Veterans' Day 2011

Following return from the European Theater after World War II, my primary thought as a veteran was to grasp the G.I.Bill of Rights and complete interrupted studies. As with most of the men with whom I'd served, there was little time to waste nurturing psychic wounds of battle -- move ahead, get on with life, put that war (as the civilians wanted us to) behind you. I joined no veterans' organizations, attended no battalion reunions or military observances, lost contact with all but a very few of closest combat comrades. If the phrase had as yet been coined, none of us had heard of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and dealt quietly, discretely, with whatever demons in flashback surfaced. The new life in a victorious, prosperous, confidently glorious America was to be embraced!

But it never goes away, that experience of soldering wars, and sooner or later one acknowledges the indelible brand of Veteran. It is most manifest in the instant recognition and bond you know with all veterans, frequently on first encounter recognizing that this stranger has been there, is one of us, shares the unfathomable alienation -- that impenetrable wall -- which exists between those who've looked on the carnage of battlegrounds and those who've not. Just this year, during travel abroad, another such instant: While seated on a bench overlooking a panoramic view of the Mediterranean, a white-haired gentleman on a cane unsteadily approached me. An American. I wasn't particularly surprised at his first words -- "you too, I assume, are a World War II vet."

In recent years, evaluating decades of a richly full life, I concede -- if rarely considered when younger -- that having soldiered infused my every other ordained persona: son, husband, father, professional, traveler. I supported the funding campaign for and attended the opening of the World War II Memorial on the Mall at Washington, DC. I am a Founding Member of the National World War II Museum, New Orleans; and of The National Museum of the United States Army, scheduled to open at Fort Belvoir, Virginia, June 2015. In on-going communication with the organization Paralyzed Veterans of America, I welcome the opportunity to extend them support.

This Veterans' Day (2011), I'll undoubtedly have word via e-mail from the one surviving member of my old outfit whom I know to be yet among us. He faithfully communicates on every national holiday or when personal news warrants it. If neither of us feel (or admit to being) anachronistic, I nevertheless savor a vanished America his brief words evoke -- a proud and progressive nation, world leader in the rebuilding of former enemies, democratically convinced of a bright future, idealistic and in many ways still innocent, globally respected as the liberator of conquered peoples. I'll remember, too, a tableau from a Veteran's Day Parade witnessed when a lad on the streets of Baltimore -- a slim, frail, whitened nonagenarian from the War Between the States in step beside a Doughboy from World War I. Never eradicated, could that glimpse etched in the mind of an impressionable small boy have possibly predicated a kinship which flowered in subsequent years?

9-11 Ten Years On

Not very successful at coping with the haunting of 9-11 on this 10th-year observance of the terror heralding the 21st century as our nation was so savagely ravaged. Managed the morning chores, went through the motions of daily routine. meeting most domestic -- and professional -- commitments, but was never free of indelible images of the carnage in lower Manhattan. Could not attribute that to the insistent drone of media replaying the ghastly video clips of yesteryear. No, the images have been with me since day one, sometimes recurring at most unlikely moments, often in the midst of a festive occasion. And with the images has always come pain, a gut-wrenching ache at seeing invasion of my country when for decades I'd believed I'd never see it.

I was not in New York on 9-11, but had been scheduled to fly from Albuquerque that morning on a flight terminating at Baltimore-Washington International Airport. Flight cancelled, of course. But as an ex-resident of Greenwich Village, with a love of the city since childhood, the hours before televised horrors in its streets convinced me that I would never again be the man I was prior to 9-11. Profound change had entered our world, and my psyche. As artist and writer, I wondered if any subject other than the evil being witnessed would merit attention, work or effort in the future.

Ten years ago, and again today, I knew and know still, that my anguish -- so inconsequential to that of victims and their loved ones -- stems from convictions I held as a veteran of World War II. Along with comrades who'd looked on the bombed skeletal towns and cities of Europe, I believed we'd spared our country that -- that attacks hadn't happened in the US mainland, and never would. Belief sustained when we returned home, and after the gruesome cityscapes of a raped continent, gazed on the pristine brilliance of our unspoiled terrain. Admittedly now, a time of naive -- foolish? -- trust, perhaps even a Time of Innocence before its demise. But for long years, not I alone but other WWII veterans I talked with, relished that belief that we nor our loved ones would know attack on the homeland.

There are many days of bright turquoise skies in Santa Fe, where I live. And on 9-11, that September day in New York boasted a sky which rivaled ours. I remember thinking, as I watched those towers burn, that I'd have had a wonderfully clear bright day on arrival in the East if terror hadn't struck and canceled my flight. A sad bequest -- to too often in the years since, and likely for the rest of my life, look on turquoise skies remembering.

Italia Mia 2011 - Note 6: Casa Mia

Monday, 18 April 2011 - 6:51 AM

Early rising after a restless night, perhaps because I'd gone too early to bed. That decision was the result of feeling chilled, suspecting a cold might be coming on and wanting to avoid physical setbacks. Too many people I've associated with while in Sorrento -- Domenico, Antonino's son Michele, Tonino Mastellone, workers at city hall -- have, or are recovering from, influenza, and I don't want to join their ranks. Once unmindful of threats to health, the so-called golden years and vivid memories of two bouts with pneumonia during these years, have fostered caution.

Seems I chose well, restless night or no -- feeling somewhat better this morning. Have had a few cups of coffee, quite flavorful now that I've mastered an espresso pot which had me at sea for a few days. Stepped out to the terrace to check my laundry, all securely on the clothesline after yesterday's strong winds which downed signs and pennants in the market stalls. The terrace, small but private, fenced by lush foliage masking an adjacent yard, boasted muted pastel colors in the misted dawn but with definite promise of the brilliant hues soon to appear. Bells from one of the nearby churches tolled. And though I've never met anyone from the neighboring cortile -- have occasionally glimpsed movement beyond the perimeter of greenery -- I heard this morning the faint, barely audible, beauty of a female voice. Puccini's Il Sogno di Doretta.

In many ways, I feel this time in Italy is like coming full circle. Certainly not as severe or demanding as my first time as an impoverished student, 1950 during the post-war Tempo della Miseria. But definitely unlike the many times I returned with groups or tours which featured fine hotels, the best restaurants, door-to-door transportation with full handling of luggage. Now I'm on my own with modest and limited resources as in '50-'51. This small studio-apartment has no maid service, no cable TV, not even a telephone (though Antonino's loaned me a cell). With the free frequent-flyer plane tickets and most basic accommodations I could get, am keeping costs minimal by shopping for and taking most meals in my room. Haven't thus far had any desire to tour, though I'll probably -- depending on weather and how schedules go -- want to take the ferry to Capri for an hour on the water. Don't need to wander Capri, as I've seen it a number of times and under great circumstances -- painting with students from Maryland Institute, for example; riding the chairlift to the top of the island, entering the Blue Grotto. But I love the crossing of the Bay to is reach l'isola; and in that way am like the Sorrentini, who go for the beauty of the trip, not for the tourists traps once there. Admittedly, walking I'm no longer accustomed to -- though I try not to over do it -- can quickly tire me, and there've been a few occasions, in Rome as well as here, when leg cramps shattered me with pain. But those times have been overly compensated by the absence of labored breathing -- if Italy has not been as warm as I expected it to be for this time of year, being at sea level has meant release from the exhaustion which follows the least exertion at Santa Fe's 7,000 feet!

Not on tour, living in a modest apartment on the floor above shops at street level, meeting again so many of the people I've met through the years, I feel as I did in 1950 -- that I'm not a visitor amidst the Italians, but am living among and with them. Throughout the long years of returns to Italy, I've always had the sense of return home once I'm on her shores -- despite my youthful ignorance, as a fourth-generation Italo-Americano, of her traditions and culture; and of my citizenship and loyalty to native USA which I served in World War II. That sense of Return Home is stronger than ever this time around in advanced age.

Italia Mia - Note 5-Famiglia Fiorentino

Saturday, 16 April 2011





1:55 PM

City Hall was closed when I arrived at 9 this morning, but Giovanni (not sure I've ever heard his surname) was soon on deck, opened Antonino's office for me, and offered to check out internet access. The system he set up two days ago continues to let me web browse on the iPad, but won't handle email. I managed a bit of receiving and sending email on one of the desktop PCs which Giovanni made available to me.

I've known utmost consideration and help from countless people in Sorrento's City Hall over the years I've visited here, so shouldn't be surprised at Giovanni's obvious warmth in attempting to meet my every need or want. In addition to the numerous official civic duties which keep him running. Can it be that the five-year forfeiture of Penisola Sorrentina following the open-heart surgery diluted somewhat the cognizance of goodness I've long valued in its extraordinary people? If so, my return has opened floodgates of renewed recognition for the compassion they bring to human encounters.

Antonino phoned to say he'd be a half-hour late with his car to take me to Sant' Agnello for closing of paper work on the studio-apartment at Residence Tasso.
The half-hour stretched into more like one and a half hours, but I used it to do necessary web research for historical data I need pertaining to the neglected manuscript. When Antonino eventually showed, he was accompanied by 7-year old granddaughter Giovanna, on whom he lavishes much loving attention.

The business office for Areavacanze in Sant' Agnello was a mere half-block away from Grand Hotel Cocumella, the former monastery where I'd spent indelible summers -- 1992, 1993 -- with students from alma mater Maryland Institute College of Art. Gazing on its beautiful edifice with fond memories of its lushly expansive grounds and belvedere overlooking Il Golfo di Napoli, and of the young artists with whom I shared days of intensive work and study, I considered its contrast to my modest, spartan accommodations on this torna a surriento. But it's a long hike from the Cocumella in Sant' Agnello to Piazza Tasso in Sorrento (one I sometimes made roundtrip three times a day) and the need now is to be in centro, everything one needs or wants mere steps away.

Back in Sorrento, Antonino chose to stop at a bar on Corso Italia where he often takes granddaughter Giovanna for treats. Huge selection of coffees and pastries in a place obviously well-promoted at upscale hotels, as it was crowded with fashionably-clad turisti.
A day with sun coming and going, still on the chilly side but definitely an improvement over yesterday. I've not yet taken time to sit at an overlook and savor watching the sea, but plan to do so the minute O Sole Mio returns to stay a while.

Next stop was at Antonino's parents' apartment in the foothills above town. Domenico is a few months younger than I, his wife Giovanna a few years our junior. I was much aware of how the years have had their way since last we were together -- Giovanna's cane tapping along with mine, Domenico conceding that he now rarely leaves the house. A man who until even a year ago was seen daily hiking the streets, lanes and hills of Sorrento, portable easel and paint-box under arm to be set up at the numerous encounters with visions he couldn't resist translating to board or canvas. The town's most celebrated painter, his works are not only masterful expressions in form and color, but an historical record of the physical and cultural changes witnessed on the Penisola during the long decades of his productive life.
Espresso and cookies were served, and when Signora Giovanna asked about my family, I produced the iPad to show photos of wife, children and grandchildren (had anticipated such requests, downloaded the photos before I left the States). Son Rosario stopped by after having shopped for his parents. Granddaughter Giovanna commandeered a few of her Grandpa's paints and brushes, and produced a water-color for me. When Signora Giovanna suggested making more espresso, "or perhaps a snack," I declined, embarrassed at how active this mobility-limited elder was being on my behalf. "Ma tu sei famiglia nostra," she said. "Ben tornato a Surriento."
A brief visit, scarcely more than an hour. Before leaving, I went to one of the windows for the spectacular view overlooking the town and bay with a classic image of Vesuvius' contours etched above Napoli in the far distance. That beauty in front of me -- around and behind, surrounded by walls of Casa Fiorentino crowded from floors to ceiling with glowing canvases of one man's commitment and labor in the arts. When I turned to embrace Domenico in farewell, he was at a side table thumbing through small oils, colorful sketches on boards, a few of the huge collection with which he'd refused to part, generally resisting commercialism and sales of his works with the muttered defense "they're like my children."
A slab of sunlit yellow-ochre in one of the small paintings convinced me it was a glimpse of a side wall of Hotel Tramontano, the elegant and historic palazzo which boasts a magnificent front facade and gardens. I mentioned that my wife Ellen had stayed there in 1950 on her tour of Europe following graduation from college. Immediately, Signora Giovanna was at our side saying Ellen should have the painting, reaching for wrapping paper. Domenico -- always reluctant to release his works -- surprised me by suggesting that perhaps something more typical, less ambiguously abstract, would please Ellen more. And handed Giovanna a brightly colored small oil of a horse-drawn carriage in Piazza Tasso. Both were placed in a string-bag Giovanna produced; along with large packets of cookies and candies which I was ordered to supplement meals she was convinced were inadequate. These gifts, the brief but precious time with Famiglia Fiorentini, have me tonight, back in Residence Tasso, pondering what they know and what I've never learned about the human condition.

When Antonino and I exited their apartment, Domencio and Giovanna, though both walk with difficulty, followed us from their rooms to the lobby with the Ascensore which would take us down to the parking lot. "Un abbraccio di piu," Domenico said, embracing me once more. Giovanna, too, came to my arms. "Is it any wonder," I told them, "that l'anima mia resta in italia -- that my soul remains in Italy."

Italia Mia - Note 4

Friday, 15 April 2011

Wireless internet remains a mystery to many Italians I've met on this trip. Though friends at Sorrento's city hall have tried to set me up with reception for the iPad, it's still not fully successful. Efforts to email today failed, and I can't know when I'll be able to transmit more of these notes. But I continue to write them, possibly because it's easier to document activities than to work on the manuscript I'd hoped to further while here. That novel requires exclusive attention, which I'm not able or want to give it just now. Concentration on the story and the people I've created for its development would mean holing-up someplace -- a form of hermitage, really -- where friends could not intrude or local sites and treasures distract me. Notes for this giornale are not governed by fictional characters who, when stirred, dominate everything writers of creative literature think or do.

All morning was spent at the elegant town hall where architectural students from Alfred State University, New York, were showing and explaining their designs for the evento Immaginare un Nuovo Futuro per Marina Piccola. This program, inevitably, did not start until an hour later than scheduled, and I used the time to study displayed renderings of proposals for Marina Piccola; and, of course, to tell anyone who spoke to me that Ellen and I with infant Gian had attended a summer course in ceramics at Alfred University in 1954. I don't know which of the students spread that word, but very shortly I was approached by a professor who insisted I must meet Alfred's president, who'd come from the States for this occasion (the students have been here for 4 months working on the project). When I was introduced to President Dr John M Anderson, a photographer suddenly fronted us and began taking photos. Most people there hadn't been born in 1954, and I assume I appeared a relic to them.

All of the students' designs were good, a few outstanding, and the best in my opinion was by a young man named -- if I remember correctly -- Daniel Lamm. His plan and elevation included, in addition to handsome portals lining the boardwalk to ferries at Marina Piccola, a tall column topped by an arch which contained a statue fronting the sea. I spontaneously began telling him about the aborted project for my bronze of I Pescatori Dispersi al Mare, originally conceived for Marina Grande under ex-mayor Marco Fiorentino's direction, later considered for Marina Piccola, eventually abandoned. Antonino happened by as were talking, and went into his customary complimentary spiel about my work, particularly lauding my wax model for I Pescatori Dispersi. He also mentioned the San Francisco with Prairie Dog bronze fronting Santa Fe's City Hall, which he'd seen on official Sister City visits. The student was most impressed, didn't have a card but asked for mine, said he'd email me.

At the ensuing hours-long Evento, I was escorted to and seated in the front row of the hall by the mayor's Public Relations director, had my first glimpse of newly-elected Mayor Giuseppe Cuomo, and for the most part -- though it could have been shortened -- enjoyed what all the politicians, business men, architects and students had to show and say about the future for Marina Piccola. It's evident that none of the students' designs will ever see fruition -- if good, they are nevertheless too bold or overly abstract, too divergent from traditional Sorrento architecture and cultural values. But there's a good chance that the project has given Sorrentini interest in fostering Marina Piccola upgrading from local architects. The ubiquitous growth of cruise-ship tourism is dictating change to accommodate hundreds of increased visitors to the city brought to the Marina by tenders from their floating palaces out in the Bay.

Light rain started in the afternoon and has continued since then. Quite chilly, locals bundled heavily against it and complaining how unseasonal it is. I spent a little time in Antonino's office, where one of his associates it trying to get me wireless iPad connection. If works off and on for web browsing, but not at all for email. Seeing how cold I was, Antonino suggested we cross Piazza San Antonino Abbate for a hot drink at one of the bars. Wonderfully delicious cappucinni, and Antonino insisted we have dolce to go with it -- he's convinced I don't eat enough because I'm avoiding restaurants. After leaving him, I went under light drizzle to Standa Supermercato and made a few more purchases -- mineral water (drinking much more than I usually do), coffee (there's an espresso pot in my kitchen), and, wanting greens, a prepared chicken salad (little chicken but abundance of greens, carrots, olives and fine condimento balsamico).

10:30 PM

Antonino just phoned. He's loaned me a cell phone to keep in touch, wanted to know if I'd had dinner, do I need anything, etc. He'll take me to Sant' Agnello in the morning to Areavacanze's office to complete registration forms for this apartment. Said it's still raining outdoors, was pleased to hear that these notes and reading have me utilizing time well once beyond the locked entrance to Residence Tasso.

Italia Mia - Note 3

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!

Italia Mia 2011 - Note 2

Wednesday, 13 April 2011
6:40 PM

2nd day in Rome drawing to close, and I've been content to not wander, remain in the Stazione Termini area. Certainly not the most beautiful face of Bella Roma, but definitely interesting. Thank God I thoroughly explored the city and savored all the wonderful sites and treasures in numerous trips of years past. This time I merely want to rest before venturing on to less demanding locations.

Because my room is so quiet, I'd assumed Hotel Piram had few guests, but colazione this morning was jammed with hundreds of tourists gorging huge breakfasts before venturing out to encompass ALL of Rome in a few days. I've never before seen so many obese gentlemen consume so much food at any one sitting. Gentlemen of many nationalities as evidenced by languages overheard.

Enroute to Stazione Termini to check train schedules, a sudden excruciatingly painful leg cramp forced me to sit at a sidewalk cafe table and wait until spasms subsided enough to rise and continue walking. Young merrymakers at other tables were oblivious to an anguished old man. Reminded me of the time I had to stop for a similar recuperative break when with son Ruan in the Baja more than 2 years ago (and the security of having family at hand on that occasion). But, bottom line, I'm mightily impressed with the fact that I've walked more in the past few days, and without serious physical stress, than I have in the past 4+ years since openheart surgery. Don't know Rome's elevation above sea level, but whatever it is, it's good for breathing.

The proud and polished deskclerk here at Hotel Piram was a bit standoffish with me, as with others, just one more foreigner, until he took a second look at my name. "Andrea Bacigalupa!" he exclaimed, "Che bel nome. E di Ligura, non e vero?" The name and the bronze cross I made and wear ease a lot encounters with Italians.

Still not fully cognizant of internet service at Hotel Piram. As before, am writing while at a table in the reception salon, yet denied online access in my room on a personal iPad or PC.

Go early domani mattina to Stazione Termini and surrender myself to Assistenza there. Assume personnel will assist me via wheelchair, as they did Ellen when we were here together last, through the throngs, down the long boarding platforms, and use a chairlift to hoist passenger and baggage above the coach steps to coach door. Have a reserved seat on the train, and am eagerly looking forward to seeing once more the astounding beauty of the approach to Costiera Amalfitana.

Italia Mia 2011 - one

Monday, 11 April 2011
At JFK waiting to board plane for Rome. Much time at Baltimore-Washington International with delayed flight. Haven't changed money because airport euro exchange fee high, may be better in Rome.


Tuesday, 12 April 2011
Seven hours plus since departure, somewhere over Alps, scheduled for Rome little more than an hour. Not a bad night, though I don't sleep as easily on a plane as I once did. But lucked out by having no seat companion, two to myself, window and aisle.


No respiratory problems! In fact, mightily impressed that breathing has been so much easier in planes as well as at sea level in Baltimore than at Santa Fe's 7,000-ft altitude. Travel days have known usual delays, gate changes, one wheelchair assistance foulup, but no serious problems or excessive physical effort.
Biggest disappointment has been inability to access Internet at Dallas. And at JFK airports was well as on this trans-Atlantic flight. Access for fees is available at the airports, for fee also on this airline but only for iPhone, not iPad, on this flight
Now 4:15 AM New York time, 10:15 AM in Rome. Due at Leonardo Da Vinci airport 11:oo AM.



1:15 PM
Checked into Hotel Termini, but seated in lobby -- room won't be ready until 2. Have already heard from desk clerk that use of Internet costs 15 euros for 10 hours, will forget that for today, go online tomorrow when not so tired. Suspect I'll hit the bed for quite a while once the room is ready.
Italia in these first few hours already presenting divergent faces I've long known. Tremendous luck at airport when an assigned wheelchair attendant was much more gentile, simpatico, pushing other wheelchairs alongside mine. The distance from gate through customs, out of security and to the adjoining train station is huge. I saw young people halted in walk complain of fatigue, and know I'd never have been able to manage on my own. I hadn't checked luggage (as usual, carry-on only), so there was no stop at baggage claim, but the attendant supervised custom requirements, placed me ahead of all lines, and left me where I requested, at the ticket counter for the train to Stazione Termini, Roma. He merited the generous tip I offered him, but refused to take it, warmly stroking my back and urging me to take care.

Boarding the train and the half hour ride into Rome went fairly easily. I had to ask a surly fellow to hoist my bags up the train steps, but on arrival in Rome quite a few men stepped forward upon sight of me, one helping me down the coach steps, another handling the suitcase. After that gracious assistance, though, no wheelchairs in sight for the punishing long trek from the airport train tracks to the main concourses of huge Stazione Termini. I watched for any opportunity to sit and rest, and found four perches which served well enough, each of which I occupied until up to the next stretch of the jaunt.


Hotel Termini is not as close to the Stazione as Hotel Gioberto where Ellen and I once stayed, but not a great deal farther, and I reached it easily enough through densely hurrying city traffic of pedestrians and cars. But -- Italy! -- Hotel Termini proved to be just a locked door on the third floor of an ancient if imposing building housing other businesses, peniones, etc. A note on the locked door instructed "guests" to go to another address on same Via Giovanni Amendola but a good four blocks away. More trudging with the sole but cumbersome suitcase.

Hotel Piram has my reservation, and the desk clerk assures me that though I signed up prepaid online for Hotel Termini, I'll be accommodated here. It's rated a 4-star establishment, seems newly renovated in dramatic operatic decor -- reminding me of stage settings and colors I've seen in productions of Tosca.