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!

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.