“Quick Sherman. Into the Way Back Machine.”

May 8, 2024

But Mr. Peabody . . .

As we walked toward the Air Italia jet, flight 1264 to Roma from Napoli, Cathy asked, “Why do we convert the names of Italian cities . . . places like Firenze and Roma and Napoli . . . to an Anglican version like, Florence, Rome and Naples. Seems . . . like so many things American, . . .presumptuous. We don’t ask Europeans to call New York, or Chicago or Los Angeles by another name.”

“I don’t know”, I said. “Good question.”

I know. I know. Lame answer, Rob.

A good travel guide would have prepped for that one too. But, my travel guide skills were flagging. All I could think when we reached the old school jet ramp was, “I distinctly remember being told there would be no more stairs.”

l love airports. Always have. When I was a kid you got dressed up to go to the airport. It was a big deal seeing my grandparents off at Chicago O’Hare to fly home to Albuquerque. I remember my dad taking me to the control tower where there was a plaque explaining the airport was named after Burch O’Hare, the Navy’s first Medal of Honor recipient in the Second World War.

I still marvel at modern flight. In one day . . . less than one day . . . we will travel from Positano Italy to Petaluma California.

Tonight, the day will have passed, but the sun will not have set. Only in our lifetime has this become possible. Just think, when Jackson, Finn, Avery, Olly, Grady, Rhyse and Bowie are our age, . . . when we are to their children what Erminia is to Cathy . . .how primitive this will seem.

We old farts, we travel slowly back in time. We want to solve the mysteries of our past. Fill in the blanks of things forgotten. Our Auregino ancestors. The missing pages in daVinci’s zibaldone. Michelangelo’s quirky sense of humor. A time when Italy didn’t know tomatoes. We take comfort in it.

Our grandchildren? They will not have that luxury. They will travel . . . fast forward . . . in time. Their eyes look west over this horizon. To the sunrise, not the sunset. That is their gift. That is what will save them from this world we old ones have screwed up so badly.

Of all the images from this trip the one that haunts me the most is this one. It shows red poppies growing among the ruins of Pompeii.

When I was a kid, war veterans . . . at airports . . . would give you a paper red poppy for a modest donation. My dad never let one pass without giving a little something.

The red poppy, immortalized by John McCrea’s classic poem In Flanders Field, symbolizes remembrance and hope.

In Flanders fields the poppies blow,

Between the crosses row on row,

That Mark our place; and in the sky,

The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

Not far from here, in a room we chose not to photograph, lies the rusted casing of an unexploded bomb mistakenly dropped by the Allies on Pompeii. Our guide Claudia points it out and quickly moves on. I suspect she is concerned that she not offend we Americans who seem to specialize in bombs. I am a proud American, but I wish we were more than we have become.

Enough of that.

I tend to get melancholy on the flight home. I fear that I have not done enough to merit my good fortune and that days such as these may never return. Don’t worry. It’s the Irishman in me. It will pass. My two percent Italian will return. I carry that two percent with pride.

Well, Cathy is snoozing. I will have to wake her soon. Our trip has come to an end. The stairway at home will seem like child’s play after the Duomo and Positano.

Thank you readers for indulging me in this hobby of mine. I hope I have brought a smile or two to the family and friends Cathy and I are so fortunate to have.

Until the next trip, I’ll leave you once again with the rainbow.

Seems only right.