a nefarious plot afoot

The stairs in our new palazzo that go up. And up. And up. Photo by Stacey Eskelin.

Moving from one medieval town in Italy to another is never easy, but when I reflect back over the last few days and the many, many times I thought, My God, I’m too old for this, it has forced me to consider that when these charming little Italian villages were constructed, no one moved. Ever. Generations of the same family lived under the same roof for centuries. And one of the biggest reasons they never moved were stairs.

So. Many. Stairs.

Full disclosure: I’ve never been a fan of stairs. Even when I was teaching sixteen fitness classes a week, doing thousands of squats, stairs were anathema to me. Are they great exercise? Of course. But that doesn’t stop me from hating them with the heat of a thousand fiery suns. I’m short. Stairs are tall. Ergo, loathing.

There are fifty-six stairs going up to our new apartment in Amelia. Now imagine hauling flats of water, heavy groceries, cat litter. Those damn cats won’t lift a finger to help. Ask them to carry something and all they’ll do is give you a blank stare. Elevators are scarcer than hen’s teeth in the historic centers of Italian villages. Our 17th century palazzo was once a public building, which is probably why there are 17th century frescoes on all three of our ceilings, but there weren’t any elevators back then and there aren’t any now. Not even a dumbwaiter. I’m working on that.

Our mover, a big Brazilian named Igor, also has a healthy respect for medieval stairs, which is why he installed this contraption in the window of our old apartment. Everything came down on that platform, even the refrigerator. And the assumption was he would reassemble the contraption once we got to Amelia. Not! The street separating our palazzo from the palazzo across from it was too narrow, as it turned out. Igor and his men had to haul brutally heavy pieces of furniture, boxes of books, and boxes of vinyls up five flights of stairs. Five. I felt so terrible and guilty, it was hard for me to watch. They were unfailingly good natured about it, which continues to astonish me. Personally, I would have clubbed us both to death.

Not even John’s considerable decorating skills could have overcome a broken bathtub in the living room. Photo by Stacey Eskelin.

There was another problem though. Our new landlady had been using the apartment as an informal warehouse, and there was a dirty, broken, clawfoot tub sitting in one corner of the living room. I asked her if she wanted Igor to put the tub on consignment in his used furniture store. Instead, she asked if he wouldn’t mind bringing it to her house, about 20 kilometers from Amelia. I gave Igor her number with the idea that they would negotiate a price, and then went back to moving.

That was a huge mistake.

By the time Igor got there, he and our landlady got into a huge row over money. He threatened to call the police. She called us in hysterics. My boyfriend John had to intervene while we were circling, lost, around a traffic circle somewhere in neighboring Terni.

Then we headed back to Civita to get the kitties. We were fighting daylight, and there was no time to eat. When we finally got there, I found glass all over the floor. Igor had forgotten to reattach the windows and one of them had crashed to the ground. I couldn’t even be mad about it because the man had already done the impossible.

Friendly. Affordable. Great food. Interesting art. SERVES LATE. Porcelli Tavern.

If you’ve ever taken a cat for a car ride, you already know how much they love that. Bunny mewed loudly for an hour. I was so tired and hungry at that point, my vision was blurry. We had no food. Restaurants were closed. We obviously hadn’t planned this out very well. Then John remembered, “What about Porcelli Tavern, that communist restaurant downstairs in Amelia? They serve late. We could eat there.”

And we did. We unceremoniously dumped the kitties in the apartment, set up their food, water, and litter boxes, and hoofed it down to the commie restaurant. That late, we were the only customers and had the room to ourselves. I’ve never been so grateful for a hot meal in my life. The food is great, and I highly recommend it.

By the time we got back to the apartment, it was after 2:00 AM. Everything was a maze of boxes and upended furniture, dispiriting to look at. The cats were fighting, which I hope is a normal feline reaction to the redistribution of territory, and there was no hot water and no sheets for the bed. Despite my having labeled all boxes, we couldn’t find them.

But as I’m sitting here in the living room two days later writing for Cappuccino, the church bells are ringing up the hill and women downstairs at the hairdresser are jibber-jabbering in their mellifluous Italian over the roar of blow dryers. The air smells of night-blooming jasmine, and we two night owls watched the dawn come up over Amelia cathedral this morning.

View from our window. This also shows how high up we sit, which is why THERE ARE SO MANY STAIRS. Photo by Stacey Eskelin.

So even though my body is a throbbing bruise of aches and regrets, my heart is full. In the end, Italy is worth the massive inconvenience and confusion. She takes everything out of you, but she gives something, too. And what she gives has a way of sneaking into your soul.