Out of the Blue

I did this rather peculiar thing recently: I joined Facebook. I did it for one reason: I had no other way to get messages to my almost 20 year old granddaughter. It didn't quite accomplish that. Nonetheless, it's been a rather interesting journey. At first there was a great welcoming clamour from my kids. Then mutual friends gathered around. Then, out of the blue, people I never thought I'd meet again. With a few folks, I walked around for a couple of days trying to place the name, the face, something -- without saying "who the hell are you?" Gratefully, I'd eventually remember them in my old mental movies so I could be genuine in my response.
I don't much like the yik-yak. Just posting something without really having anything to say. So a few days ago I did a search for people I attended high school with. (Not my favorite four years, but the search was amusing.) I contacted a few of the women whose names I
recognized. They didn't respond. Maybe they weren't who I thought they were. Maybe they were! I contacted a couple of guys who don't really remember me, but responded anyway and we've been typing to each other. There are three of us now who can share the delightful memory of being at the printer's with our high school newspaper when the Brooklyn Dodgers won the World Series in 1955. These folks have many of the same memories, but can't really see me in their look-back. I don't care. It's great to connect with people who came from the same world; who know the Brooklyn that's been lost in time. But it would be such fun, I think, to find someone from long ago who does remember me and is glad to have found me -- and perhaps will unwittingly remind me of who I was then. It's very possible I've been the invisible traveler for a very long time.
Most folks will send me a thumbnail sketch of their lives and I'll reciprocate or send them the url to this blog. Then, as though we were strolling at a cocktail party, they move on to the next discovery or to engage in the yik-yak. Facebook is sort of like an old fashioned cocktail party. People are there mostly to be seen. And once you notice them they scurry away to make another entrance or impression. I never liked cocktail parties for that reason; I was never very good at them. I suppose I've always wanted more notice than that. You know, drop by for a 30 year weekend. We search always for our real identities, believing we'll discover ourselves in someone else. While I was in Italy, traveling alone, I couldn't help being who I am. There was no one with me to require me to be in a particular role. That's what happens in the familiar -- we walk in and out of various roles, characters, personna. But being far away, being alone, encountering new places and faces, sounds, smells..... one relaxes into ones self. When we come back, it's not always the place we've visited that we miss. It's ourselves in that place. I liked who I was there.
I've heard folks on National Public Radio talk about net-working on Facebook; promoting their work or themselves. I don't really see how one would do that. I'm getting better at dealing with the simpler Facebook environment. I don't hang out there; I drop in to say hello. If there's too much yik-yak, I leave. If there's someone there who wants to talk, we take it into another room. I don't think I've introduced the Mickey I met in Italy. Maybe it's not possible in a room filled with people all talking at once. But it's fun to drop in at the party, see what's shaking, and -- maybe -- run into a buddy from a long time ago.

The Invisible Traveler: Venezia

I have been in love with Venice for so long. Long before I actually went there on Pete's Trip. Eleven years ago, when Jamie and I arrived in Venice I just sobbed. I vowed not to do that this time. I welled up but the rude officials at the Vaporetto (the ferries) helped me to hold back. My first impressions after so many years: huge crowds for March; graffitti, litter, artisan shops replaced by big names -- Guess, Timberlane, Disney, Gucci, Burger King, etc. etc. But I am here -- older; a bit worse for wear. And so is Venice. The power of place: places that we belong to, recognize; that touch something in us -- awake something in us. Well. My hotel was lovely; the room was charming (the TV is behind the mirror on the dressing table-- you turn on the TV and see it through the mirror); and dear Jamie had a bouquet of yellow roses waiting for me. I lost it. Had one helluva good cry.
I walked out looking for the familiar. I found the hotel where Jamie and I stayed on our 1998 trip. Not remembering the name
of the hotel or the street, I walked right there. I found that amazing, since I can't remember yesterday's breakfast. Also found my way to the "Crazy bar" which was our favorite lunch spot. I looked for the Trattoria alla Madonna, but though the signs for it were there in the Rialto, I couldn't find the restaurant. I walked and walked the rest of the day. Venice is a
great place for getting lost. I did quite a bit of that my first afternoon.
All the eateries looked like tourist traps to me, so I wound up with an espresso and pastry for supper. I hope I live long enough to visit Venice again in like November or late October. To see it when mostly residents are there and not visitors. On Thursday I walked to Teatro La Fenice -- La Fenice means the phoenix; and like the phoenix this theatre has risen from its ashes three times -- having burned to the ground three times. There wasn't a production while I was there, but one could tour the theatre with an audio tour. So I did. Spectacular theatre. I sat in the Royal Box and watched the stage hands working on the flies. Then I walked to the Ghetto Nuovo, through a part of Venice that had few tourists roaming about. People shopping in a mini- super- market (is that an oxy- moron?) Kids coming from schools; women shouting to each other across the courtyards. An intimacy. The Ghetto is stark and filled with ghosts. This hasn't changed. I crossed the Accademia Bridge to visit the Peggy Guggenheim Museum. I love the sculpture garden there. One passes lots of unwelcome art along the way, as you can see from the photo to your right.
For supper I found a Venetian style Bar (their word for cafe) where I had some lovely soup and red wine and a salad. Then I treated me to an espresso and strudel at a pasteriere in Campo San Luca. I strolled through San Marco. Orchestras were playing albeit the very chilly night.
It was Friday too quickly. The week went too quickly. I took the Vaporetta to the station where I had seen an "Italian Barbie;" well not really a Barbie but like that, dressed for an opera! I got it for Keira. Then I took the boat to the Rialto and did the rest of my shopping. Not too much buying going on from me -- didn't budget it in. Dropped off the loot and walked again across the Accademia Bridge to visit Campo San Barnabas, where all of this romance with Venice began for me back in the 1950's with Kate Hepburn and Rossano Brazzi in Summertime. Kate falls into the canal at Campo Barnabas attempting to photograph Brazzi's glass/antique shop. On our trip in 1998, Jamie and I would spend each evening strolling Venice with Gelato in hand searching for the Campo. We found it our last night. The shops boarded up; the old church holding only Sunday mass; a few elderly gents hanging out in the courtyard; the old coffee shop the only place open there. Deserted; quiet; clean. No more. Campo Barnabas has been turned into a destination by the Venice tourist office which toted out Kate and Rossano for additional revenue. The church has exhibits; gelato shops are there; tacky tourist shops; tables and chairs in the courtyard. Litter. Something lost. Change can't be stopped.
On my way back from San Barnabas I saw a toy shop with a little rag doll in the window. It's an Italian made favorite called "My Doll," and can be purchased with a full wardrobe. I have a small collection of rag dolls so went in to see it I bought myself a red-headed reminiscence of Raggedy Ann. As I walked away with my treasure, I remembered an early family trip when I was perhaps 8 or 9; I felt lonely on the trip and my dad bought me a little red headed rag doll at a souvenir shop. I called it Mopsy. I still have Mopsy. Had I just had a little-girl-moment? And another Mopsy? We don't ever really grow up. I walked through San Marco; went to the little bar for pasta and wine. And another turn around my favorite places. Then I went back to the hotel to pack up. In the morning, I took the boat to the airport where everything went very smoothly and easily. The flight to Paris was fine. I still had to walk the 3/4 mile trek to
I
the next terminal in Paris, but no flights were missed. And the seats were more comfortable and a young man of 13 from the Brookwood School charmed me all the way to Boston.
You know what was best about being away? Just being away. Seeing new things; relying on me. Not having to deal with the daily creaking of my daily world. Yes, it's hard to come back. But I was so glad to hold little Keira again and to see her face when she opened the box with the Italian Barbie and said -- "She's GORGEOUS!" I hope, I pray, I invite the universe to be good to me and allow me another trip next year, perhaps to Provence. I've never been to Provence. In the meantime, color me happy!

The Invisible Traveler: Firenze

23 March 2009 – Happy Birthday to me!!! It felt like my birthday when the train pulled out of Roma Termini. The antiquities of the city are heart-stopping. It is not, however, the Rome of the 1950’s movies. I knew that, of course; I didn’t expect it to be. But, yeah, I wanted it to be. It would be unfair to judge it in any way having walked a city for only 4 or 5 hours. Maybe I’ll get back there again. But this day the scenery from the train on route to Florence was lovely; green showing across the farms; white and yellow flowers blooming; a cherry tree here and there. Mountains rising on the horizon. Lambs grazing. I hope that I’ll get to tour Tuscany one day soon. I felt suddenly in need of the pastorale. Not today. I arrived in Firenze and followed the directions to the hotel received earlier. I was very glad it was daylight. Pretty seedy, and a bit scary. A man on a scooter (they are all mostly on scooters) directed me to The Centrale. It’s a large, old building. The hotel is on the second floor. The elevator is a one-person-thing. I’m not good at elevators, never mind one-person-things. So I schlepped my suitcase up the stone steps (very far up) to what I figured was the second floor. In Italy, however, there is the ground floor (zero) then primo, THEN seconda. I interject here that I am in damn good shape for an old lady – I was still breathing after the second steep flight! The room was nice; the folks were nice. I dropped my stuff, and headed out. I did ask the gal at the desk which way to go to avoid the scary stuff (I didn’t really put it that way) and so I turned toward the opposite direction and was face to face with the Duomo – the glorious cathedral. (What a great hotel!!) I have no idea how many miles I walked. Firenze is a great city for walking. It’s small but packed with ancient history, interrupted by the most expensive high fashion shops the world offers: Pucci, Gucci, Ferragamo, Armani, Gigli, Prada, and on and on. I visited Piazza Santa Maria Novella where the glorious church is being repaired. And Palazzo Vecchio which overlooks Piazza della Signoria. Every piazza is like a sculpture garden. A charming carousel stands near the archway in the Piazza della Repubblica. Walking along and suddenly a carousel! No, I’m sad to say, I didn’t ride it.

When I couldn’t walk anymore I found a small place for supper. Then I walked some more. Lots and lots of teenagers strolling around, seemingly on tour with school personnel. Maybe it was spring break or the like in Italy. On Tuesday I walked early to the Uffizzi. I had purchased my ticket on-line so I would be sure to get in. I think the most beautiful place I saw in Florence is the path along the Arno River from the Uffizzi to the Ponte Vecchio, the only medieval bridge to survive WW II bombings. The view from there, of the bridge, the buildings across the way – heartbreakingly beautiful. Glitzy shops line the bridge, but right before itI found a little, classic stationary shop called Signum. I bought a few gifts there. Had to drag myself away. I walked the Uffizzi for hours; how fabulous to see “live” the paintings I’ve admired in print for so long.

I returned to the hotel to change shoes, drop off purchases and grab my umbrella. It poured all afternoon. San Marco was closed; it being Tuesday. There is a conspiracy of Tuesdays in Italy. Suddenly a shop or museum or café will be closed because it’s Tuesday. ??? I hid out in a bar (Italy’s name for café) with espresso and panini, then grabbed my umbrella and continue to walk the city. For dinner I went to Giannino’s – recommended by the host of the hotel. Very nice. One of the wait staff was much concerned that I was alone. I explained my trip and my birthday event. For this I received hugs and kisses on both cheeks and offers for me to stay and drink liquer. I declined with abundant thanks. (I’d had my wine with dinner; I don’t do more than that at one sitting.) Spirits lifted, I bought a berry tart (tiny one) at a Patisserie and took it back to the hotel. I hadn’t scratched the surface of Florence. But I had breathed it in. And how could I be sad to leave? I was going to Venice in the morning.

The Invisible Traveler: Roma

There are three things I learned on my solo trip to Italy; well, at least three.(we'll began there.) Never change planes through Paris (choose Amsterdam instead); never take advice from leggy, red-headed American girls while traveling abroad; and a woman of a certain age traveling alone is invisible. Explanation: Clea and Keira drove me to Logan airport. Easy. I had checked in on-line and printed my boarding pass. Very easy. I was in a very short line, checked my small suitcase, passed muster with all documents, accomplished security in less than 10 minutes, and didn't spend any money in the duty free shops while waiting for the plane. Pretty good so far! Air France left on time. I had an aisle seat. Gratefully. Unless one was 4 feet 9 inches or less, one did not fit properly into the seats. Consequently, the trip was accompanied by moaning sounds from all packed into coach. My new iPod Touch has a solitaire game on it and I was occupied for the next six hours. I am also a valium flier. 'Nuf said. We arrived in Paris at 6:00 am. (We, of course, thought it was midnight, which--pre-adjustment--it was.) Let the games begin!! To connect with our next flight (lots of folks were doing this), we had to walk to another terminal. No shuttle buses or vans or scooters. I swear it was easily 3/4 of a mile. When we finally got to the next gate area, we needed to go through passport check. Only one airport employee was there to do this for the 300+ folks trying to make flight connections. Well, it was 6:00 in the morning. An ungodly hour to be at work in Paris. All but a handful of folks missed their flights. Including me. So we raced each other to the nearest counter. No airport personnel had arrived there either. It's now 7:30 a.m. local time. All the suits in the line whipped out cell phones and made outraged phone calls. An attendant finally showed up; I convinced her to get me a seat on the 9:45 to Rome. She did. I think I was quite pathetic. I took another valium and flew to Rome. At the airport in Rome: it seemed my suitcase had been misplaced. We call it lost when we are panicked, which I was. A couple of hours later, my suitcase showed up. ??? I made it to the station connected to the airport to take the train to Roma Termini -- the center of the city. Appearing a bit confused, this tall, red-headed American girl said follow me, I'm going there. I did. She of course went first, and purchased an array of tickets that resembled a tour. The train was in the station. She, of course, made that train. Myself and the ten folks behind me in queue, waited another half hour for the next one. I was at this point a bit unnerved. However, I was in Rome. With no idea how to get to the hotel -- the directions given were useless. Wandering around the general vicinity, trying NOT to cry, a gentleman (really!) stopped and asked in Italian if I needed help. I told him yes, but in English. He was instantly delighted and in a charming British accent, directed me to my hotel.

A nice hotel. A nice room. It was around 3:30p.m. I dropped my things, washed up a bit, grabbed my camera, and headed for the Metro. As I exited the subway facing the remarkable Colosseum -- I was appalled at the litter, and hundreds of people partying and a general mess. It was the day of the Rome Marathon!! In New York City, we'd say "Go know!" I stood in the middle of the chaos and laughed and laughed! Then I began my own marathon: snapping pictures, racing from landmark to monument; arriving at the Spanish steps after dark. And the Trevi Fountain after that. It was around 8:00p.m. I'd had it. I found my way back to my hotel, changed clothes, wandered into a little trattoria next door. Ordered a glass of vino rosso, insalata mista, pasta pomedoro. I don't like to eat alone. The place was very small, so I was practically sitting at the same table as a pleasant British couple who- it turned out -- were at the same hotel. We chatted happily through the meal. I thanked them for their good company, returned to the hotel, sent an email to my kids (my iPod Touch wasn't doing its expected thing so I used the hotel computer.) In my room I showered, laid down on the bed, and not feeling tired I was watching Italian TV. The next thing I knew it was 8:30 a.m. Why was I surprised? I hadn't been to bed since Friday night. It was Monday morning. It was my birthday. I was in Rome.

Lesson #4: I knew there'd be more lessons. Don't plan to move on to the next city at mid-day, believing you could get some sight-seeing in before leaving. Either beat it early so you have more time in the next city, or leave later so you can actually sight-see before heading out. I of course hadn't done either. I spent an inordinate amount of time at the Termini; not boring -- people watching; tons of shops; like a mall with a train inside. When I saw my train number appear on the board, I went to it. It said it was going to Venezia. I was going to Firenze. Yet another tall, red-headed American girl with enough luggage to have been moving her residence, looked at my ticket and pointed me to the Florence regional train. I got there; I got on it. Yuk! Fortunately, an attendant looked at my ticket and pointed me back to the Venice train. The Euro Rail. Verrry nice. The first stop would be Florence. I got to it just in time to get on board, find my seat, look out the window as we left Rome and inform the universe that there would be no more shit flying on this trip. It was my birthday. I was on my way to Florence. (That will be my next entry!)

Bad Rice!! Bad Rice!!

When I was a teenager, I saw a film called Love is a Many Splendored Thing.  It starred Jennifer Jones and William Holden (he was a teenage crush).  It was a three-handkerchiefs-movie.  Set in 1949-1950 Hong Kong,  it tells the story of a married  but separated American reporter (played by Holden, who falls in love with a Eurasian doctor originally from Mainland China (played by Jennifer Jones), only to encounter prejudice from her family and from Hong Kong society.  Of course it has a tragic ending: Bill Holden dies in a plane crash, and the drawn-out final scenes elicit sobs.  In one of the happier love-scenes, Jennifer Jones -- in an attempt to keep the gods from envying their love -- stands on their hilltop and shouts:  "Bad rice! Bad rice."  Apparently, this is how the farmers protected their crops.  I believe all cultures have superstitious tricks to fool the jealous gods.  My grandma used to spit three times if someone admired one of us children.  

My Italian aunt tied red ribbons to the baby carriages.  There are any number of spells to avoid the evil eye.  Little bags of various herbs, necklaces or rings of particular gemstones (depending on the protection needed); even a rabbit's foot used for luck. 

All of this is prelude to answering a question posed daily to me these past few weeks:  Aren't you excited about your trip???  (That would be my birthday week in Italy.)  I answer, "Sure."  But they don't believe me because I'm not frenetic about it.  Well, it's a case of "Bad rice!  Bad rice!"  I'm psyched; I'll get excited when I'm standing in the airport in Rome --    My friend Dennis says he's never excited about a trip until he gets there.  My friend Bobbie, who's been teaching me how to pronounce Italian phrases so they might actually be understood in Italy took me to dinner last evening to my favorite North End restaurant Antico Forno.  The dinner was celebratory; the rule was that I had to order in Italian.  And I did!  Of course,  none of the wait staff were Italian or understood the language.  That didn't matter after a glass of vino rosso!  I guess my useless point is that if I get really excited now, when I get there I'll have spent all the emotion.  I will have used it up.  But going one day at a time, enjoying the approach of the holiday, will make it last that much longer.  And I will be carrying a little black velvet bag that hides in my purse; it holds several good luck charms.  That and a couple of valium to get me on the plane. I'm still looking for a pair of good walking shoes!

Light

Yesterday was Valentine's Day. It's actually named for a priest named Valentine who was martyred and made a saint. There are several versions of his story, but that's not the subject of this entry. At the inception of the "holiday," it celebrated romantic love. Today, maybe thanks to Hallmark, cards and remembrances are given to relatives and friends as well as lovers. C.S. Lewis defined the kinds of love in his book The Four Loves: affection; friendship; eros; and caritas (unconditional love). I suppose one could make the case that "true love" is a combination of all four.

I've gone off on this because I realized yesterday that I've really never quite celebrated Valentine's Day in that romantic vein. My daddy used to bring me a little heart box containing chocolates every year. My ex-husband did not believe in Valentine's Day. And any other fellas in my life were apparently equally unsentimental. I am not complaining or kvetching or feeling sorry for myself. It's just a sort of belated observation. I've gotten funny cards from friends and sweet hand-made cards from my children (and grandchildren). This year I realized that all kinds of love begin in one place not mentioned by C.S. Lewis: self-love. Not ego, not conceit, not vanity. But an awareness and a belief in one's self and valuing one's self. We've heard it before many times: if we do not love ourselves, believe in ourselves, how do we expect others to do it?

My son and I were talking about this; very synchronistic. It is a connection with our center, with our light, with our soul I suppose we may call it.
People go there through meditation; artists through their art. It is, I believe, the beginning and the end of our personal journey. When people who have experienced an "out of body" episode, a sort of death, they describe seeing a light and moving toward it. I experienced that once when I was in trouble in a recovery room after surgery. When I thought about it afterward, the light wasn't external; it wasn't outside of me. The journey toward the light was a journey deep to the center of myself. That's where the light is. And in that near death experience, I was watching myself move into myself to become one with my light. Weird, huh?

I suppose if I had a beau, and if I'd received two dozen long stemmed roses, or a satin heart filled with dark chocolate covered cherries, or a dinner at a sweet, dimly lit restaurant, etc. etc. etc., I wouldn't wax philosophical about the nature of love. I'd be besotted and feeling the feelings for someone other. That would be nice too. But rediscovering one's inner light gives a different kind of warmth. It will get us through many kinds of winter.

Wanderlust

It's a very long winter. We had more snow by mid-January than in the typical six month season. I've never liked the cold which begs the question -- "You've lived in the north east all of your life??" I can't answer that reasonably, but at my age it's a moot point. Most of my friends and relatives who were way smarter than me have retired or semi-retired. They travel. Some escape the winter by heading south. Some of them hold up in foreign ports for weeks on end. I don't envy much. Traveling I envy. Oh, I've had a few trips. There was my adventure in England "back in the day." (see June 2008 Crossing the Pond) And I became my actor-son's groupie when he was performing in regional theatre and traveling his cabaret show. I saw Virginia Beach; St. Louis (twice); Montgomery, Alabama; Berlin, Germany; and more. In 1998, at low ebb, my dear friend Pete Jones telephoned me from his home in Laguna Beach. Pete was concerned that I'd never see Venice (my big dream) if he didn't see to it. Thinking of me while he was suffering from cancer. And though he'd meant to take me on the trip himself, he wasn't able. So he arranged a journey for me (with my son, Jamie, because he wanted me to have someone to share the memories with.) He did it all from his hospital bed. We went to Paris for six days; traveled by train to Venice by way of Milan. We spent six days in Venice. Then on to Saltzburg -- Pete's favorite place. Four days there, then two in Vienna. We finished the trip in Munich for two days and flew home from Frankfort. Pete was my best friend.

Jamie met me at Logan Airport in Boston, flying up from NYC. We arrived in Paris on the first of May. It rained most of the time we spent in Paris but it didn't matter. We crossed all of the bridges; rode a carousel; strolled a museum or two; ate crepes; went to a movie; brought bouquets of flowers to Père Lachaise Cemetery; were chased out of the lobby of the Ritz Hotel because we were wearing blue jeans. We visited with a dear friend who had been an exchange student with us eons before -- she came with her lovely son and her sister for hot chocolate. We went to Le Comedie - Française where we were stared at because we'd dressed up. We walked. We walked. And discovered so much about each other. Venice was very sunny and very warm. And very crowded. We were out each morning by 6:30 and roamed the streets without competition. It was beyond expectation. Each evening after dinner, we'd have our gelato while searching for Campo Barnabas (in the film SUMMERTIME, Kate Hepburn meets Rossano Brazzi there). We walked. We walked. And discovered so much about each other. Saltzburg was stunning. I will always wish that Pete could have been there with us, to show us "his" Saltzburg. Once we arrived in Vienna, we knew we should have stayed two days in Saltzburg so we'd have four in Vienna. It was glorious. We saw Cosi Fan Tutti. And we walked. We walked. And continued to discover so much about each other. On the train to Munich, we felt foolish because we were nervous crossing the border into Germany. The train stopped, and two men slammed into our compartment. One was in a black leather jacket. They demanded passports and had a good time scaring us. They actually did work for the railroad. When they left and the train started again, we laughed until we wept. We watched fields of red poppies from our "Miss Marple" train windows. In Munich, we went to the theatre. WEST SIDE STORY done in German. It lacked something.....(you can only imagine!) By the time we reached Munich, however, we knew that Pete had passed away. And we were suddenly tired with that news. Pete was my best friend.

That was my great trip which deserves a small volume actually. And it was my great gift. It continues to reverberate. It turned me into an eternal tourist. It made me what Pete called "Journey Proud." It turned my son and me into friends. Adult friends. Oh, I'll get the occassional phone call still and hear him say, "I need to speak to my mom." But on any level, we can talk. (Wouldn't it have been amazing to take a similar trip with each of my kids?) Anyway, that was Pete's greatest gift. That, and his deep and abiding friendship.

So now I have this big birthday approaching in March. At low ebb (again) I feel that I am in need of a holiday instead of a cake with a forest fire of candles. For several months I have been squirreling away as much money as I can, and I'm taking myself on a birthday trip. I'm going to Italy. A very short trip, really, but I know it will be a good thing. I'll have a day in Rome, two days in Florence, three days in Venice. I won't have company; but I learned a long time ago that if I wait for someone to show up before I do something, it probably won't get done. Funny thing: when I was maybe 11 or 12 years old, I wrote a poem which I can't totally remember. But the last line was something about it being wonderful to "travel through the world alone." My English teacher thought that was a foolish concept and berated me for it. I wonder if it was 'fore-shadowing." When I feel some trepidation about it, Jamie tells me my trip will be empowering. I can use some of that. In the interim, while this relentless winter carries on, I have something wonderful to plan. Pete would call me "Journey Proud." He was my best friend.