Some professions are, by nature, "adventurous," like "Fire and Rescue" - - "Forest Ranger" - - "Law Enforcement." Perhaps, when those professionals do go on a trip, what they are looking for is relaxation - - not more adventure. Many of us have desk jobs or home jobs that, although important, can get a little humdrum. Our adventures surface now an then - - having to go to the grocery store in a rainstorm, or cleaning the leaves out of second-story gutters - - but more and more modern Americans seem to be satisfied to have their “greatest life adventures” through the purely surrogate experience of Hollywood movies, video games, History Channel specials, and the occasional novel. It wasn't always that way. Our ancestors had real (i.e., non-digital, non-virtual) adventures throughout their lives: escaping persecutions, packing up the family and shipping off to a whole new world with no sure job and a new language to learn -- fighting off predators, hunting for tomorrow’s meal, discerning between real allies and real enemies. 
Their world, far more “macro” than ours today, was filled with quests, threats, challenges, and (since you and I exist today) victories, all of which kept them on the edge, dealing with dire, sometimes dangerous, circumstances - - which had the added virtue of actually existing. In stark contrast, the modern couch potatoes among us tend to stay home and have their adventures through the electronic media. The irony is that never before have there been so many relatively easy ways to travel far away and see more of the real world we live in while we're still here. Those comparatively few who do opt for "distant travel" typically do so not out of necessity, but for something else: enjoyment? relaxation? education? -- or even the emotional stimulation brought about by a kind of “other worldly” experience. SCUBA diving off the Cayman Islands, after all, isn’t usually done so the diver can learn more about fish, and skiing down the front bowl of Whistler Mountain in Canada isn’t for the purpose of arriving at the bottom. These things are done because they are exciting, new, adventurous experiences that plunge the actor into a fairly safe but alien world which, yes, “could” be seen at the IMAX, but cannot be truly experienced except by direct physical contact … whether by sinking into the clear salt waters of the reef, or throwing your body down into the frozen white-powder abyss sprawling in front of you. Are there good reasons for foreign travel other than "adventure?" Absolutely. Many subtle experiential gifts lie in wait for the American traveler to come stumbling along. The only requirement is a truly open mind.
Those little "experiential gifts" pop up continually. It might be brushing elbows with the undeniably colorful people who populate and give context to exotic locations. It might be getting an opportunity to spend time with family away from the ordinary distractions of regular life. It might be to further a romantic relationship, to rekindle bonds with old friends, or even to get bragging rights. “Sure! I know it well. In fact I was just there last summer.” Or it might simply be to experience a new reality, profoundly different in time and space from the world we know in our common hours. Which brings us to Civita di Bagnoregio (“chee-VEE-tah dee bahn-yo-RAY-jo”). Given all of the great reasons people gravitate to famous destinations, why would anyone go so far out of their way to enter the gates of this tiny, modest, even insignificant place in Central Italy? What’s more, why do so many people come here? A town with one little hotel, and perhaps three cafés where you can grab a bite - - a delicious bite, to be sure, but still.
My journey to Civita was for that hard-to-describe “other worldly” experience. Prior to my first visit to this little hill town in 2007, my sister had recommended I read a short novel called The Miracles of Santo Fico by Dennis L Smith. It was an utterly charming book, with interesting characters and situations set in a tiny Italian town precariously perched on top of a hill somewhere in Tuscany. I loved the people who populated this little book and wanted to go to Santo Fico, except for the fact that it was fictional.
Fictional, at least, until one sees from a distance, for the first time, the tiny but proud Italian hill town of Civita. With a little conjuring, this would be Santo Fico for me, and it played the part to perfection.Of course, the little shops and cafés in Santo Fico – I mean Civita – were not hurt by the fact that when travel-advice guru Rick Steves was once compelled to answer the question “What is your favorite hill town in Italy?” … he wrote, “Of all the Italian hill towns, Civita di Bagnoregio is my favorite.”
I’m sure he had his own reasons for making such a singular declaration (he could have easily responded with something silly like "Oh, they're all my favorites!"), but once I saw the town across the valley from me, I immediately understood. Civita is like no other place I’ve ever seen or heard of. It is that suspended-in-time village you hope still exists somewhere in Tuscany, even if it could never be found, living only in your imagination. As if to add to the mysterious aura of this town, we know that Civita will not last forever. The Italians call it the Dying Village ("La Città Che Muore"). This is literally true. Civita is dying on a couple of levels. First, erosion has taken its toll on the town over the past 2,500 years of its existence (it was here long before the Roman Empire), and today the townspeople do everything they can to prevent any further washing away of the steep limestone cliffs that support what’s left of the town. It is also dying for the same reason that so many of its sister cities are dying in “old Italy.” Its young people have moved away for better jobs and modern lives in the larger cities, leaving behind only their aging parents and grandparents in the little villages of their birth. Yes, rich folk from the big cities, like Rome to the south, purchase buildings here, or sections of buildings, and, after a good updating, use Civita as their personal retreat. As non-authentic as they may be, these new dweller/investors may end up saving the city, in the same way skiers have “saved” some of the old mining villages in the Rocky Mountains -- by bringing hard-earned dollars from home to spend on vacation. I will never forget seeing Civita from across the valley for the first time, or walking the long,
inclined pedestrian bridge up to the main fortified gate of the city (there are no automobiles here) – the same pathway once used by the donkeys of the town to haul provisions up from the rich farmlands of the valley below. “It’s like a Hollywood set,” I thought. “No, that’s not it at all. It’s the reverse. This is what Hollywood sets try to look like; this is the real deal.”
As the town got closer and closer to me, I was mentally losing centuries of time. One step closer and I was in the post-World War II era (Civita was right here, resisting the Nazi troops when it could, holding out for that blessed day when the Allied armies came to this valley); another step and I was in the time of Napoleon, next was the Italian Renaissance; then came the looming darkness of the Middle Ages and the Great Plague of 1348. By the time I touched the warm stone corner of the massive city tower gate, I was touching the solid work of the Roman period, built in an opening in the natural stone façade cut by the Etruscans more than 2,500 years ago. Time travel without H. G. Wells, and with no need of his magical machines.
My sister, brother-in-law and I (in 2007) stopped first at the little bed and breakfast (& café) called the Trattoria Antico Forno (the “Ancient Oven Café”) and had lunch. The proprietor of the café and bedrooms was Franco - - a jovial man sporting an olive green shirt and a wine colored apron (appropriate, right?), who advised us on ordering the perfect little lunch to fill our bellies, while he sat with us and practiced his English telling us about his establishment, the town, the people here, and how proud they all were that the American, Rick Steves, loves the town and has sent to Civita so many nice travelers. With great pride he pointed to a photograph on the wall nex to the fireplace showing him and Rick Steves in front of the restaurant. His is the only (currently known) establishment in Civita where one can, with reservations made over the Internet, stay the night in Civita. Angela and Kevin and I fantasized about the possibility of coming here to spend Christmas some day in the future, with snow on the cobblestones and roaring fires in every fireplace. Franco said we should definitely do that some day. He says Christmas in the little village is magical. I bet he's right. 
Our lunch was accompanied by a fine local white wine in the Orvieto Classico style. After Franco departed from our table to let us finish up, I noticed a nearby window standing open with little translucent cotton curtains on either side. I got up and walked over to it to see what the little town square would have looked like to one of the residents of this building during the Middle Ages. I’m sure it was the same view I saw. This 2010 trip to Civita would be my second, and I’m sure Walt and Brenda soon picked up on my eagerness to be in that space again.
We had breakfast at our country inn and then jumped into our rental car for this year’s first “day trip” (what touring Tuscany is all about). The country road in the direction of Civita is certainly well maintained, but requires patience as one navigates through the high hills west of Orvieto. Soon enough we were entering the larger town of Bagnoregio, the protector of little Civita. One “travel tip” I learned from my trip here in 2007 was not to park the car at the first parking lot in Bagnoregio and undertake walking to Civita from there. Too far – even though the signs around the first visible parking lot indicate “Civita Parcheggio.” Don’t fall for it.
One can drive on through Bagnoregio, carefully following the little signs for Civita, and arrive at a small parking lot at the base of the foot bridge to the town. You can even get a nice cone of gelato there at the parking lot to sugar-fuel your ascent into the village via the long, inclined ramp. On our walk up, we met and stopped to talk to several other people just coming down from the city. These occasions never present a loss for words of conversation, even among strangers. “Was this your first time?” “Did you find a neat place to eat?” “Where did you park?” These and many other inquiries thinly disguise the climber’s need to stop and catch breath on the way up.
Reaching the top of the long bridge, we walked through the great tower gate, furiously taking pictures in all directions. It’s exciting to have a digital camera (i.e., no concern for the expense of film or eventual processing) when practically everything you see could easily result in a beautiful and/or fascinating photograph. One of the first things I like to check out when walking through the gate in a city wall is the remaining evidence of the clever ways the town had, at some point in history, devised to "bar the gate" against marauders. Often you can see deep grooves in the stonework on either side of the gate's interior that allowed huge iron bar grids to quickly drop out of the tower above, sliding into place to create a reinforced barrier. Other gates have odd looking iron rings, brackets, and crevices in service to their defense plan, as well as deep triangular cuts built into the wall opening with only a narrow vertical slit on the exterior of the wall, allowing archers inside the wall greater freedom of angle and aim at their foes, while greatly limiting the "target" opening for the returning arrows of attackers outside.As we walked under the wall and into the town, we quickly came into the sunny main plaza of Civita, with a small number
of local citizens and tourists sitting around on benches and at tables. Humble in comparison to the town squares of most Italian towns, this well-maintained opening in Civita's layout has been the center of life here since long before the time of Christ. There was no doubt that the rock pavement under our feet once felt the sandals and togas of Roman tax collectors, where today it had to put up with our fashionable boots and New Balance sneakers. A church, naturally, held the most prominent position among the buildings that fronted onto the square. We looked around and tried to spot other fellow "visitors" to Civita that morning. It seemed that perhaps as many as 30 other tourists were dispersed throughout the town, wandering down its few little streets or happily tucked away in rustic shops and cafés.
We checked out the several small eateries lining the edges of the central square, offering tables and chairs and a soothing air of relaxation as several people settled in for a lunchtime break. When we paused in our photographic buzz, we agreed that we were in heaven, and the only thing that could possibly add to our joy would be a bite of something tasty to eat, some chilled white wine, and a little table in a shady corner of the square to watch the townspeople and our fellow travelers wander by. 
We sat at a little table outside the door of a tiny “bruschetteria” (a specialty café that serves nothing but artfully adorned Tuscan toast called bruschetta -- pronounced “bru-SKET-tah” … not “bru-SHET-tah”). We ordered various toppings on our sampler bruschetta plate, but my favorite is still the classic. The toast was pulled from the wood-burning oven at just the right moment, giving it a light brown, crispy crust (with little points of extra char on sharp corners). When it cooled to room temperature in order to regain its strength, the girls inside the preparation area took fat, white cloves of fresh garlic 
When we were nicely fed, and refreshed from the chilled wine, we signaled the cute little waitress with a smiling "Il conto, per favore." She came to our table, noticed our completely empty plates, and said "Non vorreste piu?" (Wouldn't you like some more?). We laughed and explained that, as perfect as her buschetta may have been,
we only had a little time and were ready to explore. So we settled our account and set out. Civita has only one pedestrian street (called simply “la strada,” since there’s only one and no need to distinguish it from others with different names), spanning the distance from the main gate, through the central town square, and on to the opposite end where it terminates with a little rock stairway the leads partway down the cliff to a rocky ledge pathway that leads to several Etruscan caves created for burials but now used used by the townspeople for storage. 
Most of the caves on this hill have long since been filled in with rocks and mortar in an effort to retard the relentless erosion that has threatened Civita for centuries. We spent a little time in the cave area, but decided the best way to spend our limited time would be exploring every nook and cranny we could find in the town itself. So, returning to “the street” level, we began wandering down practically every little alley until it ended, inevitably, at a short wall or balcony overlooking the valley far below. The people of the town were very friendly, but also a little oblivious to our touring around. Like tourist attractions the world over, locals may not be in love with seeing strangers come and go every day, but they do understand that the fresh money they leave behind in cafes and shops allows a number of the townspeople to make a good living. 
The people here seemed more sophisticated than one might expect. They didn’t have the look of active farmers (as one might have seen 500 years ago when donkeys were used to bring harvests up into the town from the two river valleys on either side of this hill). They seemed to have a sense of dignity and bearing that said “Who we are is important.” I liked seeing them casually conversing with their neighbors in a courtyard or sharing a cup of coffee in the plaza. It assured us that this place was real, and that real people called this town their home. Since all surfaces are rock (they can’t afford to let water seep through grassy lawns, dampen the clay and sand beneath the town, and bring on new threats of erosion), the people of Civita have made a point of softening the look of their town with potted plantings. 
It seemed every window had a window box with crimson geraniums and other flowers I could never name. Stone stairways would be lined with potted plants, vines and shrubs somehow managed to take hold and grace a wall here, a trellis there. These beautiful plant seemed to have a soul of their own. They, and the houses they adorn, spend the day watching passersby like us come and go, always presenting the smile of particular beauty tucked away in some corner of this magical place. There is something that many small towns like this share the world over. In Civita you could easily find yourself having wandered down to the end of a pebbled side alley, looking out over the valley below, with no one around,
but you never feel alone or at risk in any way. Do the same thing in New York city and your natural defense mechanisms kick into high gear: “Should I be on my guard? I wonder if this area is safe.” In this little hill town, safe aloneness is simply another kind of luxury that invites reflection on the vast span of time represented by all that you see around you. Its centuries old struggle to survive somehow relates to our own quest to resist the ravages of time and to live fully in the days we have left. The fact that Civita still exists today, defying all the geological odds stacked against it, is a kind of miracle. Maybe that’s why this little town will always be Santo Fico to me.
