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.

Camino Canon - Peerless peer encountered

Though exorbitant gasoline prices and the threat of economic recession have sparked a decline in tourism to Santa Fe this summer, visitors to our gallery number about the same as other years. True, our modest establishment has never attracted casual sight-seers lured by larger, more prominent commercial facades and outdoor exhibits, has for decades drawn limited visitors and clients curious about what lies within the humble adobe. Many of those who've crossed the threshold became lifetime friends; many more, colorful and loquacious characters, have afforded indelible memories. Another such came through the door just this morning.

Petite, ambling with two canes and with an oxygen tank slung over her shoulder, she entered the studio with a much younger companion, obviously employed to assist her. When the aide suggested that he charge take advantage of a vacant settee, sit and rest, the older woman strongly refused, slowly circling the room to study paintings and sculpture. It was only after long minutes that she steered herself toward the settee. I heard the familiar heavy breathing of someone who has difficulty sitting or rising, the heavy sigh as her body collapsed rather than lowered into the upholstery.

She and I exchanged few words, as years greeting visitors to the gallery has taught me when silence is best. The old lady's companion seemed to know, too, the less said the better. Her employer's furrowed brow did not invite chit-chat. Yet, I studied that commanding presence -- white-haired, face lined but fine-boned and testament to great beauty, figure slim, held erect despite dependence on the canes. A multi-hued Mexican serape draped the austerely ochered Moroccan caftan she wore, and Navajo silver and turquoise jewelry adorned her bosom and arms. She'd traveled far. Yet I envisioned her in a stately parlor, simple black dress, pearls and white gloves, taking tea with the ladies, the American matron from decades long gone. Her first words to me were confrontational: "You damned artists, staring into people. The arrogance, thinking you can see more than others." The younger woman lowered her head and stared at the floor.

"But the work is good," the dowager conceded, "and those bronze medallions would be appropriate Christmas gifts for my great-granddaughters." Remaining seated, she directed her aide to bring medallions to her for selection, and chose six from the semi-abstract, stylized forms of angels and madonnas I've designed. As I wrapped the purchase, I heard her call across the room, loudly, addressing me. "You're a World War II veteran, aren't you," she stated rather than asked, and my affirmative response triggered the remark "I can always smell them out. My husband was one. Terse to the point of rudeness, you silent generation of bonded brothers." I've rarely been accused of reticence, often damned as extrovert, and her comment made me laugh. There was no need, really, for me to respond further, as the lady -- apparently assuming she was with a peer who'd comprehend whereof she spoke -- launched into a lengthy monologue of what was wrong with the world and how those of our vintage could set it right.

It was difficult to find proper gifts for young great-grandchildren because decency wasn't part of marketing for youth these days. Book she perused -- "designated children's literature!" -- focused on the trauma of teenaged protagonists from broken families, or their problems with drugs, and "always, sexual awakening, sexual orientation. A world devoid of Innocents." One of the great-grandsons asked for video games as birthday gifts, but all she previewed were awash in violence. A great-granddaughter collected discs of pop music, but most she monitored were strewn with lascivious, vile lyrics "no doubt even worse than phrases once restricted to the barracks you and my husband frequented." She'd always loved the arts, she said, all of it, but now when in New York, frequent attendance at the performing arts and in museums paid little dividends. Too much theater and "most of the cinema" contended that good drama has to be bolstered by ubiquitous profanity, pornographic language, a brutal offense to her ears. Too often museum exhibits were the neuroses of celebrated artists blatantly exploited in their paintings and sculpture. She was sick of "installations and happenings" in galleries where once she found walls aglow with modern works interesting, even beautiful, if challenging. She periodically sought escape to Europe to be again among the great public arts in the streets of Paris or Rome, to look once more on ancient masterworks. "But nowhere today is there true graciousness. I go back to my hotel and the local newspaper is at my door, wide-screen TV's in the room. No matter the country, the journals headline corruption, scandal, violence. Abhorrent American television ads cross oceans, and wherever in the world you are, assault you in English with their spiels on bowel and bladder medications, yeast infections, erectile dysfunction. Lewd. Disgusting. Sewers may be necessary, but must we frequent them." She paused, drew a deep breath. "Have some of us," the voice went plaintive, "Stayed -- as some wit put it -- Too Long at the Fair."

Talk exhausted her. Assisted by her aide, she rose from the settee with great difficulty, and I had a better appreciation of her years -- and the toll they'd taken on her -- than when she entered the room. She teetered just a bit on the two canes before achieving balance. She'd not used the oxygen mask while in the gallery, nor did she apply it on leaving, yet I was certain she would once inside their vehicle parked in our driveway. Santa Fe's 7,000-foot elevation doesn't well tolerate extended monologues. And I saw her pinch at a slight bulge in the elegant caftan. Did it conceal some kind of back or spinal brace? But once outside the gallery, on our front terrace, she straightened her back, held high her chin to face the brilliant northern New Mexico light, and with one of her canes tapped the foot of her anxious companion. "Okay, Girl, let's get on with it."