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."
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