Author: rljwander

May 4, 2024

I know what you’re thinking. You’re looking at this picture and thinking . . . poor Cathy, alone in Rome. How’s she going to get the man home. He’s clearly had a stroke.

I can explain. Honest. There’s a theme here. But it needs just a little time to percolate.

If you look at this picture, you’ll see three photographs taken in .. . that “MARVELOUS YEAR” . . . .1968. (I know . . . Martin, Bobby, Tet, Chicago convention . . .the word “marvelous” might have been a poor word choice.)

Anyway, on the left, you’ll see my wife “Cathy Perry performing at [the] Christmas assembly.” I can’t recall the role exactly, but she clearly nailed it. The reviews all agreed. Out of the park.

On the other hand, on the bottom of the page, you’ll see six boys doing what appears to be the CanCan. The crack editor of the RVJH Skyhawk, our junior high yearbook, described them as a “Rincon Chorus Line.” The reviews on their performance were . . . let’s say . . . mixed.

Now, history being one of the themes struggling to emerge from this post, I have to take issue with the caption. We were at Rincon Valley Junior High. That much is true. But, we were making fun of our rival Slater Junior High. I know this because that’s me. The doofus in the middle with an “S” . . . that’s “S” for Slater . . . coming unpinned from his sweatshirt who, in his enthusiasm, appears to have lost his scarf and looks like . . . well . . . a boy in a skirt.

I was conflicted. Okay?

Anyway, it isn’t those photographs I want you to focus on. It’s the one in the middle. See the teacher serving a volleyball? That’s Coral Barberini. Cathy and I had her for fifth period English and sixth period Literature. And it was in that Literature class where we first learned of Greek and Roman mythology.

Stories like Daedalus and Icarus, Apollo and Daphne, Narcissus and Echo, and Leda and the Swan. We ate that stuff up.

Thank you, Coral.

In 1965, three years before The Chorus Line bombed, when Cathy was a nine-year-old in Mr. Austin’s 4th grade class at what was then known as Rincon Valley Grade School, she did a report on the Pantheon in Rome. That’s it. The building behind her.

As we walked inside today, she recalled excerpts from her report. I kid you not. (Get it? “I kid you not”? Sometimes I crack myself up.) Almost sixty years, and she remembers that report like it was yesterday.

As Cathy explained in her 4th Grade report, the Pantheon in its “current” form, is believed to have been built in 126 AD by the Emperor Hadrian on the site of a previous temple destroyed by fire during the reign of the first Emperor Augustus. (This always makes me wonder . . . just how does a stone structure burn down? I mean . . .?)

Almost two thousand years old, the “new” Pantheon is still the largest unreinforced concrete dome in the world.

If you look in this photograph, you’ll see the oculus. The opening in the gray dome? No, not my gray dome. Look higher, smart ass.

Fun fact? The height of the oculus and the diameter of the room are the same, 142 feet. The oculus , 27 feet in diameter, is the only source of natural light. Because the door faces due north, the light cast by the oculus works as a sundial. The Roman senators who were included in Cathy’s report would know the time by looking at the wall.

It was 11:30 when we were there.

Another fun fact? The columns on the front of the Pantheon were made from marble quarried in the eastern mountains of Egypt. They are 39 feet tall, five feet in diameter and each weigh 60 tons. They were dragged sixty miles on wood sledges, loaded onto barges on the Nile, floated down the Nile when the Spring water was high, resting on bags filled with lentils (the original bean bags), loaded on ships to cross the Mediterranean, then put back on barges pulled by oxen up stream on the Tiber, then schlepped by slaves 700 meters.

Then?

Then they laid in the grass for over two hundred years. Yep. Just laid there. For over three times the span of time that separates Cathy from her 4th grade report. Until one day someone thought, “Hey, why don’t we use those old gray columns lying in the grass over there in the new improved Pantheon?”

Genius, Hector. We’ll save a few denarii. (Kind of an ancient Habitat for Humanity ReStore.)

Thank you, Mr. Austin.

Those of you who know Cathy know she loves archeology. She would have been very happy to tie on a Tilly Hat, shorts, a t shirt and boots and brush away sentiment in some excavation to reveal ancient artifacts. (Okay, maybe not the Tilley Hat) She loved staring up at the light that passed to the interior of the neolithic mound at Newgrange in Ireland. She loved traipsing through the Colosseum and down the Via Sacra through the Roman Forum today. She is looking forward to Pompeii before we head home.

Think of the time.

Newgrange was 3200 years before the Forum and the Colosseum. The Pantheon was almost 2000 years before Cathy’s report in Mr. Austin’s class. The sixty years since her report, as long as they may seem, are a blink of an eye in this Circus Maximus we call humans.

Thank you Mr. Austin. Thank you Mrs. Barberini. Thank you to all of you teachers out there. You know who you are. And we know who you were.

This world . . . our world . . . this time . . . our time . . . is so much richer because you told us stories, asked us to do reports, and blessed us with curiosity to last a lifetime.

As long as it may seem and short as it might be.

May 3, 2024

Fifteen minutes is not enough time in the Sistine Chapel.

I’m not blaming the good folks at “Skip the Line Tours.” Our tour guide Shak . . . pronounced “Shark” without the “r” . . . a delightful young woman from Sienna whose parents immigrated to Italy from Uzbekistan, was a wealth of information and very entertaining.

But one of my problems with this damn Parky’s is that if I look up repeatedly or for a long time, my world starts to spin out of control. Unless there is something to hold onto . . .and Cathy can’t always be my wingman in the crowd . . . I’m like Maverick in a flat spin going out to sea.

Talk to me Goose.

As a general rule, ceilings are not my friend. I got whirly spotting for Cathy when she was up on a ladder painting her porch the week before we left. So, unless I had a cheatsheet, binoculars, a snack and a cot on wheels from which to look, no amount of time would be enough for me in the Sistine Chapel.

Still, I think I would have liked Michelangelo. He was a notorious grouch who had no patience for dimwits who could not understand his genius. And he often used his art to mock them. Take this unfortunate fella.

In the lower right corner of his fresco The Last Judgment on the East wall of the Chapel, Michelangelo depicted a man in real hell, ostensibly Minos, judge of the dead. If you look, you can see why I say HELL. That’s H-E-double hockey sticks hell.

Ouch. Talk about snake bitten.

Apparently, ol’ Minos bore an uncany resemblance to Biagio da Cesena, the Pope’s Master of Ceremonies who was always bitching about Michelangelo’s portrayal of Biblical characters in the buff. So, Michelangelo had a little fun. When Biagio complained to the Pope that he might be forever remembered as the guy with a snake chomping on Mr. Happy, ol’ Paul the Third laughed him off by saying that since Biagio was already consigned to hell, the matter was beyond his jurisdiction.

Or, how about his depiction of God, decreeing the creation of the sun and the moon, then mooning us all as he scurries off to get to work on Adam and Eve.

I love this guy.

For nonbelievers such as Cathy and myself, the Vatican is a mixed message. We understand and respect other’s faith and how moving this place must be to our friends raised in the Church. Even as nonbelievers, you can’t help but look at the Pieta and be moved for a mother’s loss of her lost son.

But grandeur such as this, awe inspiring as it is, leaves me uneasy. The Vatican Museum is hall upon hall of priceless art treasures that as recently as 1932 were kept in the Papal apartments, not open to public viewing, for only the higher-ups to enjoy. Many of them were commissioned by Popes for their personal pleasure; many simply taken from others. This is an unsettling reminder that privilege comes with power that too often comes from wealth.’

I get that “Upon this rock I will build my church” but I’m not sure the Big Guy had such grandiose splendor in mind. Might just be me, but the message might have been lost during home improvements.

That said, I must say, that one of the most moving . . . and I mean moving . . . art works we saw was not a Michelangelo, not high Renaissance frescos or Ancient Greek sculptures, but a modern work, the Sfera Con Sfera in the Courtyard of the Pinecone.

It is a 13′ bronze sculpture by Arnoldo Polmodoro, now 97-years-old, one of many such spheres throughout the world, including the Vatican, Trinity College in Dublin, and even at the de Young in our own San Francisco.

It shows the fractured world in which we live, but a sphere within the sphere symbolizing man’s constant effort to mend the broken world about him. It was particularly “moving” when Shak stepped over the cordon and with some effort set the giant globe spinning in place.

Nice thought, Arnoldo. One man can move the world. We just have to get out of the way and help push.

May 3, 2024

Well, sports fans, we’re off to Rome. Our vacation is half over.

Seems like everywhere we stop, we hate to leave.

When we arrived in Florence, Dorina, the hotel manager at the Relais Santa Croce Hotel, took particular delight in good naturedly needling me after I initially declined her paper map. I was confident my Google Maps on my groovy iPad, carefully “pinned” with all the sites we hoped to see, was technologically superior and would avoid that embarrassing struggle, somewhere in. the Palazzo Vecchio, to properly re-fold the primitive paper option she offered.

She and Cathy bonded when Cathy overruled me and graciously thanked her for the paper option. You know the look . . . that look two women exchange when dealing with . . . “mistaken” . . . men. This became a recurring theme throughout our stay.

She was right. Her paper beat my stone.

It was particularly hard to say good-bye to her,

We’re seasoned veterans in Italian train stations now. No need to be an hour early. So, we said our “arrivedercis”, took a leisurely taxi to the Stazione, hopped on the Frecciarossa 9519, and flew bullet train speed back to Rome.

What a contrast! Much different from the baroque Relais Santa Croce.

The Hotel First Musica in Rome is a trendy, happening, recent remodel, with futuristic furniture, clean brass fixtures and gold frosted glass doors separating the bedroom from the bathroom. Kind of George Jetson meets Fernando Lamas. In the restaurant, a playlist of American dance hits appropriate for a 1978 wedding blares and a trendy bar on the rooftop is open until 1:00 a.m., no doubt frequented by Abu Dhabi playboys.

I’ll fit right in.

Our room has a floor to ceiling window overlooking the Tiber River with electrically activated window closures that descend or ascend on the touch of a brass toggle switch. The shower has a floor to ceiling window as well and Cathy assures me that the glass is reflective so the pedestrians four floors below won’t be subjected to me in my Roman altogether.

I offer to test her theory by walking down to the sidewalk while she is in the shower and signal it is safe. by some clever hand sign from below. Apparently, there is a trust issue, or she is not confident that there might not be some confusion in my semaphore skills, so she politely declines and thinks it best that she use the creepy electrically activated shade . . . just in case.

We arrived early and needed to kill time before our room was ready. So, opting to embrace, rather than disguise our status, we went full tourist and did what all red blooded American tourists do to get oriented to the city: we jumped on the hop on/hop off bus.

We have no pride.

Having seen the Spanish Steps and Trevi Fountain a week ago, we opt to hop off at the unfortunate choice of the ginormous Monument a Vittorio Emanuele II, Italy’s first King. Maybe it’s the military presence, maybe it’s the frequent reference to “the Fatherland”, but the Monumento seems just a tad bit compensationo for some low T’o.

Rome itself seems much more machismo than we have encountered thus far, prompting Cathy to coin the title to this chapter. * (A clever turn of phrase I wish I could take credit for.)

I was skeptical of her assessment until this morning when my continental breakfast included a small jar of bee pollen.

Not familiar with the nutritional or medicinal benefits of your bee pollen, I decided to Google it.

Hmmmm . . . Cathy may have a point.

Waiter . . . ?

May 1, 2024

As Cathy and I waited in the ticket office this morning at the famed Ufizzi Art Gallery, she asked me, “What does Uffizi mean?” It was a reasonable question to the Tour Director, but one I neglected to prep for.

It happens, okay.

Now, I had two options. I could try to bullshit her. Always dicey. Usually, there comes that moment when the true answer comes out from some more reliable source. That’s always awkward.

So I went with a joke instead.

“You fizi is as good as my fizi”, I quipped, thinking it wasn’t bad for early in the morning. Maybe not Vegas or even Catskill level material, but not entirely lame.

Cathy just rolled her eyes.

“I’ll be here all weekend.” I added,

This too was met with silence. “Jeez.”, I thought. “Tough crowd, these art lovers.”

I admit it. I’m not good at art galleries. Especially crowded ones. I have to fight the urge to race ahead when I should linger. You know . . . “Okay, we’ve seen it; we can say we’ve seen it; let’s take a photo and beat the crowd to the “Birth of Venus.”

I’m pretty sure this isn’t the attitude the Museum Director is after. Maybe more contemplative, less competitive.

I also have anger management issues with folks who are rude or lack what I call “SCA” . . . “situational crowd awareness.” You know . . . the woman who stops on the stairway to check her cell phone, holding up everyone, totally unaware that she is blocking traffic behind her. Or the tall guy who takes root in front of the Da Vinci blissfully unaware that his head will be forever immortalized in family vacation photos all over the world.

Sometimes I’m tempted to take a photo of people taking photos. Like this one I took at the Piazzale Michelangelo as Cathy . . . and a few of our closest friends . . . waited to see the sunset over Firenze.

At first, I thought the fella with the white ball cap, red backpack, and grande macchina fotografica on a tripod was a bit much. I mean, your cell phone takes excellent photos. Why schlep that gear up the bloody steps? Who’s he trying to impress? But, as is so often the case, I was wrong. He and his wife were a delightful couple. He is a retired professional photographer from Canada. They now live in Panama and very kindly suggested that, depending on how the American election goes, Cathy and I might want to join them.

Apparently, the health care is excellent.

Speaking of crowds, Cathy has become a little dynamo at Pollo Italiano.You know . . . you’re walking toward someone. They are some ways off, but you’re on a clear collision course. Here in Italy the young men are the worst. They tend to be arrogant, travel in packs side by side with their buddies, and foolishly think Cathy will defer and step aside to let them pass. Usually, the guy on the wing takes the hit.

Poor bastard. Elbow checked into the boards by a featherweight.

Cosi imbarazzante.

Me. I specialize in the “cold stop.” I look for the Moses glued to his cell phone who assumes the pedestrian waters will part before him. Rather than opt for a smooth “pase de pecho” (that’s matador for the “chest high pass “), as he expects, I opt for the risky, seldom used, but ballsy “Berto parar.” That’s a Spanish bullfighting term for “stand one’s ground.” This seems to upset your typical pampas bull who, forced to an abrupt stop and prepared for battle, but then sensing senility in his adversary, backs off and goes around. I think it’s the big smile and hearty “scusa” that unnerves him.

Pedestrian battle is particularly treacherous on the Ponte Vecchio in the rain. My little REI expandable umbrella is no match for Japanese tour groups wielding bumpershoots the size of Hokaido. Watch yourself. These gals don’t subscribe to Michelle Obama rules. When you go high, they go low so the tips of the ribs of their umbrella dart past you at just about eye level.

But I digress. Back to the Ufizzi.

Cathy pointed this painting out in the corner of a room; she said it reminded her of me. That’s Botticelli’s “St. Augustine in His Study.” The handy bilingual informational plaque says, “The sheets of paper strewn across the floor at the saint’s feet are intended to convey the difficulty implicit in translating divine inspiration into words.”

Riiiiiight.

I have several reactions to this. First, I am of course simpatico. I too leave good material strewn across the floor every night in our hotel room. Second, I chuckle to think of a Saint swearing beneath his breath as he works through celestial writer’s block, “No, no, no . . . that’s not it. Stupido.” But, third, it strikes both Cathy and me that, if it truly is the Lord speaking to you, it ought to be like taking dictation.

No rewrite should be required.

May 1, 2024

I don’t know about you, but sometimes my Apple Watch seems sarcastic. Maybe I’m too sensitive. Take things too personally. But, it seems to make fun of me. Like after one of my golf swings . . . which I admit are not what you might call “fluid” these days . . . it vibrates and asks, “Have you fallen?”, and offers to summon help.

And like tonight. Sometimes I look at the damn thing and type, “Ya think?”

Tonight, Cathy and I returned to the Hotel Relais Santa Croce. Plopped down into the overstuffed leather chairs in the “Music Room” (where back in the fifteenth century, the treasurer to the Pope would entertain guests), and shared a couple of adult beverages. She had a variation on her go-to Prosecco. I went with my fall back White Ukrainian. It was a big day.

I’m wrestling with several themes tonight, but let’s start with “big.” I had no idea how big things are in Florence. The doors are big.

The Duomo is big.

And David? Well . . .

You get the idea.

Next theme . . . leather.

There’s a lot of leather in Florence. Leather shops. Leather jackets. Leather skirts. Leather pants.

One of my favorite stops thus far on our trip has been to the Scuola del Cuoio, the leather working school on the back side of the Basilica Santa Croce. My dad used to work with leather. I know the smell. I know the tools. To watch the artisans work with the same hand tools my pop once used was very moving.

Cathy hit it off with one very cheerful craftsman who monogrammed a gift.

Next theme . . . food. When we asked the lovely woman who is one of the hotel managers how we might spend tomorrow after visiting the Uffizi (when it promises to rain), she suggested we find a place to sit, drink and eat.

This. . . I am good at.

For example, today the waiter at the Ristorante Tosca where we had a late lunch suggested I try the chocolate salami. I know. I wondered myself. How could the Italians combine the two things I love eating the most? What dark Tuscan magic was at work here?

Cathy could only look on and wonder herself. She looks skeptical, doesn’t she. No doubt awed by my bravery with a fork.

Fortified, there remained one final conquest. The climb.

Now the Brunelleschi Pass we bought cautions that visitors who wish to go to the top of the Dome are “required” . . . that seems a bit harsh . . . “to climb 463 steps” . . . that seems a bit excessive . . . and goes on to say, “. . . the climb is strongly NOT recommended for people with cardiovascular, respiratory diseases and vertigo.“

Check, check and check. The Brunelleschi Trifecta.

Cathy and I discuss it and decide after my Parky paranoia on the footbridge in the Valle Verzasca it might be best to pass. We pull up a helpful YouTube video, confirm the spiral portions have no handrail, and decide, that as the video suggests, we can bail once inside the church, sit in a pew and watch the young and foolhardy take our place in the line.

I text my daughter, who was concerned, to reassure her that . . . although her dad generally tries to avoid sensible behavior . . . she need not worry. We’re pew bound only. She’s relieved.

Uhhhh, Kate? Funny thing . . .

Don’t be mad . . . but it turns out Cathy and are maybe a bit. . . just a bit . . . prone to peer pressure. Well, not peers. Actually, people half our age. Okay, maybe younger. Anyway, they were very nice, showed us how to bar scan our ticket and . . . before you know it . . . we’re climbing stairs.

Talk about upward mobility.

The view was . . . what’s the word? . . . breathtaking.

Funny thing I’ve noticed on this trip. People are generally solicitous of our age. Traffic (sometimes) stops for us. The doorman is quick to open the door. Cab drivers are quick to help with a bag.

And kind young people . . . who last saw us hesitant at the foot of the climb .. . . actually applauded when we emerged from the trap door onto the viewing deck.

All and all, the view from the pew was spectacular.

April 30, 2024

Our last day at the Villa Orselina. Just before dawn, a half moon. The rain has gone; the sun is out.

Funny, isn’t it. How you get so attached to a place in such a short time. The receptionist is like an old friend. When we tell her we’re on the 10:22 train to Florence, she shares that although she grew up in Milano, until very recently, she had never been to Florence. The waiter knows I like my tea black and that when Cathy requests a latte, she doesn’t mean just warm milk.

Breakfast is glorious in the warmth of the sun. I continue my quest in search of the perfect croissant; Cathy eats sensibly, though her devotion to prosciutto makes me wonder if she might drop me like a cold canned ham if she found a salumificio magnifico.

A swallow joins us.

Two ducks spot Cathy as an easy mark and they are soon eating . . . my croissant . . . out of her hand.

Then the fun begins.

I have carefully planned our departure. Breakfast at 8:30, check out no later than 9:15. Gas up the rental car at 9:30, drop Cathy and the bags off at the station at 9:45, and then . . . my first turn at the wheel of our sporty Volkswagen Tirguan . . . I drive back to the rental car agency curiously tucked in underground public parking in downtown Locarno, undergo a damage inspection, and then a leisurely stroll back to the station.

A little tight, I admit. but doable. Si? Non.

One small unanticipated problem. The meticulously thorough Swiss gentleman at EuroCar has decided to take a mid morning hike . . . no doubt for a croissant of his own . . . at the time we had previously arranged.

This was not expected. I of course immediately panic. Luckily, when he returns . . . croissant crumbs on his chest . . . he realizes from the look of terror on the old American’s face that we might have to forego the damage inspection.

I hand him the keys and up the garage ramp I run. Okay, run is an exaggeration. More of a trot. Maybe a cantor. Cathy has assured me that if she is not there when I return the train has left already.

With her.

So, I’m a little alarmed when I arrive at what I thought was where I left her, bent over, hands on my knees, panting. No Cathy.

Damn it. Just as I suspected, she’s been seduced by a Firenzian saluminerio. They’re probably nibbling on a sample plate of his finest meats and cheeses south of Lugano by now.

Then, shaking off my O2 starved delirium, I spot her.

“You okay?”, she asks.

“Sure”, I say. “Let’s go to Florence.”

April 28, 2024

Cathy and I step from the gangway in Virenna. A blast of steam rises from the water line as the crew bleeds the boiler and the fog horn bellows a deep, long moan. I feel like we are in a Meryl Streep movie where the mysterious aristocratic woman, ready for high adventure, steps from the gangway to a dock teaming with the locals, accompanied by her faithful manservant who is not nearly as confident of their undertaking.

Call me Sabu.

The boat is a relic of a dark chapter in Italian history. In 1926, a Nazi shipbuilder named Ordera laid the keel of the 53 meter paddle steamer and called it “28 Ottobre.” Catchy huh? Apparently, Ordera wanted to suck up to ol’ Benito and chose the date of Il Duche’s so called “March on Rome” for a name. Students of history will remind you the “March” wasn’t no much a march as a skip, Typical Fascist. All goose step, but a little light in the loafers.

Thankfully, our boat’s ugly name, like the ugly Il Duche himself, were not long for the world and . . . a fresh coat of paint later . . . she was christened The Concordia. She’s been plying the waters of Lake Como for almost a century.

She is an elegant boat with sleek lines, a wheelhouse with a brass “all ahead full” engine control, a shoulder high oak steering wheel, a deck with twin cowl vents aside a raked smoke stack, and round life preservers hung on the railings.

The giant, brushed steel, steam driven crankshaft is open to view as you enter the lower deck, and the rhythmic beat of the machinery takes you back to when men made big things.

Cathy loves this stuff.

Mind you, she and I are not the first glitterati to sail on the Concordia. George Clooney once booked the whole boat to impress his girlfriend Elisabetta Canalis. This was of course long before Amal. (I know about such things.)

Verena is the poor step sister to Belaggio. Both are charming, but Verrena has less of a tude.

It also has one thing not to be found on this side of the world. Wanna know what?

A cypress tree.

I know . . . I know . . . what’s with the cypress tree thing? (Trust me, I’ve asked this myself . . . many times . . . silently.)

Let me explain.

We’re not talking your typical Italian Cypress. Pleeeeease. Those are a dime a dozen in this country. No, we’re talking what Rick Steve’s refers to on page 242 of his guide to Italy . . . the “rare California Cypress.” It’s true. The California Cypress is actually on the endangered species list. And one of the few surviving ones is in Varenna.

Who knew?

So, we set off. My job, as always, is navigation, documenting the expedition with cheesy photo ops, and scrounging for sustenance and hydration from the local natives. This is . ; . not to wear out my nautical theme . . . right in my wheelhouse.

We traipsed down narrow alleys.

We traipsed up narrow alleys.

The town square.

We stopped for cheesy photo ops.

According to Cathy’s Apple Watch we clocked 10,000 steps, About five miles on a stair master. And Sabu could go no further.

Finally, it was time to head back to Menaggio. We caught the last ferry, a poor substitute for the Concordia.

4/27/2024

Times change. Trees grow.

Cathy took this picture with her trusty Kodak Instamatic in May of 1974. The stamp on the back says it was printed that month. For you youngsters, there was a time . . . doesn’t seem that long ago . . . when you put a spool of film in your camera, took twelve photographs, left the film at the drug store where it was “developed” and three weeks later retrieved your prints. The date stamped on the back by the Kodak Company was the only means by which you could tell when the photograph was taken

As we drove down a small lane in Auregino this morning, Cathy stopped the car and asked that I get out and take a photograph. She was certain we were at the same spot from which she took the picture fifty years ago, almost to the day. She didn’t know why. She just knew it was the exact same view as before.

Here is the photo I took with my trusty Apple iPhone 13 Pro Max. The time signature date in my phone says it was taken April 27, 2024 at 12:49 pm.

Time passes slowly in Auregino. The men in the Trattoria Giovanetti where Lara, a distant cousin tends bar, speak in hushed whispers, as I suspect men have for generations when strangers come in. They look up as Lara explains to Cathy that the cemetery in Gordivio no longer has “old graves.” Apparently, several years ago they were “turned over” to make room for new ones.

Space is limited, Lara explains.

Doesn’t seem right to me, but I suppose, if you go back as far as these folks do, some re-composting is necessary.

Not so the graveyard in Auregino where, as Cathy walked from the gravestone of her great-great grandfather Giovanni Vanoni to a marker nearby, a kind woman named Sonya couldn’t help but notice Cathy’s interest in the Spandini family. Communication was difficult until I asked if Sonya might speak French. I was able to interpret for the two and soon Sonya became choked up as it became clear she and Cathy were also distant cousins.

We parted company with Sonya when, not a moment later, the bell tower in the church began to chime. Cathy took this as a sign from her grandmother and became choked up herself. Both of her grandmothers, Cathy explains, are trying to one up one another with dramatic signs from the great beyond. First, Grammy in Ireland. Now, her Grandmother Perry in Italy.

It is getting a little spooky. Any more relatives chime in and I may start going to church myself.

We came back to the hotel tonight. Our view is spectacular.

Sitting down to compare the two photographs, Cathy seems disappointed that the view of the chapel from the hillside is not exactly as she remembered it. She faults her memory. I remind her that fifty years, though it may seem a moment to her, is time enough for a tree to grow. She laughs, then grows quiet, lost in thought.

It has been a rainy day, but far from melancholy. We explored Valle Maggia and the nearby Valle Verzasca. We crossed footbridges dating back to before her Nona was born. (I had to damn near cross the last one on my knees when my Parky’s kicked in and I got the shakes. But Cathy helped me find my footing and I managed not to do a nose dive into the river.)

Times change. Trees grow. Our footing grows shaky. Space becomes limited. The dead make way for the dead.

But, church bells still strike the hour, aqua blue water still rushes down from snow covered slopes peaking through the clouds. And our families, like stone bridges, will endure long after we are gone.

Friday, April 26, 2024

Greetings from Italy. Well. . . I mean Switzerland.

Thus far, my job as budget travel agent is not threatened. I managed to get us here with our luggage. One 12 hour flight. One nine hour train trip. Mind you, “la giornata e´giovane” (“the day is young”), and there is plenty of time for something to go wrong, but I remain, despite my record, curiously optimistic.

As I write this first segment, we are racing at 190mph on the Trentitalia Frecciaroso 9624 bullet train from Roma to Milano. Destination Locarno, Switzerland.

Just north of Montepulciano. Cathy’s snoozing, so I’ve fired up the ol’ laptop to report to my faithful readers on yesterday’s earth-shattering discoveries, the kind that come only with world travel.

Discovery No. 1 Your Italian Cypress tree.  

In the taxi from the airport to Rome, Cathy, who recently planted three in her front yard, was struck by how many Italian Cypress there are here in . . . uhhh . . . Italy Everywhere we looked, there they were.  The place is littered with them. It’s almost as if . . . Oh, never mind.

Discovery No. 2: Your Tomato

Say “it ain’t so, Joe”, but Rob Jackson has decided it’s Italy where finally, after a lifetime of belittling BLT lovers, picking tomatoes off anything and everything from pizzas to salads,  and rolling my eyes at Chef Boy-Are-Dese-Good fanatics gushing over a “fresh from the garden” Early Girl, it’s time to give up the fight and learn to enjoy a fresh tomato.

And what better way to start such a life changing practice than with an appetizer at Il Vicola Nel Corso Ristorante, a charming hole in the wall we discovered in an alley on our way from the Spanish Steps to the Trevi Fountain. That’s right, Big Boys, we’re talking bruschetta.

That’s “broo-skee-ay-tah” my friends. Not “bruh-sheh-tuh.” Not, “broo-skeh-tuh.” It’s “broo-skee-ay tah.” This little jewel. It was deliziosa.

Discovery No. 3

Naturally at ease amongst her people, sporting a Neapolitan striped blouse like she just stepped out of The Pirates of Penzance, tight pants and stylish shoes, Cathy fits in here like Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday.

That’s her at the top of the steps.

Me? Not so much. I should be a training dummy for entry level pre-teen Roman pickpockets.

I start with a wide eyed, slack jawed, “will ya look at that, Martha” expression. I add to that my  21-zippered pocket travel vest, the new and improved SCOTTeVEST, and I top it all off glued to Google Maps on my iPhone trying to figure out in which direction the little blue dot is moving relative to our targeted destination. 

I’m pretty sure it was this undercover demeanor that prompted the enterprising man on the Spanish Steps to offer Cathy four roses and then turn to me for remuneration. We had bivouacked for the night half way up the steps, when he caught me wheezing and unable to waive Cathy off of his classic “create the obligation” move. Oh well. My legal negotiating skills proved too much for him and five euros later I was the one getting my picture taken with Audrey Hepburn kissing me.

Discovery No. 4

Children, no matter what their language, speak the same.  Whether it was the toddler dancing with the street musicians at the Piazza del Popolo or the two small girls on the train just now running up and down the length of the train car, they sound alike. It’s a joyous sound.

April 23, 2024

My wife Cathy is of proud Italian* heritage.

We know this because her great-grandfather was named Giuseppe and . . . I could be wrong . . . but I’m thinking if you’re named Giuseppe . . . Gisueppe  Morelli . . . you’re Italian. 

That’s Giuseppe in the picture with Cathy’s Nona. Her name was Erminia Vanoni. She’s the one holding him down with her left hand and about to smack him with the gloves in her right hand. 

This is a strong family trait. Trust me. It’s definitely not a recessive gene.

Now, I’ve  put an asterisk on “Italian” because technically, according to a map, Giuseppe and Erminia were Swiss. By about six miles. 

You see, Giuseppe and Erminia grew up in the Vallemaggia District of the Swiss Canton of Ticino. Ticino is the only canton in the Swiss Federation of twenty-eight cantons in which Italian is the official language. Its climate is so nice, being south of the Alps, that the Swiss refer to it as their “sun porch.”

Giuseppe hailed from Gordevio on the east side of the Maggia River. Erminia on the west side of the river in Auregino, a stone’s throw away. There was, no doubt, a bitter “cross river” rivalry as, about the time they left, there were 219 people in Auregino and 278 people in Gordevio. 

So the story goes,  Giuseppe emigrated from Gordevio in 1884 and set up shop with his brothers as Pleasant View Vineyards and Cellars  a couple miles northeast of Occidental. That’s Giuseppe in the middle, the dapper guy holding the wine bottle.

The wine biz was a brilliant business move as, at the time, there were a bunch of thirsty Italian lumberjacks roaming the hills around Occidental.

The Vanoni boys’, like the Morelli brothers, hightailed it out of Ticino and headed for Occidental in Sonoma County, leaving their sister Erminia in Auregino. She was in love with a guy. We’ll call him “Perdente.”  That’s Italian for “Loser.” Perdente asked Erminia to marry him. Erminia said “si”, but told him the wedding must wait while she cared for her ailing father, Giovanni. Giovanni was not ready to check out and some time passed. Apparently too much time for Perdente because he broke off the engagement shortly before Giovanni died in 1898. This photo was taken when he broke the news to her. Hence, the name “Loser.”

Heartbroken and, there being no family or prospects for a young woman in Auregino,  Erminia was encouraged by her brothers to join them in Occidental where their pal Giuseppe Morelli  . . . we’ll call him “Winner” . . . was looking for a wife. 

Off Erminia went. She was one strong woman. Alone. Not yet thirty years old. Speaking not a word of English. She set sail on the steamer La Touraine from Le Havre in France and arrived on Ellis Island seven days later on June 14, 1902. A train ride across the country. A quick marriage to a guy she barely knew.

And little more than a year after she arrived at Ellis Island, on October 19, 1903, Cathy’s grandma Elizabeth Morelli was born. Four sisters and one boy would follow. 

That’s Louise, Stella and Cathy’s grandma Elizabeth in the back. Her aunt Teresa standing in front between her folks and Uncle Bap sitting on Erminia’s lap. This photograph was taken in 1911, before Aurora arrived. 

These are the five sisters many years later. That’s Aunt  Lou, Theresa, Stella (standing), Aunt Aurora (Babe) sitting and Cathy’s grandma on the right.

Fast forward to 1974.

This is my wife. If you look closely, you can just make her out behind the salami sandwich. That’s Lake Maggiore and the Italian Swiss Alps behind her. This photograph was taken 50 years ago when, at her grandma Morelli’s side, she last visited Auregino and Gordevio.

Cathy’s heritage is, as you might expect,  like Cathy, straight forward, no nonsense, no mystery.  She is 50% Irish on her mother’s side, 25% Azorean and 25% Italian on her father’s side.

I too am of proud Italian heritage. According to my 23&Me Report, I am 98.4% Scots Irish and 1.6% Italian.  Probably five to eight generations back, between, 1690 and 1810.

Not a lot, I’ll give you that. I probably don’t qualify for dual citizenship. My guess is the phone books (are there still phone books?) in Roma,  or Como, or Firenze (that’s Florence for those of you with no Italian in your blood), or Amalfi do not include many Jacksons. 

How I came by my Italian heritage is a mystery. Neither my sister nor brother show any.  They point to my tendency to tan, rather than burn, as proof that either I was adopted, or  mom was playing hanky-panky with a Giuseppe of her own.

As usual, the answer can be found in science. According to Dr. D. Barry Starr, founder of “Ask a Geneticist”, my proud Italian heritage is due to something called “recombination.” D.Barry says it’s like dealing cards from two decks.

My mom Ginny had a deck of 52. My dad John had a deck of 52. (Dad’s might have had a joker or two in his.) We each get 52 cards: 26 from our mom, 26 from our dad.

With me? Good.

Now the tricky part is we don’t get the same 26 cards from each. The cards are shuffled before each deal. The top 26 in the deck mom dealt to John are not the top 26 mom dealt to Linda which are not the same top 26 mom dealt to me. Some will be the same, but not all.

Linda got the queen of hearts and straight blonde hair. John got the jack of clubs and curly brown hair. I got  dad’s joker, who apparently had small feet with high arches and a Latin complexion, so I don’t  need SPF 70  to avoid third degree sunburns while I’m falling over my small feet.

The question is “Who was the Latin Joker?” Or as we Italians say, “Chi ere il Jolly?” 

Sometime between 1690 and 1810, somewhere in a country the size of California . . . who knows?  . . . might have been Auregino . . . more likely, given its size, Gordevio . . . . one lone Italian Joker  . . . probably a tan Marcello Mastroianni or Giancarlo Giannini type sporting a fedora and rocking a speedo made his way into my Olympic size gene pool. 

Finding Cathy’s roots will be easy. She’s Italian Swiss. We’ll start there. 

Finding mine?  Might take a little more time. Might be Ticino. Maybe Ferenze. Maybe Roma or Positano.

I’ll park myself in some back-alley ristorantes and gelaterias while Cathy is perusing fine art, blend in, peek over the tops of my sunglasses,  let fly with a few “Pregos” and “grazie’s” from my handy Rick Steeves Italian Phrase Book to my faithful waiter . . . and do some perusing of my own.  

With my keen powers of observation, I’m bound to find my people.