8 Jul,2025 By Fake Travel News
Orvieto was beautiful, but you know that nightmare where you’re asked to perform brain surgery and your only qualification is binge-watching Grey’s Anatomy? Well, I lived the travel equivalent when I accidentally became a tour guide at one of Italy’s most magnificent cathedrals.
A.J. Dawson from Cleveland, Ohio – that’s me, enjoying my solo trip through Italy. All I had was a Rick Steves guidebook and a worrying gelato dependency. The train from Rome brought me to this charming hilltop town called Orvieto.
Orvieto itself was a revelation – perched dramatically on a volcanic plateau with golden afternoon sun making everything glow. Tourists wandered about sampling the famous Orvieto Classico wine and admiring views across the Umbrian countryside.
But the cathedral? That was the crown jewel. A Gothic masterpiece that seemed almost impossibly grand for such a modest town. My guidebook described it as “one of Europe’s most incredible cathedrals.”
Standing before this massive church that dominated the otherwise modest Orvieto, a frantic woman approached me. Her cruise ship lanyard swayed as she moved. “Are you our backup guide? Thank God! Our regular guy missed the train in Naples!”
Opening my mouth to explain that I was just another tourist seemed logical. But she was already turning back to the bus. “Everyone! Our guide is here! Gather round!”
Before I could correct her, 40 eager faces surrounded me. Cameras and determined expressions suggested people who had paid good money for a cultural experience. Well, 39 eager faces and one skeptical scowl belonged to Dr. Margaret Whitmore. Professor Emeritus, Art History, Yale University, according to her name tag.
Great. Of all the tour groups in Italy, I had to get the one with an actual expert. She probably knew more about the Orvieto cathedral than the Pope himself.
Watching their expectant faces, I made a decision that was either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid. I would be their guide. After all, how hard could it be? Basic knowledge of Christianity was in my arsenal. Years of pointless corporate meetings had honed my improvisational skills. Plus, I was already formulating what would become my business philosophy: “History the way it should have been.”
“Welcome to the Orvieto Cathedral! Construction of this Gothic masterpiece began in the 14th century,” I announced, gesturing grandly at the absolutely massive façade covered in intricate carvings and golden mosaics. Buildings like this made you understand why people in the Middle Ages thought God lived in the sky.
Pointing to the marble pillars with Biblical scenes, I improvised: “These four pillars tell mankind’s complete story. Adam and Eve’s encounter with the serpent appears here – notice the serpent’s expression? That’s the look of a medieval used car salesman. ‘Psst, hey lady, want to try this apple? Low mileage, one careful owner, definitely won’t result in the fall of mankind.'”
Appreciative nodding rippled through the crowd. Dr. Whitmore, however, was writing furiously in her leather notebook, occasionally glancing up with the expression of someone watching a train wreck in slow motion.
Approaching the entrance, the heavy scent of centuries-old incense created an intoxicating atmosphere that made even my ridiculous explanations seem profound.
“These magnificent bronze doors feature angels as handles – essentially medieval bouncers. You had to touch them for entry clearance. The angels would psychically scan you for sins, and if you passed inspection, they’d let you into God’s VIP section.”
The woman in the sun visor raised her hand eagerly. “Do the angels require specific touching technique for sin scanning? Like a firm grip or gentle caress? This would make an excellent trivia question – ‘Medieval Security Systems’ sounds like a perfect 400-point category!” I later learned she was a retired trivia buff who’d dominated every quiz night from Albany to Fresno.
“Excellent observation! Firm grip for major sins, gentle caress for minor infractions. The Orvieto monks developed a whole handbook of scanning techniques.”
She scribbled frantically: “Category: Medieval Security. This’ll stump my Tuesday night team for sure.”
Dr. Whitmore raised her hand. “Are you suggesting medieval craftsmen designed celestial security systems?”
Sensing she was onto me, I had to come up with a quick and clever retort. “That’s exactly the kind of linear thinking that prevents us from seeing deeper connections in art history.”
“Linear thinking? You mean… logic?”
“Sometimes the most profound truths transcend conventional timelines,” I replied mysteriously.
Leading the group inside, our voices dropped to reverent whispers. The space was soaked in centuries — wood worn smooth by pilgrim hands and air thick with incense.
“This chapel houses the famous Miracle of Bolsena,” I began. “Legend says a doubting priest witnessed the consecrated bread start to bleed during Mass. The bloodstains supposedly resemble the face of Christ — although, personally, I’ve always thought they look more like Abraham Lincoln. Or Colonel Sanders.”
An elderly man near the back squinted and mumbled something.
I leaned in. “Did you say it looks like… a lumberjack?”
He shook his head. “Mrmph… Colonel… Sanders.”
“Oh! You agree! That goatee of divine providence. A sacred twinkle in the eye. Yes — it’s fast food messiah energy.”
The man nodded solemnly. “Mrmph… Keep Faith Close.”
There was a pause. I blinked. “Wait… KFC stands for Keep Faith Close?”
He tapped his temple. “Mrmph. Always has.”
A few tourists gasped in admiration. The trivia woman scribbled furiously: “Category: Unlikely Acronyms. Clue: Religious branding before marketing existed.”
Dr. Whitmore could take no more. “The Miracle of Bolsena is a sacred, historical event from 1263. It has nothing to do with Colonel Sanders or acronyms.”
The mumbling man pointed at the reliquary. “Mrmph… that’s just what Big Religion mrmph…wants you to think.”
Dr. Whitmore paused, and her left eye started twitching.
I nodded thoughtfully. “And thus began the Reformation.”
Moving to the chapel with Signorelli’s apocalyptic frescoes, I explained confidently. “These show the end of the world. Notice how the Antichrist here is basically a medieval rock star, with demons as his backup band, convincing everyone the world’s ending with a killer greatest hits album called ‘Apocalypse Now: The Final Tour.'”
“And these demons dragging sinners to hell? Look at their expressions – they’re clearly medieval customer service representatives, dealing with souls who insist they’re on the heaven list but forgot to bring proper documentation. You can practically hear them saying, ‘Sir, I’m going to need to see your baptism certificate and three forms of good deed verification.'”
The group burst into laughter. One woman raised her hand indignantly. “I sent my apocalypse RSVP with a glitter pen AND kept the receipt!”
“Then you’re clearly destined for the express lane to paradise, ma’am. Premium customer service all the way.”
The trivia woman scribbled frantically: “Category: Medieval Customer Service. Answer: Demon documentation requirements. Point value: 800.”
Dr. Whitmore stared at me with the fascinated horror of someone watching a nature documentary about particularly aggressive wasps.
“These striped columns were the medieval equivalent of a mood ring – black for ‘repent now,’ white for ‘heaven’s got your back.’ Pilgrims could literally read the spiritual temperature of the room.”
The sun visor woman raised her hand. “Do the mood rings still work? I’m getting conflicted readings!”
“Excellent observation! You’re standing in the ‘spiritual gray area’ – medieval architects deliberately created confusion zones.”
She scribbled frantically: “Category: Medieval Architecture. Point value: Definitely 600.”
At the Orvieto baptismal font: “Saturday nights, this became the medieval equivalent of a holy hot tub – but for souls, not bodies. Monks would gather here for ‘spiritual soaking sessions,’ where they’d immerse their prayers in the blessed water’s reflective properties. Like a jacuzzi for the spirit, if you will.”
Dr. Whitmore stepped forward. “That’s complete nonsense! Baptismal fonts were sacred vessels!”
“That’s what they taught you in graduate school, but I get my information from primary sources – specifically, the ghost of Brother Benedict who still haunts the font on weekends—always muttering about improper spiritual toe-dipping technique.”
“Mrmph mrmble bells mrmph certain times?” asked the mumbling man, pointing upward. “Mrmph ring constantly mrmph evil spirits?”
I squinted, trying to parse his question. “Are you asking about… bell curves? Statistical distributions? That’s quite advanced mathematics for—”
“Mrmph! BELLS! Why mrmph ring mrmph different!”
“Oh! The bells and their variations!” I paused, then launched into my explanation with renewed confidence. “Ah, you’ve discovered the cathedral’s original notification system. Each bell had a different ringtone for different spiritual emergencies. The big bell meant ‘major sin detected in the vicinity’ – basically a medieval amber alert for adultery. The medium bells were for minor infractions like coveting your neighbor’s ox. And the little tinkly ones? Those were push notifications for prayer reminders.”
The mumbling man nodded enthusiastically. “Mrmph! Medieval mrmph notifications! Brilliant!”
The trivia woman’s hand shot up. “Wait, so this was basically the first smartphone alert system? Did monks have to put their bells on silent during Mass? This is definitely going to be a Daily Double!”
“Exactly! Monks were the original IT department. They even had a ‘Do Not Disturb’ mode – that’s why some bells have those little caps on them. And during Lent, all bells switched to vibrate mode only.”
I pointed at the bell tower. “The real genius was the sleep timer function. Bells automatically went quiet from midnight to 5 AM, unless there was a genuine spiritual emergency – like someone eating meat on Friday or a demon possession requiring immediate technical support.”
Dr. Whitmore’s pen snapped in half. A small piece of plastic flew across the group and landed near the baptismal font. Her other eye started twitching, and I noticed she was now gripping her notebook so tightly her knuckles had gone white.
Wrapping up with gelato directions seemed like a safe conclusion. Dr. Whitmore finally snapped.
“ENOUGH!” she declared. Her voice echoed through the cathedral like a thunderclap. Every tourist in the building turned to stare at us. “This man is not a tour guide! He’s been making up everything!”
Disappointed looks swept the group, as if she’d just told them Santa wasn’t real.
“Mrmph well,” said the elderly man who’d spotted Colonel Sanders in the blood miracle, “mrmph version was more mrmph interesting.”
Giovanni, the actual tour guide, arrived at that moment. “I am so sorry for the delay,” he announced in perfect English. “I was finally able to catch another train.”
Forty heads swiveled between Giovanni and me. The jig was up.
Confusion registered on Giovanni’s face. “Who is this man who has been guiding you?”
Dr. Whitmore stepped forward triumphantly. “He’s a fraud! I’ve been trying to tell everyone—”
To my surprise, an elderly woman from our group interrupted her. She clutched a worn travel journal, its pages filled with decades of notes – proof she’d been chasing quirky tours since the ’70s. “He’s been WONDERFUL,” she declared. “Did you know that the blood miracle looks like Colonel Sanders? Or that the striped columns were like a medieval mood ring?”
Dr. Whitmore sputtered indignantly. “But none of that is true!”
“Maybe not,” said another tourist, “but it sure made the place more memorable than most boring church tours. I’m a retired schoolteacher, and I’ve never seen a group of tourists pay such close attention to art history. Even if it was completely made up!”
Rather than report me, Giovanni invited me to join as his “American cultural interpreter.” For the next hour, he provided facts while I added “alternative perspectives.”
“Perhaps we call this approach… how do you say… history the way it should have been?” Giovanni suggested with a wink after one of my explanations about medieval WiFi.
Each of my contributions earned a wink and the phrase, “As our American friends might say.”
Dr. Whitmore spent the entire official tour muttering corrections under her breath. Vengeful notes filled her notebook, probably for the scathing Yelp review she was planning. But even she had to admit that the group was more engaged than usual. Questions flowed freely and photos captured every detail.
At one point, when Giovanni explained the actual history of the baptismal font, she leaned over to me and whispered, “At least your hot tub theory was more interesting than the real story about Byzantine marble importation.”
Sometimes a little creative interpretation makes history come alive. Art history professors developing nervous tics might be an unfortunate side effect.
Group members dispersed to various gelato shops, following my one piece of legitimate advice. Standing alone in the cathedral’s magnificent nave, I watched afternoon light filter through those alabaster windows I’d claimed were medieval air conditioning. Ethereal patterns danced across the striped columns I’d turned into a mood ring system.
At the gelato stand, the elderly woman who’d defended me was waving enthusiastically in my direction. “Best tour ever!” she called out, holding up her gelato cone like a victory trophy before disappearing into the crowd.
Sudden silence revealed the faint whisper of centuries. Soft settling of ancient stones, almost imperceptible echo of countless prayers, gentle creak of wood worn smooth by millions of hands – all spoke to me now.
For the first time in years, I felt truly useful. Back in Cleveland, I was just another mid-level insurance adjuster drowning in spreadsheets. Calculating risk assessments for strip mall parking lots represented my biggest achievement.
Soul-crushing monotony filled my office with beige walls and fluorescent lighting. The kind of environment that made you question whether this was really what you were meant to do with your one shot at existence.
But here, for two hours, I had made history come alive for forty strangers. Sure, most of it was complete fiction, but they were engaged, laughing, asking questions.
Maybe I wasn’t meant to spend my life calculating fender-bender probabilities. Perhaps something bigger was calling – making people smile while surrounded by centuries of human creativity and faith.
Maybe my calling was to share history both the way it should have been and the way it actually was. Tours combining creativity with scholarship, entertainment with education.
Pulling out my phone, I opened my notes app. “Business idea,” I typed. “Truth or Fiction Tours. History the way it should have been AND the way it actually was.” Another line followed: “Target demographic: People who want to choose their own adventure in historical education.”
The possibilities seemed endless. Maybe I’d found my calling after all – and a partner who could keep my creative interpretations from getting completely out of hand.
Dr. Whitmore walked past me on her way out, still muttering about “educational malpractice” and “the decline of intellectual standards.”
“Wait, Dr. Whitmore!” I called out, suddenly struck by inspiration. She turned, eyebrow raised skeptically.
“I have a business proposition for you,” I said, walking over. “What if we partnered up? Truth or Fiction Tours. You handle the real history, I handle the… creative interpretations. Clients get to choose which version they want.”
Her other eyebrow joined the first. “You’re suggesting I legitimize historical fabrication?”
“Think about it – some people want facts, others want entertainment. We could offer both. Maybe even a hybrid option where we argue about what’s real and what’s fake during the tour. Like we just did, but on purpose.”
Dr. Whitmore’s stern expression slowly morphed into something resembling intrigue. “Two competing personalities debating historical accuracy in real time…” She pulled out her phone. “That’s… actually rather innovative. What’s your contact information?”
As I gave her my details, she tapped them into her phone with the efficiency of someone who’d spent decades organizing academic conferences.
“I’ll be in touch, Mr. Dawson. This concept has… potential.”
As she walked away, I called after her, “Dr. Whitmore? You might want to get that twitchy eye thing checked out. I know a great insurance adjuster. Very discreet. Excellent with workplace stress claims.”
For the first time all day, I heard her laugh.
Walking back toward the cathedral, I looked up at Signorelli’s apocalyptic frescoes one more time. The end of one world, the beginning of another. Angels lifting souls to their destiny painted the ceiling above.
Maybe the most significant journey begins when you stop following the guidebook and start writing your own. And maybe, just maybe, Dr. Whitmore and I would share history the way it should have been – and the way it actually was – one tour group at a time.
The non-fake disclaimer: Fake Travel News is a satire travel blog. We have fun creating and exaggerating travel stories from around the world, but we also love travel and the very real magic it grants to the human experience. For non-fake information on Orvieto, you can visit the following link: Orvieto: The Most Gorgeous City In Umbria, Italy – Hand Luggage Only – Travel, Food And Photography Blog
