At Home in the Borgo

Finding a neighborhood—and a house drenched in history

In my last post I talked about the importance of knowing what you want, and more important, what you need when you’re searching for a place to live in Italy. Though I poked fun at the universal desire to live near the ocean or mountains, the truth is that in most regions both are only a couple of hours away. And, aside from some dreary areas near train stations or on city outskirts, beauty is everywhere.

My neighborhood. All photos mine.

So on a macro level, you’re in good shape. After you’ve paid attention to microclimates—there can be big temperature differences between hill and valley towns in the same area—there are other particulars to consider when choosing your new home base. Yes, I’m talking about those unglamorous aspects of your future daily life—services. They’re as important as those picturesque piazzas and fantastic views we all want.

(If this stuff doesn’t interest you, skip ahead to the story of how I found my home and ’hood.)

·      Health care. Do you absolutely need a doctor who speaks English? Don’t assume you’ll find them everywhere. Or maybe you need a hospital that has a particular area of expertise, preferably closer than three hours away. If you’ll need to go there more often than not, proximity matters.

·      Bureaucracy. If inefficiency and inconsistency drive you nuts, I’m sorry to tell you that, in my experience, pandemic-era Italian bureaucracy is far worse than the pre-pandemic variety. The degree to which bureaucracy equals nightmare can vary between regions, provinces, and even towns, so ask around (bearing in mind that we all love to complain), or better yet, accept that some degree of frustration is the norm.

·      Transportation. Don’t want to have a car and prefer to walk or take public transit? Good for you, but explore the transit options in your chosen area. How often do buses run? (Here, on a reduced schedule when school is out of session and on Sundays and holidays.) How easy is it to get to the train station? How late does public transit run? (We’ve got a terrific little funicular that stops running at the ridiculous hour of 9pm.) A bus might get you to that sagra (food festival) you want to go to in a tiny town in the middle of nowhere, but there’s a good chance it won’t get you home again. Taxis are always an option, of course, if money is no problem and if you can find one. As for ride services, Uber (previously limited to the pricier Uber Black, in eight cities) is now or soon will be available in more than 80 cities, according to a recent Reuters article.

·      The pausa. Does it drive you crazy that shops close for two or three hours midday or all day on Sundays, or that posted hours are often exercises in wishful thinking? You’ll be happier in a big city where, at least in the busiest areas, you’re less likely to find such closures.

·      Language. Are you determined to speak Italian on a daily basis? Then, quite possibly, very touristy historic centers will frustrate you no end unless your Italian is at an intermediate level or better. Anything less than that and the locals tend to switch to English.

·      Shopping. Know where to go and how you can get there. I love a good neighborhood ferramenta (hardware store), but sometimes what’s needed is a big home-improvement store. Or a furniture store. Or whatever. If there’s a type of business you’ll need to frequent often, scope it out. Do you want to live within walking distance of a grocery or print shop? A bar or three? A pet supply store? As mundane as these things are, they matter, especially if “not walkable” means a 45-minute bus ride.

And now it’s time to look at neighborhoods. In fact, it’s time for a story.

When I first moved to Perugia, I rented an apartment on the opposite side of town from where I live now. It had its charms—it was lovely and airy, relatively close to my friends’ homes, and it came with sunset views.

Sunset at my old place.

But I’d overlooked the glaring lack of any there there. The neighborhood itself has nothing—no restaurants, no shops, not even a bar. Streets lined with shuttered storefronts attest to its bustling past; however, by the time I got there, getting even a caffè meant a steep uphill climb—normally fine, but when you’re bushed or under the weather, less fine. But the bigger problem was the resulting lack of community. People didn’t hang out in the ’hood because there was no ’hood.

Even so, I was in no hurry to move, and certainly in no hurry to buy property. Yet, a year and a half later, I did. Why? Because of—and yes, consider this a warning—my addiction to browsing property for sale online. (PSA: do not buy property during a pandemic. That is all.)

And now it’s time for some backstory.

One day not long after I’d moved to Perugia, I got on a bus going the opposite direction from my destination. Instead of jumping off to correct my course, I decided to see where this route took me. We wound through a part of the city I hadn't yet seen, heavily treed, with flower-laden terraces and balconies flanking majestic old palazzi. It seemed a place apart, quiet and peaceful and self-contained, like its own small town. I decided to go back there on foot to explore.

From Perugia’s main hub, Piazza Quattro Novembre, I wound downhill a mile or so, then back uphill toward the city center, ending up at one of the city’s medieval gates. It dates to 1374, when it was part of a papal fortress. A few steps past the gate I found a church dating to 1163. A wrought iron gate led into the church’s courtyard, once the cloister of a 15th-century convent, where children were playing on a stone portico and laundry hung from the windows above. An evocative slice of Italy, soaked in history. I was completely charmed.

About a year later, browsing property for sale, I saw a listing that looked vaguely familiar. Curiosity got the best of me, so of course I had to go see it—and yes, there were the church, the courtyard, the portico. The apartment (the resident priest’s house until the 1940s) sits above the portico, facing the courtyard, and curves along the street. (Fun fact: a shallow broom closet in the apartment was once a door that gave the priest easy access to the church.) The property includes a separate ground-floor space with a vaulted brick ceiling that was once the church’s baptistery.

At this point, I was swooning. What sealed the deal for always-seduced-by-history me was a brick in one wall of the apartment, in an enclosed area that was once a loggia, open to the air, on which is carved a date—1452, my neighborhood peeps and I believe, though the numerals are hard to make out. I’m going with that, because I like to think my house was built in the year Leonardo da Vinci was born.

But I didn’t buy my home solely because of its historic past. I knew the borgo (neighborhood) had a very active soci (members) association that has improved the area in all kinds of ways, creating gardens and an apiary, maintaining the church property, and sponsoring festivals and communal dinners. I knew by living at the church, still consecrated but used primarily for events, I’d be planting myself at one of the neighborhood hubs. One of the first things I did was to turn the barren courtyard into a garden space, adding color to the existing low-maintenance, non-flowering plants on the shaded portico. Now the courtyard boasts roses and hydrangeas, geraniums and salvia, begonias and chrysanthemums, pansies and petunias; in winter, red and white cyclamens keep the space colorful. People were (and are) thrilled, and I get the satisfaction of doing something valuable for my community.

Not at its most colorful, but you get the idea.

And now I have another role in the borgo, conferred upon me when one of the soci showed up at my door with a 12-foot bamboo pole. I am now the designated Pigeon Exorcist due to my access, from an upstairs window, to a popular perching spot. I’m happy to report that my nightly banishment of a pooping pair from above the courtyard gate means that the informational placard below is no longer a crusty pile of guano. (Don’t worry, they’re fine. I brandish the stick and presto! They vamoose for more peaceful digs.)

Like anyone who wants or plans to move to Italy, I imagined all kinds of possibilities. But never did I dream I’d be living in a centuries-old priest’s house with a former cloister for a yard. And though it comes with its own story, a history rooted in the Middle Ages, now this place is home to my own developing story here. One wall of my home’s modernized interior holds a collage of photos of my Italian ancestors—recent history, comparatively speaking, but one that’s spiraling, little by little, deeper and deeper, into the past.

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Book of the week:

• An Illustrated History of Perugia by M. Grazia and Nico Ottaviani

Poems of the week:

• “Home” by Edward Thomas

• “The Self-Unseeing” by Thomas Hardy

Comments? Questions? I’d love to hear from you.