ROME - Thursday, 14 April 2911, 7:00 AM
Dining room won't be open for half an hour, but I've been in reception lounge since 6, using the last of fee-allotted time to be online with internet. After breakfast, it's checkout then off to Stazione for the train to Napoli and Circumvesuvian connection to Sorrento.
Cold April snap has moved into Europe, and Rome is quite chilly this morning. Not just myself with my low tolerance for chill -- I notice all the hotel's early-risers bundled up against it. Young back-packing tourists set out before breakfast, layered in sweaters and jackets, hooded, naming various sites they plan to visit. Sistine Chapel seems to be the attraction most mentioned as demanding early arrival if one wants to be well-placed in line for admittance. I hear horror stories of lines stretched along the Vatican walls for a mile or more.
SORRENTO - 8 PM
Long day. I've turned down Antonino's invitation to go to a bar for a drink, electing for a night in and possibly early to bed.
All was accomplished at Roma Termini this morning, but, inevitably -- a la italiano -- there were moments when the frenetic pace and confusions at Assistenza made me fear I'd miss my train. Unlike touring, when guides handle all practical needs and arrangements, independent travel dictates personal supervision. Every request I made or question asked at Assistenza was met with terse response -- often in dialects I couldn't understand -- from personnel bombarded with demands from other travelers in crowded Salon Blu, the small reception area reserved for the handicapped, disabled, and elderly requiring assistance. As ever, the individual who needs to know what exactly is going on, what will or won't happen, I tired of queries casually cut short with "Not to worry. Ci penso io."
But when attendant and wheelchair did surface, the fellow who aided me, if rough-cut, was not only efficient but most compassionate toward elders limited in stamina. The Eurostar train -- Milano to Napoli Centrale -- trailed an enormous number of coaches, and I seriously doubt that I could have walked the lengthy platform distance to Coach 11 on my own. The attendant wheeled me there quickly, weaving in and out of luggage-laden fellow passengers trudging the crowded binario. He assisted me in entering the coach, accompanied me to the reserved seat, and stowed the suitcase at floor level, not in overhead rack, where I'd not have to reach up and lift it down on arrival in Napoli. His gruff acknowledgment of my profuse thanks was "Niente. Attenzione."
Having risen at 5, I chose not to watch scenery, but close my eyes. Restful, but not without awareness that the two gentlemen who shared our 4-seat enclave talked incessantly, with each other when not on their continually ringing cellphones. Polished businessmen in midlife, they spoke the mother tongue without idioms -- easily comprehensible, but I succeeded in giving it little attention.
At Napoli, to my surprise, a wheelchair and attendant awaited my coach on its arrival track, with again a long distance to the station's main concourse. I was pleased to see that Napoli Centrale was less crowded and hectic than Rome's Termini. The wheelchair attendant took me to the underground depot and ticket booth for the Circumvesuviana line to Sorrento, but was reluctant to leave me on my own. Concerned that I'd not manage solo, he handed my suitcase to an opportunistic freelancer who'd been trailing us, insisting he could aid me, and whom I didn't trust. I refused to release my smaller handbag -- containing all valuables -- to him, and demanded he leave, lasciami in pace. The wheelchair attendant explained that he couldn't remain in the Circumvesuvian depot, had to get back to his duties in Napoli Centrale, and wished me well. Once he was out of sight, the con man, clutching my suitcase, demanded 5 euros for servizio. My refusal elicited ugly responses from him with no release of the suitcase. Well aware that the shout of Thief -- Ladro! -- on such occasions in Italy will usually bring anyone in earshot rushing to the rescue, I forfeited that tactic used successfully in the past, simply wanting to be free of the situation and not miss the train to Sorrento. But it angered me that this cretino was getting euros turned down, when offered as tips, to the legitimate and compassionate assistants to whom I'd offered them.
The Circumvesuviana train was jammed, many standees. I saw a young man bolt for the last unoccupied seat, resigned myself to a tiresome jolting ride for the next hour or more. But the young man waved to me, was obviously holding the seat for me. When I threaded my way to him, he said he remembered seeing me in Sorrento's Piazza Tasso when he was a kid, that he'd heard about my involvement with the Santa Fe/Sorrento Sister City Association, and that he'd seen my bronze of Santa Maria del Lauro in Meta di Sorrento. Only in Italy could I hear a greeting like his: "Benvenuto, maestro."
The train had been designated Direct, but made constant stops at every community along the route. Most of which I've known for years, but some with names new to me. Huge exchange of passengers at Pompeii, both arrivals and departures. At an hour and a half -- I've done the journey in 30 minutes on a true Express -- this was the longest time it ever took me to get from Napoli to Sorrento. And I was very tired. Still, the day was bright and clear if a bit chilly, Vesuvius' contours sharp against a turquoise sky, the sea incredibly blue, Capri and Ischia, often lost in haze, clearly visible across the Bay. Ho ritornato!
Thank God that breathing's easier at sea level, for there were steps to manage with the cumbersome suitcase at the station in Sorrento. The walk from there to Piazza Tasso is merely a few blocks, one I know well, have made many times. But aware that it's now more of a challenge, no longer the easy quick jaunt I once considered it.
Easily located -- on the single narrow block between Piazza Tasso and Piazza San Antonino Abbate -- the Residence Tasso (where I'd reserved accommodations via internet) is not a hotel, had no sign out front, and a locked door to the building contained a note with phone number of the manager in Sant' Agnello di Sorrento. I had no cellphone, didn't know where or how nearby public phones might be, stood indecisively looking at that locked door, wanting only to be off my feet, sheltered somewhere. Anywhere.
Suddenly, from behind, I was swept off my feet and tightly embraced. I recognized the voice of the man calling my name -- Antonino Fiorentino, not merely my best friend in Sorrento but among the few closest friends I've ever cherished. He'd left his office at nearby City Hall on an errand, had happened by. Someone who knows just about everyone and everything in Sorrento, Antonino was unfamiliar with Residence Tasso, wasn't aware that this building he passes every day contained rental apartments. Out came his cell phone, and in little time manager Tina Morvillo arrived from Sant' Agnello on her motorbike. As we awaited her, I realized that I was not surprised at this Deliverance bestowed on me by Antonino. Afterall, I'm in Italy -- Italia, Italia mia -- where nothing's surprising, where anything can, and has, happened to me, most of it good, highly significant and influential in this long odyssey.
I'm settled. The apartment has kitchen as well as small terrace, large studio sleeping-dining area. I've shopped at the supermarket on Corso Italia -- desperately wanted water, have stocked the frig with a few bottles, also one of vino rosso, a bit of pane, cheese and salami. Tina demonstrated how to light cooking range, where dinnerware is stowed, etc, but I don't plan to cook. Will be good to abandon routine chores to which I'm committed at home.
Antonino's already mentioned a few civic affairs he wants me to attend, people he wants me to meet -- the new mayor, a journalist who works for Rai TV, a film producer from Denmark. I declined his invitation for a stroll and stop at a bar this evening, convinced the wiser move is to rest. Have conditionally agreed to attend a panel discussion tomorrow on Visualizing a New Future for Marina Piccola, Sorrento's port for debarkations to Capri, Ischia, Napoli. Participating in the program will be students from and Dr John M Anderson, president of Alfred University, New York, which Ellen, infant Gian and I attended in the summer of 1954!
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