It was a cold and rainy night – well, just a little chilly with a fine drizzle – when we arrived in the unobtrusive town of Macerata. My husband Joe and I had driven from the splendiferous medieval city of Urbino, known for the heroic exploits of Duke Federico da Montefeltro, to the center of the Marche region – just north of the more popular town of Ascoli Piceno. One of Italy’s less-touristed regions, Le Marche is situated between the Adriatic Sea and the Apennine Mountains and was initially colonized by the ancient Greeks. It consists of fertile open plains, high jagged cliffs and ruggedly dramatic views of castles, farmland and sea. The independent, seven-mile-wide turreted republic of San Marino wends its way across the heavens, looking like an elevated swashbuckling mirage.
But after a long late-autumn journey down the Adriatic Coast, in often surprisingly harsh weather conditions, we stopped in Macerata for a weekend to recharge our batteries. I also was recovering from a sinus infection. Nevertheless, neither inflamed nasal passages nor two days of steady downpours could deter us from exploring on foot this quaint and substantial town of churches, palaces and theaters. Our small hotel was located near a prominent staircase attached to the appropriately named Pizzeria Scalette (scalette means steps), where in this later evening hour we stopped for carryout pizza slices topped with olives, mushrooms and prosciutto. Parking our rental car posed a challenge due to the low-arched stone structure that served as a makeshift garage. Joe wedged it into a tight corner, and I noticed that the car butted up against the Communist Party headquarters.
The next morning, despite a thunderstorm, Joe and I found ourselves popping in and out of most of Macerata’s more than one dozen era-spanning ecclesiastical centers. In fact, the rain actually drove us into these solemn and beautifully frescoed shelters. The religious architecture cuts across Byzantine, Romanesque, Gothic, Renaissance, Baroque and Neoclassical styles – often in one building. Structures of note, for their endlessly diverse aesthetics, include the Church of the Cappuccini (the first Capuchin monastery), Church of the Incoronata di San Liberato, Church of the Madonna della Misericordia, and the Church of San Filippo. We also stopped in a lovely art gallery and carriage museum housed in some of the town’s expansive collection of ornate palaces.
Still nursing my sinus pressure, I thought a bowl of soup would ease the congestion. At the modern and relaxing Ristorante Piccolo Mondo, in the slightly sequestered Piazza Vittorio Veneto, we enjoyed a leisurely lunch that included the Marche specialty of fish broth (a flavorful elixir that worked better than a whiff of wasabi paste). I could finally breathe. So Joe and I opted for a buffet of meat-stuffed olives, strong sheep’s milk cheeses, a variety of thick-cut cold cuts, veal rolled in slices of prosciutto, and a rum-soaked cake decorated with raspberries and shaved chocolate. Throughout, the sky alternated from cloudy and gray to sunny and blue. We were seated at a window that faced the thick-domed Baroque Church of San Giovanni, a Jesuit building that once housed the Order of the Knights of St. John most closely associated with the republic of Malta. By the time we dug into that luscious cake, rain and intermittent flashes of lightning canceled out the sun. Then fog rolled in and canceled out most of Piazza Vittorio Veneto.
But eventually we had to amble back, along Macerata’s winding cobblestone streets now draped in mist and a romantic sepia glow, to our hotel. The temperatures also dropped. As we scurried across the medieval Piazza Strambi, with its distressed Civic Watch Tower and rough-hewn Duomo, we caught sight of a poster for a production of Hamlet playing at Teatro Lauro Rossi, which happened to be open. So we ducked inside. A friendly ticket agent gave us the okay to go inside the theater, where a few actors were rehearsing their lines. I was enamored with the regal 18th century architecture, its plush powder-blue-and-gold color scheme, gleaming-white balustrades, and refined rococo carvings. It was designed by Antonio Galli, also responsible for Bologna’s Nuovo Teatro Pubblico and Mantua’s Teatro degli Accademici. The space reminded me of Italy’s wealth of Renaissance and late Baroque-era theaters – a particularly exquisite draw across the Marche region due to its flourishing as a cultural hub promoted by the ubiquitous Montefeltro nobility (not to mention the Habsburg support of the Galli family of theatrical designers and architects). On a more contemporary note, Macerata is famous for its massive open-air Arena Sferisterio, a 4,500-seat neoclassical stadium that hosts a prestigious summer opera festival.
The next day brought more rain and even colder temperatures. So we only got as far as the busy Via Garibaldi to view a colonnaded nutmeg-colored monument honoring soldiers killed in World War I. Then we made a mad dash to our car, still stuck in its impossibly narrow niche. Joe’s intrepid maneuvering allowed us to break free of the tomb-like car park but also came close to dislodging a chunk of the Communist Party office. We left unscathed, and I clear-headed -- fortified by our latest discovery of a self-effacing town of such grace and gravitas even in foul weather.
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