La Città dei Matti

Granzette was, like most places I've explored, a big unknown. There was no time to scout entrances, see if there was any kind of security, or find an open gate or window. Compounding the problem, our rental car in a small town like this would certainly raise some eyebrows, especially one with German plates. This hospital definitely called for the "scenic route" approach, where we parked a mile away and slog through muddy fields and hoped no one took notice. It was a long and sweaty journey with all the camera gear.

We reached a dense woodland at the hospital's perimeter, where I was happy to see it was still standing. We discreetly crossed the institutions's outer barrier and explored the buildings within. Although the architecture was less than stellar, there were several artifacts inside of interest - piles of letters, wheelchairs and beds hidden away in the darkened corners of this old asylum.

The sound of shattering glass exploded from somewhere inside the derelict campus, ricocheting off the empty buildings. Several shouts ensued. We ducked into a small basement and waited for a group of young men to walk through, yelling and vandalizing as they went. I've gotten pretty close to being arrested because other visitors have been loud or careless and although I wanted to explore further, it was clearly time to leave. Best to go now before a team of police with dogs start scouring the place... I've been there, it's no picnic.

I spotted a chain link gate nearby with a large and obvious hole - it was the fastest way out of an impending disaster. Crawling through the opening in a hurry, I discovered it was booby-trapped with piles of large glass panes strewn around it, which produced a horrific noise when stepped upon. It was too late to do anything but go on. We walked quickly along a dirt road until a man wearing a reflective orange safety vest ran out in front of me blocking my path, shouting loudly.

Cosa stai facendo qui?!

He was an older man and although he looked a bit ridiculous in his safety vest, he was stocky, barrel-chested and taller than I. He put his face so close to mine that our noses were nearly touching. His breath reeked of garlic as he continued to shout into my face with spittle-flecked lips. I tried some reasoning but his English appeared to be non-existent. My Italian is equally awful, but I do know what a puttana is.

He gestured towards three cars parked on his little road, obviously belonging to the vandals that were smashing the place up. I wasn't about to get punched for something I didn't do, so I held up the rental's key fob and elaborately pressed all the buttons, to which none of the cars responded. Thankfully this message was clear in any language. He straightened out, took a deep breath and bellowed, "Americans.... OUT!"

It was an even longer walk back to the car. While researching the history of this institution, I would later learn that the angry man was Piccià, the "bailiff" of the asylum. This colorful person had vowed to protect the hospital grounds using his own vigilante methods - there was even a photo of him, holding a freaking scythe at the gate. This truly was the City of the Mad!