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 - 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.

If Winter Comes . . .

The message from Sorrento on my computer reads Ti aspettiamo! Un caro saluto. I know what prompted it—my own posting the previous day of an early snowfall in Santa Fe with its ubiquitous betrayal of my longstanding, well-known aversion to the approach of winter. I’d like not to disappoint those amici awaiting my return to Penisola Sorrentina and take the next flight out to distant shores of warmer climes.

It’s been this way most of my life. As a boy of the Great Depression, I contributed modest sums to the family income with after school and weekend jobs which often meant outdoor work on bitterly cold days: Assisting an uncle through long Saturdays at his stall in Baltimore’s Broadway Market; working for one of that city’s aggressive entrepreneurs who commandeered a cadre of boys selling pennants, buttons and pins at big-league football games or Christmas ornaments on darkened downtown streets (too many Thanksgvings freezing at the old Orioles’ Stadium or Christmas Eves under snow equating myself with urchins from the Dickens’ novels I devoured during warmer hours). Youthful imagination frequently countered limbs numbed by cold with visions of Faraway-Places-With-Strange-Sounding-Names, invariably romantic isles under the sun.

So much for childish dreams. If Roosevelt’s “this generation has a rendezvous with destiny” meant the South Pacific for many of my peers, it took me to Europe with one of its coldest winters on record. Both theaters of operation exceeded Sherman’s observation that War is Hell, but the oppressive jungle heats of the Pacific must have been like the freezing depths of Europe in tempering fear of the enemy with dread of the elements. I certainly a few times felt that sleeping on the frozen fields of a ravaged continent could mean never waking, welcoming oblivion of white-banked freedom from the obscenities of a world gone mad without end. And once, wandering alone under heavy snow, falling exhausted, embracing sleep, would have perished if a comrade hadn’t found me and carried me back to campground.

One finds ways—with luck— of compensating for what’s disliked, gaining what’s desired. And I’ve been lucky. Or blessed. Or clever, at maneuvering work, opportunities, chance, to get myself to places where sun bathes landscapes golden, sets seas shimmering, prompts the shedding of clothing. The US Southwest, of course; Mexico and Hawaii; but mostly the Mediterranean. Indelible images from countless hours over many stays within the Cradle of Western Civilization accompany all my days. No matter the undertaken task or demanding priority, an unexpected sound, word, sight can transport me to what lives in my soul—Roman walls burnished sienna at sunset, bright ochre columns of the temples at Paestum, glistening marbles of the Acropolis, sun-dappled reflections in pools at the Alhambra, dazzling dancing gurgles at Grotto Azzurro, blindingly white houses at mid-day on the isle of Crete. And, ever in my heart, the colorful seaside towns of Ligure di Riviera, Camogli, Santa Margherita, Rapallo, Lerici, Portovenere; and the enchantment of La Costiera Amalfitana, Meta, Piano, Sant’ Agnello, Sorrento, Amalfi.

One didn’t do badly, either, in establishing homebase at Santa Fe. Certainly the bright light justifies the acclaim documented by D. H. Lawrence during his New Mexico residence. The sun, winter as well as summer, outshines in clarity other regions of the US, gray days are few and there can be blessed respites of thaw during the coldest days of snow and ice in January or February. But now at four score and six, Santa Fe winters are not so easily borne or quickly over as I once considered them. October has me remembering words of so many poets who wrote wistfully of summer’s end and the long haul till spring. And if I once questioned Emil Ludwig’s contention (in his book The Mediterranean) that great cultures can only be spawned in warm sunny regions, I now court rationalization and concede that he knew what he was talking/writing about.

Ti aspettiamo! you post, amico caro. In response, let’s hope your awaiting me is not long while I listen to the song of the sirens, your peninsula’s anthem, Torna a surriento.

Response to a Granddaughter enamored of Italy

“An Italian woman came into the store today while I was working … then she answered her phone. "Salvo!" Chattering on and on, "Sono in un negozio, aspetta, ti chiamerò dopo, a dopo, si, va bene, ciao. Si, ciao." And my heart just broke. I had no idea how much I missed Italy until that moment. I wanted so badly to stop her, and say, "No so dove tu vai, ma devi rimanere qui perche ho bisogno di parlare italiano con te." I wanted to beg her to stay and talk to me, my mouth was forming the words silently, "Mi chiamo Gianna, sono Italiana." … only Grandpa Drew, I think, can fully comprehend how much my heart ached with longing for Italy this afternoon when I heard her speak. I'm still sad.”
Excerpt from posting by granddaughter Gianna

You are young, Gianna, with many years ahead for returns to Italia. I hope you’ll have the opportunities I had, to live there, not just visit, for extended periods; to study and work there, among the cittadini of that extraordinary peninsula. Yes, I fully comprehend how you heart ached with longing for Italy, but that was a mere pang triggered by your first brief stay, the few weeks you spent there this past summer. Once you’ve known more time with her, cara mia, every leave-taking won’t just inflict an ache—it’ll break your heart.

At my age, with the days dwindling down, I know that heartbreak on a daily basis. The thought that persistent physical setbacks and diminished energies could mean trans-Atlantic travel is a thing of the past, that I’ll never again look on paese dearly loved—italia ,italia mia!—is hard to bear. Never again, when every time I alighted on Italian soil was, despite love for and loyalty to my native USA, a homecoming: Sono qui, ho tornato a casa mia…sono Andrea ,mi chiamo Andrea, not Andrew, not Drew, more myself, truer to myself, here than anywhere else I’ve ever been.

You share my love of the language, Giannina mia, and I know you’ve already embraced Italy’s scenic and artistic treasures, her cuisine and rich cultural heritage. As I embrace them. But I’ve long acknowledged that these incomparable tesori are not what bind me so strongly to her. It’s her people, gli italiani, from whom I’ve learned whatever good I know of the human condition and how best to savor allotted years. Never one to romanticize Italy—my introduction to her was as a graduate student during the post World War II period, il tempo della miseria—I’ve known harsh times there and inevitably encountered a few individuals best forgotten. But, oh, the beloved friends and joyous, memorable times I’ve had among them. Or alone, exploring cities and hilltowns, wandering valleys and coastal plains, laboring in bronze foundries at Pietrasanta and Napoli. The dinners at family tables in villas where practically every word spoken, in many languages, was not trivial. Nights, following days of incomparable discovery and beauty, when I could not refrain from lifting my voice to the Mediterranean: Voglio restare qui.

Recently I’ve been remembering a gentleman encountered one Christmas day on the isle of Capri. At the time I was merely middle-aged, he an advanced senior, though likely not so old as I am now. The weather was a bit nippy when one was out of the bright sun, and the old man exited the gate of a handsome walled villa attired in a heavy ankle-length coat, bright scarf, and a hat topped by a clutch of colorful feathers. But though certainly decked out in style—that fare un bel figura I’ve known so long in Italy—his days as a jaunty giovanotto were long gone. His walk faltered, his cane tapping erratically along the cobbled narrow strada. We were both headed to the same site, a belvedere which I knew looked over the island’s famed vertical rocks rising from the sea, I Faraglioni. I stationed myself at the railing of the circular piazzetta, marveling at the spectacle of crashing waves against those fabled pylons jutting from the depths. The old man was seated on a bench, his face lifted to the sun. A slight smile was on his lips. I thought what a wonderful way for him to be spending Christmas afternoon—following the festive, and no doubt very lengthy, family dinner; with the senora if she were still alive, certainly with children and grandchildren, invited relatives and friends. Like so many family gatherings I’d attended in Italia. And now he’d opted for a respite from lusty domesticity, sought out solitude and meditation on a favorite bench commanding an exquisite panorama which he’d long known and loved.

That was years ago, and one might think that today, in this bludgeoning 21st century, even in Italy the elders can’t know such serenity. But the frequent communiqués and photos I receive from loved ones north and south, young and old, belie that. Their words and their images testify that they remain true to their environment and culture, its splendors sustaining a philosophy of life triumphant over whatever the times or personal destiny bring. Yes, granddaughter Gianna, distance from Italy, lontana d’italia mia, can break your heart. No matter. Torna, as often and whenever you can. And for as long as you can. Surrender to the song of the offshore sirens, Vieni, resta con mi.

John Paul II Beckons

While listening to Verdi’s Va, pensiero via streaming radio from Italy on my computer, I work at matting and framing prints from drawings. At conclusion of the Verdi, there are news reports and cultural announcements to which I pay scant attention, awaiting the next musical selection. But a reference to Papa Giovanni Paolo Secundo too late catches my attention, hearing only something (the spoken Italian is fast, media-news paced) about the Vatican possibly proclaiming the beatification of the late Pope as early as 2 April 2010, the fifth anniversary of his death.

well, now, what’s the feasibility of someone in advanced octogenarian years considering a jaunt to the Eternal City next spring? Open-heart surgery nearly three years ago and a minor heart attack (resulting in no cardiac damage) in June of this year suggest it’s time to forgo travel once frequently embraced—with numerous returns to Italia, and always when in Rome, il Vaticano and papal audiences. And, of course, the personal regard I had and hold for Pope John Paul II. Fortunate enough to receive individual blessings from him on two occasions (1986 and 1989), I saw him numerous other times at general audiences, often at close range from privileged seating, and in this country (New Orleans) as well as abroad. What impressed me most about him was his compassion for the sick and lame, his ministry as he moved among them, embracing, cradling in his arms young and old so severely damaged, mentally as well as physically, that I could not easily look on them. I watched as he placed a hand on her head and spoke comforting words to my older sister who’d recently suffered a stroke; and in subsequent years I observed her courageous recoveries from that and other physical onslaughts which she liked to think were fostered by the papal blessing. I remember after the 1986 audience on return to the convent-pensione where I was staying, one of the nuns commented that she’d seen me receive the personal blessing, and asked how I felt about that. I replied that no one had ever looked into my eyes (my soul?) the way John Paul did as he clasped my hand, and that he made me feel, if for a few minutes only, that I was the only person in the world, deserving his full attention. “Don’t be too flattered,” the nun responded. “He makes everyone feel like that.”

April, 2010? Not that far away, with a winter to be endured (survived?) between now and then. Aware that I should not risk traveling alone, that I’m no longer the self-sufficient continent-hopper I once was, there should be a younger, strong companion to help ease the rigors of trans-Atlantic flights, transportation within Europe, the myriad frustrations of cancellations, delays, cultural challenges which inevitably spice travel. And where, who is that companion? Every young person I know, family as well as friends, is on a breakneck treadmill of work and commitment, no time to get away, no time to stop and stare. One needs to think of finances, too. You don’t at my age fly back and forth to Europe in a few days—a destination that distant warrants rest between ocean hops, a few weeks, even a month abroad. Hotels, meals, with luck returns to ancestral haunts, the paternal hills of La Fontanabuona above the Riviera di Liguria and the maternal Penisola di Sorrento in Campania. If you sought it, what would be advice regarding travel from doctors with their insistent monitoring since the heart surgery? Should one really care, so long in the tooth now, about anything but attempting to do what you most want to do.

Among the mail on my desk is an account statement from American Airlines. There’s been no travel abroad over the past few years to increase frequent-flyer credits, but those accumulated previously—not expired, waiting to be used—have earned two free roundtrip economy flights to Europe, That, and memories of John Paul II, consideration of his possible beatification next spring, were on my mind when I opened my eyes this morning. I did, didn’t I, when last in the neighborhood of the offices of the American Bishops in Rome to secure still another ticket for a papal audience, toss a coin over my shoulder into Fontana Trevi as I passed it.

Italia Mia 1

Vesuvivo, computer art 2006

The strength of the Euro against the US Dollar continues to bring more foreign tourists than ever to Santa Fe's Canyon Road this summer. And it's a given that if they're from Italy, they'll stop in our studio/gallery after seeing the family name on our sign. They enter prepared to use their native language, exchange personal data on origins, share experiences of places mutually visited in Italy and America. Today it is a young professional couple from Chivavari, where the surname Bacigalupo seems as common as Smith in this country. They were were curious to know if I had relatives in their home town.

No such luck. I repeated the history given to many of their countrymen who've in the past expressed interest in my origins; a fourth-generation Italian-American, I never knew the great grandparents who came as youthful bride and groom to the US (1870) long before Ellis Island existed, did not know their names until late in life and only after many hours spent on genealogical research. They must have assimilated life in the New World rapidly, for their children (my grandfather) and subsequent generations were deprived the language, traditions and culture of their ancestors. My interest in the Mediterranean as a youth and young adult was in France, having studied French in high school and lusted for the highly-publicized romantic lives of American expatriates living in Paris. Italy was someplace my forebears had left behind. I'd probably never get there.

The couple from Chiavari were visibly distressed. Che brutta, the ignorance of heritage, knowing so little about where and from whom you've come. Mustn't one have some knowledge of what he was yesterday to understand who he is today? Once again I launched the discourse on rediscovery of my roots. There was the opportunity in 1950 under the GI Bill to pursue graduate studies abroad, and I submitted an application for a school in France to the Veterans' Administration. The response was that current exchange policies could offer art studies in Italy, not France. Though reluctant to compromise France for Italy, I became a graduate student at L'Accademia di Belli Arti, Firenze.

That disclosure won the interest and approval of the visitors from Chiavari. But they were not yet born in that year I spent in Tuscany, never knew the Tempo della Miseria which gripped the country even five years after World War II had ended. My introduction to Italy was harsh, subsistence under the GI Bill providing an unheated room in a crumbling cold stone palazzo and one meal a day with a desperately impoverished family. Yet, despite severe privations, love for the country took root. I have never since been free of her claim, repeatedly drawing me back for study, work and joy in the wealth of her artistic and scenic treasures, a culture rich in beauty and knowledge of the good life, among a people who've accepted me as their own, uno di noi, and whom I love.

My visitors now recognized that hyphenated Americans, at least some of us, choose to look back, research ancestral records, learn even a little about our ancestors. Sometimes grow to love the country of our origin. But this young man and woman do not know split allegiances. Their love for and loyalty to Italy, and particularly for their own region of Liguria, is paramount. Travel outside their country is a pleasure, and they've roamed widely, but no place on the planet can ever share commitment with the homeland. I'm suggesting, they say, something akin to adultery, passion for more than one beloved. Where, they ask, if forced to choose, would you prefer to live -- America or Italy. And of course don't quite accept an elder's view that one needn't choose, that both places exist and that if and when possible both should be embraced. They persist. If, per exempio, world politics alienated all of Western Europe and the US, if travel were restricted, if -- God forbid -- there were war between our countries, where would you want to be. As if I hadn't already demonstrated, proved that.

I lost patience with specious argument, and made an excuse about having to get back to work. The Italians graciously rose, and our farewell abbracci and buona fortunas were warmly sincere, we'd definitely found simpatico a chance encounter. Think of me when back in Chiavari. But some minutes later, as I worked, classical music on the radio gave way to an hourly news report. Audio clips of bombastic speeches by Republicans and Democrats lauding their candidate and reviling his opponent in the Presidential Election campaign. The latest, during months of obscene politicking which has many of us feeling we need a national cleansing. And I was keenly aware that the drumbeaters were insisting, as the recent visitors had, that I make a choice, this time for a party. Having been staunchly non-partisan for many years, faithfully voting for individuals I believed could best serve the country regardless of party affiliation, I refuse to surrender the option to listen and wait, study and decide, not jump on the bandwagon under pressure from strange bedfellows. Which makes me wonder if the Italians didn't have a point about shared allegiances. Much as I love Italy, her politics have never much engaged me. I care about America's, and strive to act conscientiously when facing them.