Between A Rock and a Hard Place

Ripatransone, which sits on a hill 1600 feet above the Adriatic Coastline, has 4000 citizens and what is purported to be the narrowest alley in Italy. As visitor attractions go, that’s a pretty humble one— especially by Italian standards, where one is competing with Roman ruins, masterpieces of painting and sculpture, and beaches filled with chaise-lounges.

Ripatransone has some of those things too: the remains of ancient Roman sanctuaries in nearby Cupra Maritime, a church with paintings from the 14th century, and in the popular resort town of Grottammare just below the village, a full candy-striped lineup of beach clubs with names like Bagni Mimosa 45 and Ristorante Tropical.  In the summer, when Ripatransone gets busy, sort of, it’s safe to say that very few people are there to see the unnamed crevice of an alley. Which is probably good. By definition, the site is not well-suited to crowds.

That’s the thing about very narrow streets—  they’re not for everybody. At least not at the same time. They have a certain level of exclusivity built in.

Having lived in New York, I’m used to wide avenues: Fifth and Park and Broadway, streets that carry so much cachet that buildings on the cross streets will try to grab an address on the avenue, dubbing themselves 275 Madison Avenue when they’re actually halfway down East 40th Street.  In cities like New York, big streets somehow equate with big dreams, big opportunities, and big money. They’re where you put the subways and the loudest buskers and the tallest skyscrapers, even if it sometimes means cutting off the sun. 

Of course, Italy has its share of grand, sweeping boulevards, like Via Dei Fiori Imperiali in Rome or the Corso Venezia in Milan. But most of them feel more like a statement of past imperial glories than expressions of infinite possibility.

In Italy, the streets are usually small, the options limited, and the path well-trod. Only the statues and the pasta displays at the supermarket are big. The idea of endless opportunity has never been part of the Italian sensibility. 

For all of its cultural treasures, this has always been a country constricted by geography, the Church, an under-performing economy, the force of tradition and even the weight of its own artistic and cultural patrimony. It’s never been an “anything’s possible” kind of place. More like “whatever happens, somehow we’ll find a way to go on”. Andiamo avanti, as they say.

Le Marche is that kind of region, full of little medieval towns that sit on top of the hills, with vicolos that lead to little staircases that lead to tiny piazzettas where everything is closed, because it’s Wednesday. Or Monday. Or between 1 and 4:30 in the afternoon. But then you hear someone practicing the cello in an upstairs apartment, and look out at the soft terrain of farmland, hemmed in by the Adriatic on one side, and the Sibilini mountains on the other, and know that a small frame can contain as much beauty as a big one. Sometimes there’s serenity in limitations,  just like there’s meaning in silence and secrets in shadows. 

I went to Ripatransone to see “il vicolo piu stretto d’Italia” and realized once I was there that it would not be so easy to find. Not only because it is, by definition, small. But also because there are so many contenders for the title.

A guy at Caffè Spinozzi directed me to the Palazzo Municipale, the town hall, which he said was up the hill. I went up the hill I thought he was referring to, climbed the tiny, twisting, medieval streets and 10 minutes later somehow found myself right back at Caffè Spinozzi. I asked a person at the art museum, and he directed me up a different hill where I found the town hall and a sign with a looping arrow that led me behind the palazzo.

The narrowest street in Italy

After meandering the backstreets a bit more, I came upon it. Actually, it was well-marked by a sign treating it as a genuine monument. The sign noted that it was discovered by Cavaliere Professor Antonio Giannetti, who studied this particular neighborhood of the village, which is an arcane field of study if ever there was one.  There were no crowds that day. Just three older ladies heading home from the main piazza.

It’s not too surprising that towns like Ripatransone are filled with older people. Young people need big pathways to opportunity, and all of the frenzy and hustle that goes with them. I can’t quite imagine living in Ripatransone in my twenties.

But as I get older, I find that I’m okay with a dark little street, snaking between the stone walls, silent and empty except for a thousand years worth of echoes. It can be narrow, so long as it leads somewhere—someplace green and open , with a soft breeze and the smell of the sea.