Searching for Beethoven....

September 30, 2008

Yesterday was a day of renewing an old friendship. Kim reunited with her old friend, Linde. They (Jean, Linde, & Kim) have known one another for over 30 years and have the many stories that only old friendships can provide. Also, it should be known that Kim's daughter, Sieglinde is named after Linde (not the opera character as many suppose when they hear her unique name in America). So what better place to meet up, visit, and cheer life than in a cemetery--Vienna's spectacularly huge cemetery? The sky was blue and the air crisp with Fall colors beginning their entry into the new season.

We walked and talked catching up on family news. I so enjoy listening to them and being part of their threesome; I am happy they have let me in even as I listen to often repeated stories. Linde served as a historical guide telling us snippets of stories enhancing our visit as we walked past various tombstones, complaining of hot flashes and aches common to 50+ years of life. From family news we quickly moved on to politics and our ever shrinking global world. Yesterday was a big day in Austria- they were voting for their various political representatives. We heard from Linde's perspective about who she voted for and her fears about more and more conservative parties. They do colors here: the Green Party, Orange, Black, Brown...I had a hard time keeping them all straight except for the more liberal Green...Probably if I lived here I too would vote for the Green Party. We all share our fears around the US election and Jean laments about how she will take a Democratic loss very personally.

Today's news tells me that "Austria's anti-immigrant, extreme right parties benefited from the deep discontent of the nation's citizens,winning more than a quarter of the vote in parliamentary elections...the two mainstream parties lost ground but remain ahead". Linde's Green Party is not part of the mainstream...Today as Kim and I walked around, the political pictures of the advancing scary, anti-immigration conservative party leader with his big blue eyes and dazzling smile had "Danke!" signs plastered all over them...

Once Linde mentioned that Beethoven's grave was here I became excited about finding it to add to our cemetery photo collection. As we strolled many sections we would keep an eye out but didn't find it; I just kept saying, "that's okay, no big deal". We continued our walk, wandering past the dignitaries, the many dead from both world wars and the very unkept pre-World War II Jewish section. This section, like the sections in Alessandria and Milan, loudly announces through its overgrown weeds and vines that those who would have tended to it, their descendants, were cruelly taken away from us. But on we walk... wandering by the Yugoslavian section where extra efforts (see above picture) are made to incorporate life pictures of the deceased.

It's almost time to go and as we walk toward the exit, both Jean and Linde begin to ask other wanderers where Beethoven resides. Soon someone says "go to the left" and before we know it we are at not only Beethoven's grave but those of Brahms and Schubert with a monument to Mozart but not his actual grave as he was buried elsewhere in an unmarked pauper's grave. Pictures snap, I smile inwardly, and we quickly walk to catch the trolley and subway because we have more conversations, coffee and Jean's sumptious tiramisu awaiting us at home.

The Journey Continues...to Vienna!

I believe that it was Wednesday, September 24 that Kim and I arrived in Vienna. I left Seattle on Tuesday, flew to Amsterdam, changed planes, and flew to Milan. Once in Milan, I got on the wrong bus to the main train station (where I was to meet up with Kim so that we could take another bus to a different airport for our Vienna flight). Turns out that I was on a private chartered bus that was taking a group of Spanish tourists to a certain hotel. Where this hotel was, I cannot tell you; all I can say is that it cost me €25 to get myself back to the main airport where I purchased another bus ticket to get into Milan. When that bus arrived, it was too full and they would not let me on; the clock was ticking and my anxiety level was rising. So, another bus from another company arrived that had room and I purchased yet another ticket and headed into Milan to their Stazione Centrale where Kim and I happily met (€60 later).

From that station, we took another bus to the Bergamo Airport where our flight to Vienna awaited. That whole connection went rather smoothly with the one exception that I managed to somehow lose the rest of my money--about another €60. Where and how I managed to do that remains a mystery that has had many incarnations in my mind's eye. I was dead on my feet and stupid with fatigue and I guess none of this is too surprising. I have been visualizing a hungry person picking up the money and thanking the Universe for its care....

So, we are in Vienna, a city that I really love; I believe that this is my third visit. We are staying with Jean and her daughter, Naomi; thier computer will not accomodate our camera card so pictures will be a bit delayed...unavoidable technical details. Since we have been here other times and have visited many of the main sites, Jean has given us an out of print book entitled "In Search of Vienna: Walking Tours in the City". It takes the reader/walker on tours of hidden places and gives the history of their importance and uniqueness--kind of a "far from the madding crowd" experience.

So yesterday with book and map in hand, we set out for a relaxing day of walking, talking, and exploring. I have been ready for this. My time in Seattle was filled with intensity and a reality that I want to run from: my ill friend, an email announcing the sudden, tragic death of a friend's grandson, Galveston/Houston relatives taking in their losses, and another friend holding high hopes for a new job (this last one is not tragic but filled with hope and good wishes for one that I care deeply about). With each step along the Danube toward our our first tour destination, I feel my shoulders relaxing and I am re-entering my "Life in Alessandria" experience. My slowed brain is kicking into gear and realizing that 'si' and 'no' and 'non capisco' will not serve me here. I have gone from understanding a little to understanding nothing, zero, zilch. This, however, is manageable because in this very international city we hear multiple languages in the course of a few steps.

Touring Vienna often begins in the First District at St. Stephen's Cathedral. This massive church was built in 1137 and for over 800 years has been considered the heart of Vienna. When we entered, a mass was in progress and we were fortunate enough to hear the organ filling the massive structure with its majestic sound. Tourists and worshippers alike took in this sound and the music connected us to the past as well as to our present; hard to not feel chills at this type of moment...And, of course there were many opportunities to light candles. I chose the setting of the Madonna of Pötsch from Hungary where witnesses in the 17th century spread the story that real tears poured down the Madonna's cheeks. This is where people pray for a cure for the sick. In my lighting I had much to cover...

From St. Stephen's we wandered the old town following the guide book's tour to places such as 'Singerstrasse', one of the oldest streets in Vienna and Blutgasse (Blood Street) whose history includes Teutonic Knights, gruesome murders, and blood flowing in the street (picture above). We later found the first established bakery where the croissant's crescent shape became a symbol of Viennese resistance and ridicule against the Turkish invaders in the 1683 Siege of Vienna. From there we followed the trail of Mozart's rental apartments where he was visited by the likes of Haydn and Beethoven... There were a few more churches and hidden courtyards and before we could finish our tour it was time to head home.

All in all it was a day of aching feet rewarded by many splendid sights. As we walked back to Jean's along the Danube, we stopped for a few minutes to watch expert graffiti artists at work. This is the first time I can honestly say that I have appreciated their work. Until now, I have had many complaints about the grafitti throughout Italy and now in Vienna but that's another story for another time.

Great Neighbors

Sept. 18, 2008

Just to let you know, after my last very depressing post, I am doing well despite my partner in crime's absence. My neighbors have been wonderful, inviting me to dinner or to tag along on errands such as a granddaughter's swim lessons. Traveling in Rita's (the grandmother who is about my age) fire engine red car I have been able to see more of the larger city of Alessandria as well as have the scary experience of riding as a passenger in the front seat with an Italian driver. Car passengers and pedestrians have much in common- we are sitting ducks to the whims of Mario Andretti and co. As a passenger following several close calls, I now feebly whimper, Guarda! (Look out!) when Mz Andretti pulls out into traffic and in typical Italian style, the approaching cars actually speed up and only at the very last second veer around us. (I truly don't think Rita has a death wish for me- she likes Americans she says- and besides her beloved granddaughter Chiara is also in the car). When I take my city walks, I now angrily scream in English at the crazy drivers who speed up when they see pedestrians (even moms pushing prams and little kids and grandmas on bikes!) on the narrow curvy roads, coming within inches of all of our poor souls. Mamma mia!

Last Sunday I had my first "pranzo" (the big meal of the day) with Rita at her daughter's apartment which is next door to hers. I had no idea what to bring and then remembered one of our corner bakeries was open on Sundays. I ended up buying a whole lot of little dolce(sweets), more than enough for an army let alone 5 people. But when you don't know exactly how to order, some things get lost in translation... and then when you add in the shyness factor and the inability to say, Oh wow, I didn't really mean THAT many... you head home with a package so prettily wrapped that you just can't tear it apart and save some for yourself for another day.

I was relieved that our meal was very informal. We ate in the kitchen with the sound from a large TV balanced high on a shelf over the cupboards providing background noise. Rita had made some delicious meat filled pasta in a broth- as in she herself made the pasta- which were shaped like perfect little umbilicus and apparently are a specialty of the Emilia-Romagna region where she was raised. I believe the dish was called Tortelli alla Bolognese. She told me that she will teach Rachel how to make the cute little pasta when she returns and at that time maybe Rachel can confirm their name. So of course that was only the "primo piatti" and I plunged on to the secondo-some kind of delicious meat in a yummy sauce (Do you see why it's important for Rachel to be with me? I didn't have a clue what I was eating. She would have been able to provide details). All I know is that it was very good and isn't that really what counts? We then moved on to cheese and fruit and when I remembered my dolce, we had to consume some of the little pastries, too! It wasn't all about eating of course. We managed to have a conversation despite my limited Italian and their almost nonexistent English. There was lots of laughing at our attempts, the dictionary was frequently consulted, and our time together ended with a move to Chiara's bedroom ( a room that rivals any middle class American child's in the realm of toys, stuffed animals, games- a material consumption nightmare). There in her pink tutu and freshly made up face, Chiara put on quite a spectacolo-as announcer,stage hand, dancer- so much like Siegy used to do when she was 7 that it brought tears to my eyes.

The next afternoon while I was contemplating what I would buy, and worse, make for dinner, an angel appeared in the form of Massimo, my neighbor (husband of Barbara, and father of 3 year old Eduardo). He invited me over for pizza, showing me the take-out menu and telling me to choose what I liked- and thankfully I had the presence of mind before he walked away to remember to say "small." He also said bring nothing and to come at 8pm. ( I didn't say but it's a Monday night, why so late- How ever do you two get up at 6am and go to work and get Edo to preschool?) Oh well, when in Rome..I mean Alessandria... fine with me, I can certainly sleep all morning!

I was really looking forward to seeing their apartment on what turns out to be on both the second and third floor. It looked like it might be large from the outside and while I knew they had a large garden terrace (that I can only see a part of from the courtyard), I had no idea how nice all of it would be! Contemporary, great use of space, and with a zillion books (heaven to me!)- the perfect home for young(ish) professionals with a child. Oh and yet another lucky child's room with an enormous amount of toys and even his own private terrace that hold a play castle! (I have read that is very common now for Italians to have only one child- yet the number of adults in the extended family stays the same to shower love and gifts on these few. Kind of surprising that in the Pope's backyard they are NOT reproducing.)

Okay, dinner... When the pizza was delivered and I saw 3 boxes of various sizes, I realized we were each going to have our own pizza- and while mine was indeed a small, it was far from small. And petite little Barbara had her very own medium, Eduardo had none, and Massimo had a large (and we each ate every bit!) Followed by cheese, breadsticks, and shrimp in some kind of Russian dressing-like sauce. And of course all the time consuming wine, which was then followed by espresso (fortunately decaf). I cracked up when Barbara said she was sorry that she hadn't done anything for dessert! Ohmygod. I was there from 8-11 and while sometime during that time they had put Eduardo down to bed, all I could think is this guy is a cardiac surgeon who just worked 10 days straight and Barbara commutes an hour away at the Museum of Cinema in Turin- and it's a Monday!(and yes, I frequently said I would go...) About 10:30 Massimo says we need grappa and was astounded that I had been in Italy for 3 months and hadn't ever tried it. No time like the present, I said. Salute!

I had to laugh that they both think their English is terrible (patently false) and the fact that we only had to resort to the dictionary a couple of times proved my point. I was pleased that they are liberal, progressive thinkers- they knew so much about the US gov't and the candidates in the upcoming election, also hoping Obama will win. When Massimo said, "George Bush, worst President ever, don't you think?" I knew I was among kindred spirits. (However it is embarrassing to pretend that I know anything about Italian politics but they filled me in somewhat). We also talked about the difference in medicine from the US and Italy- everything from compensation, attitudes, stress, to the patients' expectations of a hospital visit (in Italy they want to stay, he says). I had already been the recipient of the gifts Massimo's patients bring him that he and Barbara share with all of us neighbors- fresh eggs, cheese, and lettuce from people who live in the country, and wine, wine and more wine from others. I told him I have no idea if cardiac surgeons in the US get showered with such presents! And now that all of our neighbors know that Rachel is an agopuntura, they'll be lining up for treatments when she returns, Massimo included. Rachel was worried that she'd forget how to do acupuncture and I scoffed. Leave it to me... maybe eventually we'll have our own little food and wine stockpile...

Yes, I'd say we hit the good neighbor jackpot, wouldn't you??

Life is not fair.

September 17, 2008 (I think....)

As new friendships are budding in Alessandria, I am back home in Seattle with old, deeply rooted friendships that have flourished and been nourished by the years. Kim has let you all know that I flew home last week to be with a friend who is very ill. It has been a week of intensity that only complex hospital stays and discharges can create. Long hours. Fatigue. Irritability. Fear and confusion. Dark humor. Consciously remind yourself to get a grip and breathe.....

Over the last days, I have heard people say, on a number of occasions, "It's not fair". All I can say or think is, "This be life". In the last 10 years I have learned the sweetness of deep undying friendships that have been snuffed outwardly by death. Once again, too soon, I am forced to face this possibility. While death is not, hopefully, imminent, it looms louder than I'd like and its shadow is beginning to overtake me. I cannot deny its' potential.

I didn't know how I would feel about flying home and arriving in Seattle. As the wheels of the plane began to squeal upon landing, my first reaction was great calm and comfort. I am so lucky to live in such a beautiful city with wonderful friends.

As I have been sitting in my friend's hospital room, my brain has skipped back and forth between his situation and my evacuated relatives in Galveston and Houston, Texas. I don't know who to be the most worried over in this double whammy life presentation. For Galveston I can do nothing but wait--to receive word. For my friend, I can do nothing but wait to receive word, absorb what is presented, and try to make sense of his complex, chaotic, clustered symptomatic illness. What a sentence that is; I can hear Kim in my mind recommending that I simplify it. But I can't because that's how this is all manifesting--it's quite complicated and hospital staff have responded by utilizing soft restraints.

I watch my friend's mother and sister grapple with what this all means--the enveloping realization that they won't be allowed to deny much longer and a new life learning curve is being thrust upon them. I think that this too is what some of my Galveston relatives may be thinking. They all are being blind sided by a speeding reality that they try to dodge but cannot. Splat. Reality has hit. Loss is here with more to come. Splat. Splat.

My shields are up. I am in social worker mode. I serve as an interpreter to mother and sister because this world of hospital protocols with its' changing nurses and doctors has them baffled, scared and uncertain. Yes, life is not fair but we will attempt to thwart its' impact with humor. We laugh and curse insensitive staff behind their backs. One minute I call my friend a big baby, the next a delicate flower. I remind him that it's not all about him and his drama queen act is getting annoying. Out of the corner of my eye I watch as his mother's eyes grow wide but then she smiles because she sees her son smile broadly and listens as he calls me a very, very, bad name and recommends that I fly back to where I came from. Mom's ears are not spared; she hears it all and takes it in like a champ.

I do look forward to returning to Italy. Already it's seeming like a bit of a dream and I have to remind myself that I really am living there for a year. There are more tomatoes to be bought and cooking lessons to be had. I miss Kim, the ringing church bells, and I miss those winding, dog pooped cobble stone streets. (She'd really want me to adjust that sentence)!

I kind of feel like I am cheating; I've bought more vitamins and some used books to shore up dwindling supplies. I am buying sumac, a spice that I love and haven't been able to find anywhere in Alessandria. I must not forget the moxa and a few more Chinese herbs.

Before I know it, I'll be packing to return and then will be on the plane, adjusting my seat belt. I'll be torn with ambivalence as I hope there are no little crying babies close by and sobbing for the very big baby I'm leaving behind.

Life is what happens while you're busy making other plans

How true, Mr. Lennon, how true. As I write Rachel is in Seattle helping out friends in the midst of a medical emergency and I'm holding down the fort in Alessandria wondering if I should have gone too and cursing the 9 hour time difference.

I'm not sleeping well, punching pillows and sobbing with all kinds of irrational but what feels very rational in that middle-of-the-night kind of way. Selfishly saying why is yet another friend having to go through this? It's not fair! I've even gone as far to accuse my already dead friends of some kind of grand plan to recreate our Seattle life in the next world. And I don't even believe in the next world! Really, really crazy shit. Or is it? I don't know anymore.

So I walk around my new city trying to find solace through the permanence of its age- the centuries old buildings, synagogue, churches, palaces, piazze, cemetery and the very old Italian men and women still riding on their bicycles- all somehow grounding me, allowing me to breathe, almost daring me to continue putting one foot in front of the other

A minute ago as I was typing this, my doorbell rang and fortunately I had just gotten dressed (after all it is 11:30am on Sunday!) It was my neighbor Stefania and her husband saying they heard I am now alone and asked if I would join them, their daughter and Stefania's mother at their Sunday dinner (prepared by Stefania's mother Rita who also lives in our little building). I was so touched and of course readily accepted.

I was reminded of coming home from my walk this past Friday and seeing a few neighbors sitting on the wall in front of our apartment watching the kids playing in our courtyard. Often at this time in the early evening I'm playing soccer with the 3 year old Eduardo or attempting to speak Italian with La Signora or chatting away in English with Barbara (Eduardo's mom). But it was the evening of the day Rachel left and I really just wanted to be invisible, go into our apartment and cry. However as I greet them, intending to basically say hi and goodbye, poor Barbara innocently asks what's up and I immediately burst into tears. She and I talk and hug for several minutes while the others pretend to look away. Later she asks my permission to tell them saying they are concerned, adding "We are just one big family here. My husband is the doctor for everyone who needs one here and everyone here has or has had some tragedy or great sadness so please, no need to worry about your tears. We all understand." My tears of grief so quickly turned into tears of gratitude at such kindness. I suddenly didn't want to be alone anymore. For the next 2 hours I sat with these wonderful women, played with the kids, and remembered life indeed goes on.

Shopping for Tomatoes

Market Parking

August 10, 2008
Lately, as I have been walking around Alessandria on my market shopping expeditions, I have begun to notice that I’m not paying attention to where I’m walking. In other words, I have been on automatic pilot. Kim and I were talking about this earlier today; how these winding streets that used to seem so complex and confusing no longer require intense concentration. We both have declared that pretty much, we could end up anywhere in the city and would find our way back home without much difficulty. We are now part of the crowd, moving in and out with destinations and short cuts in mind.
I enjoy being part of the crowd and intentionally inserted myself into one while shopping for vegetables today. I was at a rather large stand that has both inside and outside produce; selections are paid for inside where there are two cash registers. I’d stopped at this place because I wanted tomatoes and the selection had been poor at the place that I usually go—the Asian husband and wife team. They’ve always been very friendly and kind and I try to buy most produce from them. It’s pretty much out of my way but given my busy daily activity regime, I don’t mind. I really started being loyal to them one day after I’d been totally, rudely dismissed by shop personnel at a one of our neighborhood vegetable stands. I still don’t know what the problem was. Every time I shopped there, the checker wouldn’t have eye contact with me and would act like I had some type of visual communicable disease. The final straw was one day while making my purchase, instead of handing me my change (like she does with everyone else) she just put it down on the counter next to her requiring that I lean over the counter to retrieve it. WHEW! That was it! All the things I thought of saying in English I didn’t and the language barrier prevented me from confronting her or complaining to “management”. I just left angry and vowed to never return and give them anymore of our Euros. I’m sure that by now they’ve noticed that I haven’t returned and regret the loss of income as well as my friendly manner. Their loss.
So, given that I am always in need of tomatoes because I just can’t express how fabulously wonderful they are here, I stopped at this new market. One of the things they have here are these little plastic gloves that we are supposed to use to pick through the fruits and vegetables. Once, in another store I was chided for not using one; I don’t like them because I become about 15 degrees hotter twenty seconds after I have put one on. I’m always taking it off and on… Today, an older woman who was also by the tomatoes reached to the ground and picked up a normal plastic produce bag that was lying there. She began using it and suddenly began speaking to me in rapid Italian. I think she was apologizing for using it but had no desire to go pull one off of the rolls. I just smiled at this lean woman in her little house dress with almost no teeth; the ones remaining were but stubs. As she kept speaking, I inserted that “Non parlo Italiano; sono Americana”, and she smiled even wider grabbed my hands, leaned into me and began talking even more. She began telling me about her parents, that her father was some type of musician or conductor and that he’d travelled all over the world including something important about Buenos Aires; her mother, sadly, she seemed to say, had done nothing. It was apparent that she was still greatly missing her father and she reminded me of my mother and her deeper love for her father. This woman would not let my hand go and so, in my mind I remembered that I really was in no hurry so I just let her talk as I smiled and said, “Si, si” every now and again. After awhile, however, it was time for me to let her know “piacere” (pleasure to meet you) so that I could begin my moving away attempts. She gripped a little harder, said a few more lines, letting me go as I headed inside to pay for my tomatoes and see what other fruit or produce I just must have.
A long quarter sized piece of watermelon (quite popular and in great abundance here) caught my eye and with that it was time to head to the checkout counter. Already the line was long and I’d guess there were 25 people in front of me. Again I reminded myself, I do not need to be in a hurry—I thought this because of my sometimes American reflexive way of putting things back and just leaving to try again at a later date and time. I chose a place in line—there were three lines that would eventually, up ahead, somehow turn into two. Hmmm; an interesting challenge I thought; I’m not going anywhere. Before I knew it, another older woman got behind me and began talking quite rapidly. I realized that she was initially talking to me and telling me to move to another line; I held my ground. My reward was that she kept hitting my butt with her shopping basket and loudly complained to others that the lines were so slow. Some agreed with her and shook their heads conspiratorially and others just ignored her (as did I except for the constant jabbing). Then, the din in line got even louder and it became apparent that one of the checkout registers wasn’t working properly and that was part of the slow down. In Italy, it is a rule that they must always issue a receipt for any purchase and so this is a serious situation. “My side” of the line still was on the workable side and yet the woman behind me kept trying to push me out of the way to the other, “non-funzione” side. I just smiled, held my ground and decided to enjoy the moment and this experience—a luxury that I had but not others who clearly wanted to get home for the rest hours. The cashier of the broken register was beside herself in a panic, trying multiple rolls of cashier tapes; someone was saying, “Calme Senora, calme” and before I knew it, it was my turn to check out, an event that took about 30 seconds.
I left the market and headed home happy for my many human experiences and interactions; grateful for a time in life when I am not in a hurry and can stop and hold hands with someone I don’t even know.

An Innocent Little Mistake...

 

 

 

 

September 8, 2008

It was Kim’s idea. She’d read about a festival that was occurring in a town north of us named Vercelli. The festival was described as having food booths as well as folks dressed in medieval costumes. So, given our ideal location we decided to take a day trip and check it out. At first, we thought that we could take a bus but as we investigated, it looked like we would need to take a train; one of the very small “regionale” trains that go to the smaller towns. So with enthusiasm and anticipation, we headed out and were treated to the beauty of the Piedmont landscape: rolling hills in the distance with fields of corn, wheat and rice. Given the irrigation needs and the flooded fields, there are always many birds flying and swooping and I never tire of seeing the different variety of what look like cranes and Blue Heron.

Vercelli is the rice capital of Europe; 60% of European rice comes from Vercelli and its northern neighbor town, Novara. Rice was introduced in Sicily by the Arabs and the many canals which feed the fields were dug in the 15th century. The story goes that this rice was a greatly guarded commodity for many years until 1787. In that year, Mr. Thomas Jefferson came for a visit and smuggled out a few bags of this granular gold where he took them to South Carolina and thus began the American rice industry.

Across the aisle from us, Kim spied two women who were reading an English dictionary. Kim initiated a conversation and it turned out that they are from the Phillipines; one has been here for several years and the other had just arrived. The woman who has been here the longest spoke very good English and told us she was headed to Milan to sign her friend up for work. As soon as she learned that we were living in Alessandria “just to have the life experience” she quickly announced, “You must be very rich; do you have any work for my friend”? We let her know that we didn’t but she again asked wondering if we were sure.

As we continued our ride through the small little towns, we remained alert for a town where we would have to change trains and make the Vercelli connection. At one point I asked aloud if this upcoming town was “the one” and quietly the young man next to us said, in perfect English, “no”, adding that he knew so because he too was headed for Vercelli. This young man, Alberto, is 28 years old and is from the Dominican Republic; he’s been living in Italy for 4 years now and told us his story about his family and plans for his future. He lives in Genoa and travels to Vercelli on the weekends to be with his wife and their three year old daughter. He proudly showed us their pictures and spoke of his goal to earn enough money to be able to return to “my country” and begin his own business as the boss (1€ = 50 Pesos). Currently, he works long hard hours in a bakery owned by his brother in law—“they call bakers white artists” he tells us proudly. He goes on to talk, very realistically, about his other talents (his excellent English opens tourism employment doors and he also knows the construction business). As I remarked that he seemed to be a very talented, intelligent young man, he answered “Yes, and it is all due to my parents”. Now, could he have said anything sweeter? (Kim, of course, said she hoped her daughter would say the same thing someday…) We transferred trains together and continued our talking until we reached Vercelli where we said our goodbyes to this Spanish, Italian, and English speaking young man and watched him walk away to greet his waiting family.

Vercelli is a nice town that reminds us of Alessandria with its pedestrian walkways but has more greenery and flowers than Alessandria. Of course, we arrived during the rest hours when most everything (including the Tourist Information) was closed. We began walking around to orient ourselves but also to see where the festival might be; we assumed it might be in the older section and perhaps near the huge 13th century Basilica di Sant’Andrea that greets you as you depart the train station. With no immediate luck, we had ourselves a leisurely lunch to wait out the rest period and then once again began our exploration. What did we discover besides the fact that most things were still closed (including their big museum that was in theory, supposed to be open)—was a sign announcing that “our” festival was not scheduled to begin until 19:00, oh about 3 or 4 hours from now. And, not meaning to be judgmental, since we saw no evidence of tents or preparation, we didn’t hold out too much hope for their festival and for what had been my fantasy image—jousting, food booths, music……

‘Twas not our fate to enjoy a fair and so we made the best of it by walking the meandering streets, sitting in the main piazza eating gelato, and looking at the various stalls of products. By around 4:30 we decided to head back and catch the 5:40 and on our way we took more time at the basilica. For quite awhile, we were the only ones inside and we viewed beautiful inlaid wood work scenes in the choir section behind the main altar. For a few minutes I didn’t see where Kim was and I just stood looking around this massive room, alone, feeling chills from the history encompassing me.

With that, it was time to arrive at the train station for our departure but, wouldn’t you know it, there was no train and instead of leaving at 5:40, it had already departed at 5:26 (17:26). So, with that information, all one can do is wait until the next train (in an hour and a half) and wander a bit more—this time to a nice park nearby where we discussed all the ways that Alessandria “should” improve itself.

Finally it’s train time. What is the problem? All we have to do is backtrack—go to Mortara, switch trains and back home to Alessandria…. A few details about the train stations: often, they don’t list the stops on the overhead reader board, just the final destination. And in this station they didn’t even have that- just departures from the morning. The in-between stops are listed on a huge 6 x 5 poster with ALL the destinations and arrivals. More often than not, we look at the arrival poster when we should be looking at the departure poster. Somehow (occasionally God works with us instead of only for Sara Palin) we made it to our connecting station but again, there was nothing listing Alessandria. And, when one is quickly looking because they’re worried about missing their connection, sometimes rash decisions are made or we listen to people we shouldn’t. I asked a young woman waiting on a bench which binario was the train to Alessandria and she sounded so sure when she replied, cinque (5); so with that “official” confirmation we raced there. We saw a train conductor (he had a blue hat on so he must be the conductor) also racing to binario 5 and we took that as all the confirmation we needed. He jumped onto the first car of the train and we hurriedly got on in the back- the last car. Kim commented that the reader board next to the train was blank and asked if I didn’t think that odd? We no sooner sat down when there was a whistle and swoosh, the doors closed and the train began to move.

Once on the train, we were completely alone in our car. I rationalized that everyone must be further up. So, for about ten minutes, we reveled in the air conditioned car as the country side moved by and we headed north… hmmmm, I began thinking, the sun is setting on my left, that means we are going north and I’m pretty sure that Alessandria should be south. Kim was busily taking pictures of the landscape at twilight, trying to catch the beauty of the westerly sunset on the brilliant yellow and green rice fields while I was obsessing about whether we were going in the wrong direction. Hmmmm, still no one around and the train wasn’t stopping at any of the towns we passed. It was then I announced to Kim that “This kind of feels like one of those old Twilight Zones…” and when she quickly agreed, we looked at each other and burst out in nervous, ooops laughter.

So, what to do, what to do? Here comes the beauty of different personality and coping styles. Kim thought we should “Just stay on; it’ll stop eventually and we can get off then”. I said that I thought we’d best head up front and see what we could find…to let someone know that we are here. I won out only because I started leaving and Kim scurried after me…”Don’t leave me; don’t leave me!” So, forward we moved, pulling open the sliding doors between each car (and it seemed there were a zillion) and letting each of them slam behind us with a thunk! “You two are something else” the train seemed to yell as it eerily roared and sped down the tracks. I kept thinking to myself, “How did we do this and what will happen?” but had no answers as I continued opening and closing doors, seeing no one, laughing, and wondering what I would blog.

Eventually there were no more doors. We had arrived at the lead car and through a small Plexiglas window I saw two men sitting at the controls. For a second, I was taken in by all the dials and lights (have I mentioned I am a daughter of an engineer?) and tentatively knocked. No response; no looking back. So again, I knocked, harder and louder and as I looked behind me, I saw Kim standing, hidden in a corner yelling at me, “You can’t knock on that door!! He has to drive! Stop knocking! Finally, one of the two engineers slowly turned and looked at me but then turned back and kept driving; nothing. In hindsight he probably thought he was hallucinating. I just started laughing and tried knocking again. After what was really, probably, only a few seconds (but seemed like an eternity) the door opened and two men were looking at me just a tad bit annoyed.

Okay, first things first. “Io non parlo Italiano; sono Americana”. (and can you guess what that means??) Well, apparently it meant nothing to them because they both just started speaking in rapid sentences saying that this train is out of service (I do understand more of the language these days, but they didn’t have to tell me that because I already had figured that out). One driver was really annoyed and kept yelling at me- how did we get on the train? Kim stepped forward and uttered the word “Mortara” and he kept saying they hadn’t stopped at Mortara. I just didn’t know what else to say because here we were and what was the point of going on in this ridiculous vein. Again, I told him I didn’t speak Italian and again, he just kept ranting at me. Finally, his colleague said to him, “Hey, they don’t speak Italian; chill”. We were then told that they were NOT going to Alessandria but to Novara (in quite the opposite direction) and that no train would be going to Alessandria until tomorrow. “Um, okay. Can we get off there?” “Oh, you bet you can” they seemed to say.

So, we walked back to another car and sat down and laughed; there’s really nothing else you can do in these situations. Meanwhile Kim showed me her failed attempt at taking a picture of me talking with the engineers; it’s of the floor. (It’s probably a good thing these guys didn’t see her or we would have had to practice the jump and roll out of a speeding train that Kim had fantasized about doing a half hour earlier…). A few minutes later, the engineer who’d told the other guy to chill (okay, whatever the corresponding Italian is) appeared carrying a palm pilot and looking up the schedule. He told us that in Novara, about 10 minutes up the track, we could get off, catch another local train back to Mortara and transfer to an Alessandria bound train.. That all sounded really familiar but we just kept saying “thank you, thank you, sorry, sorry, sorry”.

The wheels began to screech as the train began to slow; we had arrived in Novara. Mr. Nice Engineer came and got us and tried to open the doors; they would not open. He kept yelling at the other engineer and they kept trying. This only added to the tension; eventually, they opened the opposite door and we were off of the train. Mr. Nice personally escorted us across the tracks and to the track where our return train was waiting. He again reviewed our directions with us in broken English and we all shook hands. Looking over my shoulder to wave goodbye, I could have sworn he crossed himself.

The rest of the story ends with us making it home 10 hours after we left the apartment for what we imagined would be a few hours at a fair. Yes we had made the correct train connection but there were still a couple of minor details: the cars were so brightly lit at 10 pm that you couldn’t see out to see the name of the train station- the windows were like mirrors; and they didn’t announce which town we were in when we stopped so there Kim and I were with our faces plastered to the windows trying to see out. Kim and I reminisced and got semi-hysterical about a similar experience we had on our first trip to Italy together 15+ years ago when we were barely 40. She wondered aloud if we’d still be doing this kind of dumb stuff when we’re 80 and we both agreed yes, more than likely we would (that is, unless some furious train engineer throws us overboard before we ever see that ripe old age!).
When we finally arrived in Alessandria, I heaved a sigh of relief. “We’re home”, I said. And we were.

Scenes from Vercelli

 

Roaming Genoa

 

Genoa!

September 4, 2008

The weather is starting to cool a bit; from high 80s down to lower 80s. That works for us and it’s time to take a day trip to Genoa. Genoa is just an hour away, south, by train and is on the coast that Kim so misses. Genoa’s location has contributed to its destiny—it’s on the Tyrrhenian Sea but also protected by mountains; this came in handy over the centuries as everyone was trying to conquer everyone else. It was already a trading post in the 6th Century BC; the Phoenicians, Greeks, Romans, Hannibal’s brother- all were interested and involved in its fate. Business competition and wars were a regular occurrence between Genoa, Pisa, and Venice. Later, Spain, Austria, France all had their hands on the area and once Italian unification took place it became the main port. With that distinction, it was heavily bombed during WWII and remained in bad shape until it came time to celebrate the 500 year mark of Christopher Columbus’ “discovery” of America in 1992.

(A small side bar on Columbus. Historically, there is much confusion and many questions regarding his origins and life circumstances. He himself was quite vague about his birth date and parents. Apparently, he may have been not only illegitimate and Jewish but poor which did not go over well when discussing money and business with kings and queens. And, his last name may not even have been Columbus but a name he took on as they didn’t have paparazzi and Geraldo in those days and it was easier to get away with fudging your true identity.)

Then in 2001 Genoa hosted the G8 summit which led to even more sprucing up of the city that continues to this day. Genoa’s hosting of the G8 summit was greatly influenced by the 500 year aforementioned anniversary and so when you depart the main train station, there he is, Mr. What’s His Name looking down upon you from great heights. (Oops! No picture! Next time.)

For me, the first time arrival in a large city can be a bit stressful given the need to orient oneself. It’s a real treat to know that we can come back and don’t have to see everything in one or two exhausting days. So for our first visit, we chose to visit the waterfront area which reminded us a lot of Vancouver Canada. On one of the piers they have the largest aquarium in Europe that comes highly rated in the guide books and a nearby museum devoted to the Italian’s Antarctic Exploration. Our future visits will include (drum roll….) their cemetery, other museums and palaces, wandering the many small winding streets, two funiculars and many more historical sites.

The aquarium was a pretty amazing setting; it was huge and built in the shape of a ship with several “decks” of exploration. There was a strong emphasis upon education and understanding the symbiotic nature between humans, the sea, and the need to protect all forms of sea life. There were huge elaborate exhibits that held vast quantities of sea life giving the public a bird’s eye view of their underwater world. They had a whole section on Madagascar and the uniqueness of that tiny island off the coast of Africa. It was all very tastefully done with amazing attention to detail. We were glad that we’d come on a Tuesday and since it’s almost time for school to begin (9/15), there were not vast quantities of tourists and children, allowing for a more relaxed viewing.

After the aquarium, we had lunch and both ordered pesto pasta dishes because Genoa is the birthplace of pesto. And, it was pretty darn tasty; I give them the prize. Coincidentally, our restaurant was right next door to the Antarctic museum so once fortified we entered that world. The Italians, the Brits and the US all have bases at Antarctica, as well as the original base of New Zealand’s. The museum took us through what it’s like to work and survive there while supplementing our knowledge with on-land and undersea videos. Again there was a strong emphasis upon the health of the oceans, the importance of Antarctica and its’ impact upon our world’s climate and how we as humans must become better stewards. We learned about sea currents (I never had really thought about them) and all the creatures that use those highways for their travel and survival.

So with that, we were so full of education that it was now time to rest our minds and wander over to explore the old (medieval) part of the city which is close to where the train station resides. As the waterfront reminded us of Vancouver, the old section of Genoa very much reminded us of Venice in the easy-to-get-lost twisty and narrow streets that wind and interlace with one another. Within them are more shops and flats than can be imagined with a cacophony of sound and vibration of life. People from many lands have made this their home and are working hard to earn a living. African men and women in their brightly colored clothes with matching turbans looking elegant and refined contrasted with the young, street savvy youth who appear to be looking for prey. Turks, Arabs, Chinese, Indians, all with their food specialties and presentations to lure one’s palate. It was a grand sight and interaction that bodes well during the daylight hours but is not a place I’d want to be at night.

We continued our walking and exploration, edging our way closer to what we hoped would soon be the train station. We tried using the water as our guide but did ultimately admit that we were lost and had best ask for directions if we wanted to make our train. We found a bar, bought 2 bottles of water and as we paid, asked directions. Happily, we were quite close and from there made our way back to the station for our trip home.

Genoa left me wanting more. I told Kim before the train began to depart that I want to return. It will be easier now that we’ve had this one day and have experienced the pre-requisite getting lost. Next time we’ll probably get lost again but I have enough experience now to know that that is when all the good finds and fun occur.

 

September 3, 2008

Can someone, please, with a gene that I don't have explain the following to me:

Why would a woman pay 182 Euro (or $264.00) for these sandals? We see presentations such as this in shop windows everywhere...I know Italy is famous for shoes but....

It's Never Too Late...

 

OKAY, I know, Katie Couric won't be putting this on the national news (not even in the final "feel good" section) but for the first time in my life, I have done a Will Shortz NY Times puzzle! True, it was a Monday puzzle (as Kim so quickly pointed out to me) BUT I DID IT!!!! Siegy is always doing the puzzles, doesn't matter the day of the week and she always does them in ink (as does Jon Stewart) so that's how I started.

AS Kim was slaving away on her blog re: The Performance, I was doing the puzzle and while it's true that I would ask her a question now and then, I DID THE PUZZLE ALL BY MYSELF. So, after all these many years, with the time and courage, I have faced a huge block and surmounted it. I can hardly wait for next Monday.