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."

Camino Canon - gallery hopping, arts crawl

I'm not Francesco from Umbria I tell the red-headed finch which dogs my footsteps as I work in the patio. Fully feathered, it's not a fledgling fallen from a nest, flew perfectly from a high branch to the ground, and obviously is not wounded or in need of aid. But it persists in staying close to heel, sometimes blocking my path, looking up for some kind of communion. Can't help you, little fellow, I'm not gifted at interpreting the wants or needs of undomesticated fauna. Minutes pass before its questioning eyes recognize that fact and it flies off.

The finch is merely the latest encounter with wild neighbors which have elected -- or been forced to -- establish residence on Santa Fe's Camino Canon. I well remember the days before our once-dirt thoroughfare became the city's "art and soul," Canyon Road -- when the animals one saw on a daily basis were generally restricted to roaming "outside, watchdogs" and stray felines. You occasionally heard a burro bray or a cock crow, and one of my friends kept geese which raised an alarm whenever anyone set foot on her property.

Ancient history. Before the family residences were sold and became galleries, and fields cleared to make room for condominiums. Perhaps the earliest influx of critters I saw were the raccoons. Once their own territories had been invaded, they found refuge in one of the few remaining open lots on the road, an expansive field and garden behind our small enclosed patio. The raccoons discovered we had a few vines trained to grow tall over an arbor and shade a terrace. The vines produced delicious Concord and Niagara grapes, and for many years had never attracted birds, much less raccoons. But now families of the masked critters come on autumn nights, and the fruit is quickly gone. During the night, I hear the raccoons scudding across the house roof enroute to the arbor, and at dawn have seen Momma leading as many as six well-rounded, satiated toddlers down our driveway back to their lair.

Now it's rabbits. For the past three years, after more than half a century in this residence with no evidence of any, the bunnies explore the patio, nap under our car in the driveway, often peer into the dining-room window when we're at table. And like that red-headed finch, sometimes mistake me for the man from Assisi, loitering inches from my toes, looking up with beseeching eyes. I've seen them gallery hopping, too -- aping the Santa Feans and tourists who clog the Road on Friday nights for art openings. One early evening recently, I watched a very young bobtail brave traffic to cross the street repeatedly, one gallery to another, checking out the plantings. New hollyhock leaves seemed to be his tidbit of choice.

In late spring, I twice saw two small black snakes in the patio gardens. Not to worry, just harmless creatures good for the soil. A day later, a young man told my wife he'd seen a snake in the driveway, and he obviously didn't consider it small or harmless. Then a neighbor feared a snake she saw in her patio was a rattler, and phoned Animal Control. It proved to be a bull-snake, three-feet plus in length with markings similar to a rattler's. Then another small black snake was spotted sunning off my front terrace, and an observant sculptor told me that one could well be no garden variety but a young bull-snake. Maybe they're nesting around here somewhere, he suggested. Snakes on Canyon Road! Certainly we'd always had sharks here, the human variety, with quite a few ending up in court for various shady dealings in the art world. My friend the sculptor advises that if more large bull-snakes show up, we're not to phone Animal Control, but let him know. He has many friends who live in the country, keep horses, and their fields and barns are overrun with mice. Bull-snakes eat mice.

A city-boy until well into adulthood, I was a slow learner regarding all creatures not native to the Concrete Jungle. But decades on Camino Canon fostered the assumption that I knew a thing or two about native flora and fauna. Explosive growth of our town, crowding out old habitats of animals that once lived nearby but not with us has me reappraising extended family in future years here.

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.

City Different - Santa Fe Falstaff

, Program 19th Season 1975

July and August mean opera in Santa Fe, and my wife and I have been attending performances since the first season, 1957. The amphitheater just north of town has always meant much to us. As ex-New Yorkers, relocation to Santa Fe in 1954 was precisely where we wanted to be, and still want to be, but nevertheless missed cultural attractions afforded by life in Manhattan. We greeted founder John Crosby's amphitheater north of town and its initial season with enthusiasm and support, and remain grateful to this day for the immeasurable wealth of music he brought to our town. We've gained life-long friends from cast members with the opera, two of our children were in productions of La Boheme and Wozzek, we've enjoyed countless world and US premieres of works which have greatly challenged and enriched our appreciation of music.

Among its five productions this year, the Santa Fe Opera is presenting Verdi's Falstaff. My introduction to the work was in 1975 with SFO's supremely unforgettable roster of talents convincing me that I'll never experience the singing and staging done better. With much respect for this year's artists, whose performance I attended, I vividly recall the magic of the earlier Falstaff and his merry wives of Windsor.

Conducted by Edo De Waart, directed by Colin Graham, with scenery by Allen Charles Klein, costumes by Suzanne Mess, and lighting by Georg Schreiber, the '75 Falstaff expertly captured the essence of Shakespeare's disreputable but lovable once-companion to young Prince Hal. This is no easy feat since Arrigo Boito's libretto and Verdi's music, if lacking the essential pathos as well as humor written in word and melody, can make of the "fat old knight" simply a dirty old man. Baritone Thomas Stewart as Falstaff brought warmth and sensitivity to the character that won thunderous praise not only from Santa Feans but was echoed by critics from across the nation who saw his performance. How mischievous and graceful his Quand'ero poggio and simpatico, even heart-breaking, his Mondo lardo. This was a Falstaff which seen has never been forgotten, which still on nights at the Santa Fe Opera is lovingly referred to by long-time patrons of that fabulous hilltop temple to music.

Stewart was superbly supported by the stellar cast, Helen Vanni as Alice Ford and Jean Kraft as Meg Page. Brent Ellis, who'd started out as apprentice with SFO but would go on to top opera houses of the world, was Ford. And Betty Allen gave us a Dame Quickly who imbued every word of the libretto and every note of music with true intent of the composers.

We're now into the second half-century of Santa Fe Opera. For some of us who've been with it from the beginning, compromised mobility and late hours make nights at the amphitheater a bit more challenging. Yet I see a lot of familiar, if weathered, faces in the subscription-night audiences. Santa Feans who can't imagine summer without music in the air, without still one more new interpretation of an old war-horse or the exciting premiere of a contemporary work.

Cominciamo !

Travel - the other meadows

What happens here, stays here, they insist, but I want to share just a little of the latest weekend jaunt to Nevada's southern city touted primarily for its neon Strip. On the only other visit to Las Vegas, I'd been escorted to the Strip by friends, residents of the city, and had surprisingly liked what I thought I'd abhor. The casinos not merely glittering gambling dens I'd assumed them to be, but components of structures housing fine boutiques, great restaurants, shops featuring wares from the best worldwide designers, art galleries where I viewed Picassos, Monets, Van Goghs. But there'd be no time for the Strip this time. I was arriving on Saturday to attend on Sunday the surprise 70th birthday party of a dear friend who'd been very close to death from pneumonia over the past month. My flight out of Vegas was scheduled for Monday.

"If you want to double your money when in the casinos," the flight attendant counseled as our plane taxied to the gate on arrival, "I've got the soundest piece of advice: take a dollar from your pocket and fold it in half. Then put it back in your pocket." Such patter is endemic for this city sprung from las vegas, the meadows, and you see it justified as you walk through the airport furnished with countless rows of slot machines manned by travelers who look anything but weary, avidly feeding coins and dollar bills into the whirring, flashing instruments of wishful thinking. I know that my forty-eight hours in town will not be in similar meadows.

Mutual friends of the morrow's Birthday Girl have kindly received me as guest in their home. I see for the first time their beautiful neighborhood of Summerlin, observe family properties expertly maintained, amid streets and thoroughfares handsomely landscaped, southwestern flora in sandy beds ablaze with brilliant sun suddenly countered by the unexpected vista of a shaded avenue under towering royal palms. This dignified eden, in the same town as the flamboyant street of neon I'd only known previously. I had a lot to learn about Vegas.

My host and hostess attend Saturday afternoon Catholic Mass and invite me to accompany them. To one more glimpse of still another Las Vegas. A huge, handsomely-designed modern church, crowded with communicants young and old. Before and after the liturgy, introduced to parishioners, I hear reports of family and friends, am shown the photo of a young man's two-year-old son, learn who is recovering from what illness, when someone's granddaughter is expected to visit. On leaving the church, I stop for a few words with the celebrant, who'd referred to his love for Rome during the homily. We exchange nostalgic longing to see again the Eternal City. I've not heard a single reference to Las Vegas' storied lures, the celebrity-studded shows, the spectacular extravaganzas, certainly not the gambling, of the Strip. Later at a restaurant, our conversation is centered mostly on the help, receptionist, manager and waiters known to my friends who are sincerely interested in the present lives and future ambitions of these young people.

Sunday. The surprise Birthday Party is held at a noted Italian restaurant, usually closed on the day of rest, reserved exclusively for this occasion. It is already crowded when we arrive, though Birthday Girl has yet to arrive with her husband. They and the couple with whom I'm staying are friends with whom I shared memorable times on a tour of Portugal and Spain four years ago. The restaurant hums with expectancy, all of us awaiting word of when Birthday Girl has left her house, how soon she'll appear to face a large assembly eager to express its love and happiness at her survival from serious physical assault. I meet -- all! -- her nine adult children, those who live in Vegas and those who've come from afar, and see in each of them the rich harvest of good parenting. Among family friends in attendance are fellow thespians from a local theatrical group to which Birthday Girl and spouse belong. Colorful, amusing, wonderful people with fine tall tales to tell me. I watch an elder (isn't he actually, like myself, an octogenarian?) dancing so energetically, wildly really, that I wonder if we'll have to call an ambulance. Not to worry. He was a boxer, gymnast, great athlete, I'm told, who continues to pride himself on his prowess.

Birthday Girl arrives to great cheering and a thunderous fanfare from the hired musicians. We wonder whether or not hubby had been able to keep the party a surprise, but if she'd guessed, does not display it. And she absolutely hadn't expected me to be there, our embrace is long. Wine flows, the dinner is superb -- the finest Italian cuisine lite -- and I much enjoy table companions, a lawyer and her educator husband, who've traveled far and share stories of adventures in places I haven't visited. Nearly everyone crowding the large two rooms is gregarious, and much circulating spawns many joyful encounters. I consciously consider that the occasion is in no way provincial, has nothing to do with the icon which is Las Vegas, could be happening anywhere in the world where loving families and dear friends gather. There on the dancefloor, Birthday Girl is dancing with her head on the shoulder of her husband of more than fifty years, their nine children -- and a few of their spouses, and just a smattering of the many grandchildren -- taking photos. When I speak with a son or a daughter, there's much laughter, this is a day for it, but a few times I detect a misty eye.

Back at Summerlin, host, hostess and I spend a few quiet Sunday evening hours sitting in their living room, reviewing the rock-solid bonding of family and the loyalty of friends we'd seen among everyone at the party. Television, though muted, was on across the room. Images thoroughly divorced from what we'd known this day. I wouldn't let them -- not those glimpses of world turmoil, political smut, human frailty -- intrude on what the three of us had experienced and were savoring. Call it Sin City if that pleases you, but I now know a Las Vegas, a wondrous meadow where none but good shepherds roam.

Camino Canon - Flowers

It's that time of year when Santa Fe's Canyon Road, which I continue to think of as my Camino Canon, is rampant bloom from the beginning of the street to its distant terminus. Much of this is due, of course, to the commercial art galleries which over the years have fostered extensive plantings in gardens once modest (or bare) when the camino and its adobe structures were primarily residential. I see many tourists with cameras obviously more interested in photographing flowers than the numerous outdoor sculptures and paintings displayed on exterior walls. They're ostensibly here to view the hyped art, but go figure.

Early this morning on the otherwise deserted street when I emerged from the house to fetch the newspaper, a Japanese man had a tripod set up on our terrace fronting the gallery. Intensly studying a Jackmani clematis stretched tall on a climbing rose, he was for long seconds unaware of me. I watched him click shutter time and time again before we acknowledged each other in greeting. In heavily accented English, he told me he'd spent the past three mornings on the Road, beguiled by early light on profuse bloom, thankful that he'd found what he considered among the best of all photo ops on his tour of the United States. He wanted to know the name of the roses in our terrace and driveway hedges, what the ground cover was (creeping phlox), and if the lilacs did well along a western wall. If I leave studio chores to step outdoors for a few minutes in summertime, I nearly always encounter a flower lover loitering on the property.

When my wife and I moved into this house in 1956, it sat on a lot of bare scorched earth, hardly a weed, and certainly no plants, modifying the stark exterior. One of our first tasks was to enclose the small back field with a wall, create a safe play area for our two small children. That barren yard was bordered on the east side by a low rock, mud plastered wall which provided glimpses into a neighbor's extensive gardens and fields. The neighbor was artist Olive Rush, celebrated for her paintings, and the mistress of an historic adobe home which also served as the Friends' Meeting House. Much pleasure to my wife, children and I was to look over the wall and see the little white-haired old lady lovingly tending plants. Often she worked with local young men obviously familiar with Santa Fe soil, who knew which flora did well here, how best to prune trees, divide perennials. I would stand in my bare expanse of dirt and look admiringly on what was afoot next door. And know how ignorant I was of the skills needed for such a garden.

If Olive had accepted the neglect of property by the previous homeowners, she was quick to notice our feeble attempts to introduce color into our drab landscape. Her gardens required frequent divisions, she said, wouldn't we like to have some sedum, a few iris, violets. She would come to the wall with a handful or have one of her handymen bring a container of them to our door. With each year, there were more. "I must thin the Tears of Job," she would say, "or that rambling Yellow Rose of Texas. You could use them." And so our gardens grew. And grew. Now I give away iris when they need division, have gladly welcomed friends who want clumps of the sedum and violets which have spread widely, find it necessary to remove numerous runners from the Yellow Rose of Texas, hope someone will accept them. Olive is long gone (though her lovely home remains the Friends' Meeting House), but with us in gardens owing much of their conception to her.

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.