Trying to Figure Things Out

First, the music. And first, by entreating my wife: What kind of music was that? Knowing her major, career, and current interests, I no more expect an answer from her than from me.

According to my instructor, the correct answer to the kind of music is “discordant.” But the more I inquire, the more she insists that she is just “no help on that score” [pun delightfully intended].

Wikipedia speaks of Rossini’s inspired, song-like melodies (earning him the nickname “The Italian Mozart”); whereas no search results are expected to show up for Vittorio Montalti.

So what were the instruments we heard? (Hard to see, without opera glasses, from the cheap seats. And as my 6th grade teacher could attest, how very little did I show a distinguishing ear.)

Before I hear from Rebecca, my best guess would be percussive. The guy on the far right side had a string of instruments (by no means, string instruments) he was running between.

The whole thing sounded electronic to me, sort of John Cagey in a more continuous, melodic sort of way. Otherwise, how would a single, solitary note ever get sung?

Beyond these few, pitiful excuses for something to say about this obviously modern music, we expend our learning lesson on the headlines in the paper: “Rientro a scuola per piu di 5mila studenti.”

After the Opera

Behind S. Nicolo, where we heard “Hey Joe,” night falls on the hillside.

Politico 2.0

Umberto is funny. Some nights, at the Osteria, he makes the rounds. But others, we don’t hear from him again once he has taken our order.

Tonight, the place was almost empty. Only one other couple, and they were finished well before 21:00 (early by Italian standards).

And so, Umberto arrives with “il problema.” That is, the figurative earthquake that has hit the tourist industry in Umbria.

Back and forth, between his English and our Italian, we review the media coverage and its aftershocks on the tourist economy.

Hotels and restaurants, like his, are hurting. Italian children return to school today. The season is over, finished.

From one media story, to others: a moment of remembrance for “9/11”; the flood of African immigrants, landing on Italian shores.

A sidebar on the Pope, with more political incorrectness from this avowed “old man,” follows. Our young waitress keeps stealing glances.

When I go to pay the check, Umberto is more than surprised by the length of our stay. Pleased, maybe, that we have braved the news.

The Dreaded Conversation (in Italian)

In Piazza della Liberta, come ci si aspetterebbe, la domanda temuta: “Trump o Clinton?”

We fumbled over our collective American selves for the answer (in Italian:-).

On a second political conversation, in Inglese e in Italiano, more later.

Meanwhile, we did learn a new Italian word in Piazza Libertà: “la paura” [fright].

“Joltin’ Joe”

Hey Joe, it turns out is the title of the opera and the appropriate appellation for one member of the audience [“Hay(seed) Joe”] last night.

According to the paper (if I read it right [LOL]), there was a seven-minute standing ovation after the opening night.

By Sunday night, more of us were left puzzled by the experimental opera: one without much of a story, singing, or music.

Not quite true. It was just that this homage to Rossini, in his time the most popular opera composer in history, wasn’t exactly catchy.

Interesting, in many ways. But memorable melodies, like the one from William Tell, were nowhere to be heard.

Part of the point, no doubt, of the experiment. After all, how do you write a contemporary opera about a master in an unrecoverable classic form?

We have a copy of the libretto. When Reb’s finished the translation, maybe we’ll know more. For now, Ehi Gio left this Joe jolted.

Meanwhile, for a view of the set (and another attempt at photographing journalism):

Continuing Weather Reports

Or, as I persist in asking, what does your false god have to say for itself this morning?

Whatever it is, the odds are good these hills and mountains will baffle the best oracles.

I leave room in this post for a view from our terrace without a hint of afternoon showers.

Evening arrives without a forecasted storm ever coming in sight:

Speaking of “Slowing Down”

The hill outside our breakfast place is pretty steep. While we sip, bikers make the climb at a steady clip.

Too slow to snap a photo of the Senior’s Club, as this photojournalist can attest, the youngsters will oblige.

How many sound bytes in a picture?

I’m not standing outside, a la Ben Franklin, trying to catch lightning on my iPad.

My reflexes, say what U will about my sanity, just ain’t never been that fast.

A Missing Photo, But You Get the Picture

Around here, the food we buy gets eaten. Nothing special there.

But what we buy (or its containers anyway) gets re-purposed by the artist.