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.

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!

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.

Elders - Clearances

An unexpected heavy parcel delivered today was from a longtime friend in Pennsylvania. The package contained 20 albums of classical music, quite a few of them multiple-disc sets of operas. There was no note. Though all were in good condition, it was obvious that the CDs had been in my friend's possession for years, had been frequently handled and played. Knowing the love of music we'd long shared, I wondered how he could easily part with exceptional recordings, a few of which, though remastered, were of historic live performances dating back to the 60s and 70s, one -- Maria Callas' La Traviata at Teatro alla Scala -- from 1955.

There was a phonecall from Pennsylvania about a month ago. Something of a surprise, as I believed my friend and his wife were in Rome at the time, fulfilling a lifetime dream of finally visiting the Eternal City. But no, he explained, the trip had been cancelled. He'd had a mild heart attack, nothing too serious, he assured me, not comparable to the open-heart surgery I'd undergone less than two years ago. Nevertheless, he felt his energies were depleted, feared his years of work-related and pleasure travel would be seriously limited, sounded surprised that one could suddenly, following physical setback after years of robust health, be forced to make concessions to age.

Five years younger than I, he'd recently celebrated his eightieth birthday. Welcome to the club of octogenarians, old buddy. And yes, I know, handling, listening to, those fine CDs, why he sent them. Time to rid oneself of things -- possessions, no matter how deeply valued -- which in advanced age demand stewardship or maintenance not compatible with limited time and stamina. Divest oneself of many non-essentials, including collectibles you once believed you couldn't do without -- cherished books which won't again be re-read, reels or tapes of film which won't be viewed, artifacts and souvenirs from distant shores gathering dust, papers, letters, photos, boxes of paraphernalia stored in cupboards and closets. Stuff. You can accumulate mountains of it in four-score years.

I'll enjoy listening to those CDs, but know I won't want to add them to the burdened shelves of my own extensive trove. The sight of that wall of music is a reproof every time I pass it. When will you begin to thin the ranks, particularly when there' so much you rarely listen to anymore. And in this day of ubiquitous technology, who needs to store anything. I hear all the music I care to from 24-hour classical KHFM, Albuquerque/Santa Fe, as well as from streaming computer audio broadcast by New York's WQXR and Britain's BBC.

I've not been as hasty as my friend in Pennsylvania to begin clearing the decks, but hope his example will strengthen my resolve. One at my age has known the loss of much and many, among them loved ones whose spirits may walk beside me but who can't be embraced. We must let go people; it should be easy to let go things.