Mementos of San Marino, the ‘Souvenir State’

There is a certain decor that I call “European Country Mellow.” It usually means an open hearth and candlelight, copper pots and paned glass. It goes with good regional cooking and a warm welcome. When I find it in a restaurant or an inn, I feel at home.

That is the cozy style of Taverna Righi, on the sundown side of the tiny European country of San Marino. The upstairs dining room has the necessary copper pots and terra cotta planters. Handpainted ceramic plates gleam against rough white walls that are framed in wooden beams.

Crisp tablecloths are the color of salmon. On the wall above the hearth is a beaten copper mural that shows a stagecoach coming up the steep road to this hilltop state, a land surrounded by Italy.

I was there on a cool spring night. Only two other tables were filled. On a tip from the owner--Giovanni Righi--I ordered a pasta prepared with salvia, which is fresh sage.

In the center of the room was a table laden with wonders from the kitchen: plates of antipasti, bowls of crinkled lettuce, salmon, cheese, strawberries and pastries. The backdrop was a three-tiered sculpture of San Marino’s walls and turrets. The sculpture was made of bread.

The Taverna Righi overlooks the flagstones of the Piazza de la Liberta with the required bell tower--one is always near places of European Country Mellow decor. At 8:30 p.m. I heard the bells: eight deep tolls from a big bell, and two merry plinks to mark the quarter hours.

Beyond the piazza and beyond distant ragged hills the sun was setting in a burst of blood red. It reflected on the copper and the lanterns and the walls.

It was the end of my first day in this ancient place, a collectible among nations and rife with idiosyncrasies. RSM--as it is designated on oval bumper stickers--claims to be the smallest independent state in the world. It covers 23 square miles on the slopes of Mt. Titano, a rugged escarpment that juts 2,500 feet above the Adriatic.

The republic boasts a standing army of 120, as if acknowledging that there is little room to sit down. Its national anthem has bold music but no words, an economy that also seems fitting.

I had driven east that morning from Florence and followed the red-brick road that winds toward the thousand-year-old ramparts.

San Marino is a medieval museum, a souvenir state that thrives on tourism and the mementos that travelers covet. Crooked lanes bristle with heraldic banners and T-shirt stands. High on a shopping list are elegant postage stamps that feature lacy flowers, San Marino coins and, for reasons not altogether inappropriate, the faces of Mickey Mouse and Walt Disney.

If San Marino were to have a sister state--a place of like spirit and goodwill--it could be Disneyland. Both are fanciful settings and astonishingly clean. Both draw their biggest crowds on summer weekends.

San Marino, too, lives by costumes and parades. The oldest military order, the crossbowmen, dates from the 1300s. First trained to defend the mountaintop, the crossbowmen now practice the sport for international competitions. Crossbows, from key chain miniatures to chest-high models, fill the gift shops.

Blue and white, the national colors, are everywhere, even on skimpy monogrammed towels at the Grand Hotel San Marino. A room sign warns souvenir hunters: “The chambermaid is responsible for two hand towels, two bath towels and two washcloths. If any are missing at checkout time, the maid must pay.”

Of course I did not dare. I would no more steal in a land of crossbowmen than I’d sing their national anthem.