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 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 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.

Four Score and Seven

Wednesday, 26 May 2010, 2:57 Am. It's here, this date, early on; and if awake, not asleep as I should be, I'm here. Is that what woke me, the song running through my dreamscape, Stephen Sondheim's defiant optimism against what's been or has yet to come. One can hear it now, as if again among an enchanted Broadway audience, the Follies' Carlotta belting out her classic lines:

Good times and bum times,

I've seen them all and, my dear,

I'm still here.

If now completing Four Score and Seven, I was then along enough in years to fully appreciate Carlotta's brave dirge when first heard. Plush velvet sometimes, Sometimes just pretzels and beer, But I'm here. Who's not known that, and, if given time, comes to savor the growth bestowed by both? Velvet: extraordinary personal relationships; wide travels; a wealth of indulgence in all the arts, visual, musical, performance, literature; health and strength into advanced age; works accomplished -- if never enough or as good as one might prefer, adequate as remainder. Pretzels and beer: the starving student stint, but within the finest art schools in this country and the storied streets of Italy, thanks to the GI Bill of Rights; booze, too much of it for too long a period, but mostly shared with comrades-in-arms with whom bonds were among the strongest made.

I've stood on bread lines With the Best. Watched while the headlines Did the rest. In the Depression was I depressed? Nowhere near. We didn't escape it, my family. So young was I, yet scenes still haunt me of father threatened by loss of work, mother in tears at prospect of mortgage foreclosure and loss of home, frugality harshly learned then and never ridden. After-school and Saturday jobs, earnings not pocketed, handed to parents. But, oh, the wonder of our Time of Innocence, when discoveries and yearnings are boundless, when yet not burdened by selfish wrongs and guilt. Depression, nowhere near? Not exactly. But remembered mostly are one's childhood friends, the creativity of playtimes -- composing, telling stories, acting them out; hikes to libraries, stolen hours with books of great adventure, faraway places; a pact with a neighborhood tomboy to remain children as long as possible, detain the horrors of confusion and anguish witnessed in many of the grown-ups encountered.

I've gotten through Herbert and J Edgar Hoover, Gee, that fun and a half, When you've been through Herbert and J Edgar Hoover, Anything else is a laugh. Most politicians to me have been, and are more now than ever, enigmas, creatures or victims of money and power associated with that camel attempting to pass through the eye of a needle. Hard to believe there was ever a time when one looked with respect on statesmen deemed inspirational leaders. Did such men truly reign, or did an age of non-pervasive media cloak betrayals and corruption? Telecasts and news journals today force me to quit them after brief perusal of criminal nationalistic policies and global violence. A close friend not in politics but in priestly minstry once lectured me on my ignorance of pragmatic political maneuvers to gain needed support. "You've never learned to use people." He contended that there are Children of Light and Children of the World, and that if I remained a child of light I'd never win the endorsement of constituents with the resources to further ambitious projects we were jointly pursuing. His words echo when these days I feel alien to societies in which so much seems ugly and brutal, even within my own country, when I ponder Is this the country I fought for. But life is not all or only Hoovers, and one can turn away from them, embrace the treasures yet within reach.

No Sondheim, I lack the talent for summing-up lyrics comparable to those he gave Carlotta. Enough to merely know, perhaps, who and where I am at this point in my journey, accept whatever pains or pleasures the days bring, and if cognizant of Dylan Thomas' Do Not Go Gentle Into that Good Night, at least not waste effort in his Rage Against the Dying Light. Yesterday, on the eve of this compleanno, listening to songs of Italy nearly broke my heart. The ache for terminal days there is relentless. Yet an hour later, the recording of Marilyn Horne's exquisite Mon Coeur s'ouvre a la voix (Saint-Saens' Samson et Delila) was on the stereo, and canary Giorgio's song accompanied her so lustily I thought his heart might burst. Beautiful few minutes. Above all, that remains constant -- the joy to be found in glorious music, in any of the arts where divinity in man, if it exists at all, is found. In Mozart, in Michelangelo, in a Pasternak or a Lampedusa. Raised in the strict conventions of early 20th century, "young boys and men never cry," I'd long believed my tear ducts dry, even in times of crisis or tragedy. A blessing now to know that Beauty can release them. Admittedly, little of that refinement graces this shattered world, but I hear or see it often enough to sustain hope for the betterment of our human condition. And not only in the masterworks of times past, but with honest, significant, if rare (as always) contributions from our young.

Daylight breaking. Another year dawning, early chores to be attended. Carlotta has the last word:

I've run the gamut,

A to Z.

Three cheers and dammit,

C'est la vie.

I got through all of last year

And I'm here.

Lord knows, at least I was there.

And I'm here!

Look who's here!

I'm still here!

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.