17. The Polish Question

Saturday, June 30
Early Evening

Well, the day started out fine.

I had arranged to meet Sara Stevenson and her daughter Caroline in front of Santa Maria degli Angeli at noon. Sara is an old friend of Bridget's whom I met in Austin this past March. She and her husband Richard were instant compadres. Since she is about to start Italian lessons in Perugia (about 15 miles away), it seemed like a no-brainer to get together for lunch.

I got to the church early so that I could sit outside and watch the tour groups go in. I know from past experience that these are precisely the types of people I like to shoot. They're usually animated in one way or the other - excited, tired, irritable, engaged, whatever. Today, several tour groups showed up simultaneously, each distinguished by a different colored hat. Some were in red, others yellow or blue. There was also a group with armbands that were part of some kind of service that was about to take place. This group include a number of old men who (without any irony intended) were missing an arm.

At pretty much the stroke of noon Sara showed up. She has a wonderful energy so we pretty much jumped into a conversation the second she got there. Sara needed to get who Caroline was down the street at the laundromat. Since my favorite pasticceria is across the street from this, it seemed the logical place to meet up as soon as they finished folding their laundry.

We sat around for at least an hour-and-a-half. Not surprisingly, a portion of the conversation was about Bridget and I. I certainly enjoyed the chance to catch them up on what was going on. They had already gotten some of it from Bridget via email, but it was fun to talk about it from my perspective. By the time they had to leave we were having a good enough time to arrange to do it again tomorrow. Perugia is a quick hop by train so we figured to meet around noon and hang out.

After they left, it was my turn to do the laundry. I went back to my room and started to pull the dirty clothes out of my suitcase.

That's when the day went south.

I bent over to pick up the clothes and my back went out. It's always the simplest and therefore most unpredictable things that cause it to go. Once it was nothing more than reaching for a spoonful of sugar to put in my coffee. Today, as soon as I started to get up, I knew this was not going to be one of those that just goes away.

Sometimes, walking it out is the best solution. Having to get the laundry done, I decided to carry on. I walked the block to the lavanderia and hoped for the best.

When I got there, I found that I needed to get change. The change machine accepts 5s and 10s, but the smallest I had was a 20. This meant going back over the pasticceria, getting something so that I could break the bill, then going back to the lavanderia to get the coins that I needed. There I was confronted by an intensely fickle machine that kept spitting back the bills instead of making change. I just kept feeding them back into the machine in the hope that I would win the showdown. I did. It eventually gave me what I needed. I then had to put the coins into the central money machine that controls all the washers and dryers. Now, no matter what one Euro piece I put in, it spit it back at me. I kept trying until eventually I either found the machine's sweet spot, or it gave up fighting me.

A few minutes later, a Polish woman came into the lavanderia. Confused by the same system, she turned to ask me how it worked. In Polish. I simply could not convince her that I did not speak Polish. She kept spitting out a string of questions then looked to me for answers. Eventually - inevitably, really - I took her money and set up her laundry for her. At least now I was more patient with the change machine and better equipped to handle the sweet spot of the other. The one thing that I could not help her with was the temperature control on the machine. I kept using hand gestures to try to get her to understand that she needed to adjust this herself since I had no idea if she wanted it hot or cold. Finally, she arbitrarily pushed the button to 6, the hottest setting, and pressed the start button.

About ten minutes later, she got up and walked over to the machine. She watched her comforter going round and round for a moment. She then pressed her hand against the door and recoiled. She turned to me and let out another stream of Polish. When it must have been clear to her that I had no idea what she was saying, she touched the glass door then pulled her hand back and blew on it. She did this a number of times until she finally conveyed the idea that the water was too hot. We both tried readjusting it, but the machine would not allow a change in mid-cycle. She looked like someone had just eaten her puppy. She went back to her chair, put her head in her hand, and started mumbling in Polish. I really didn't want to know what she was saying since my guess is that she thought I was somehow to blame for this predicament.

A few minutes later, her wash was ready. She ran to the machine, yanked out the comforter and inspected it. Fortunately, it looked like the hot water did it no real damage. Relieved, she transferred it to a dryer, put in her money and was about to turn it on. I put my hand out to stop her. I checked the heat on the dial and saw that it was set at 90 Celsius. This is very hot, and if it is one thing I know from painful past experience, you can ruin a comforter in an overheated dryer a whole hell of a lot faster than you can in a hot washer. I readjusted the heat then put the coins in for her, making sure that she had a longer drying time than usual to make up for the lower temperature. The effect of this was that I went from dog to hero faster than a Smart car goes from 1 to 2 mph. By the time I hobbled out of there she was thanking me profusely in Polish and saying the one Italian word she knew: "Buongiorno."

The walk back to the hotel told me that I was pretty much toast for the rest of the night. I had a quick call with Bridget then downloaded a book on RKO that I've been wanting to read. Other than attempting to go out for dinner, my night will be taken up with starting this book and deciding if it would be better to sleep on the floor tonight.

16. The Chinese Subject

Friday, June 29
Early Evening

No, I couldn't resist the urge to revisit Santa Maria degli Angeli, but I had lots to do before I did that.

I'm rapidly coming to like this hotel. The concierge, who was quite fearsome yesterday, has decided that I'm OK. This probably came about because she has an aging spaniel named Snoopy who has fallen in love with me. I spent a good deal of time last night playing with her and did a little more this morning after breakfast.

This breakfast was served outdoors on a very quaint patio overlooking the Hotel Frate Sole and its Sorella Luna Ristorante. The translation of this is a reference that all in Assisi know: Brother Sun, Sister Moon. These are the names given by Francis and Chiara to each other. Theirs was an all-consuming but (we assume) chaste love. Certainly the fact of its existence is not hidden around here. Among other things, there is a statue of the two of them holding hands outside the Chiesa Nuova.

After playing with Snoopy I went back toward Santa Maria to catch the bus back to the ancient city. Like yesterday, the neighborhood was covered with monks and nuns, all on their way to the church. There was also a very large contingent of uniformed Catholic school children and their teachers, all wanting to board the same bus. Fortunately, the bus was one of the rare full-sized ones and it was empty when it go to us. Just as fortunately, these screaming, laughing, squawking kids got off long before the bus reached Piazza Matteoti.

My first desire was to go to Rocca Maggiore, the fortress that overlooks the valley. I knew that I would have to do this early because the walk up was very steep. I did not want to do this in the midday sun. Even with the precaution, the crawl to the top was fairly intense. My timing, though, couldn't have been better. I fell through the front gate just as the fortress was opening for the day. Except for an American couple and a German family of four, I had the place pretty much to myself.

Rocca Maggiore, which translates as "more rock," is well-named. With the exception of some wood beaming, it is constructed entirely of stone. As such, one can see why it was an effective defense. On the other hand, I would think that the insanely steep hill was the best defense and that the defending army could have done the same trick with grass huts.

At the center of the fortress is a tall round tower. Once on this platform it is easy to see the long and looping fortress wall that surrounds the entire city. There are six porta (gates) that allow entry, each of which is sufficiently narrow to have quickly bottlenecked any army trying to get in. All of this sounds great until you start to learn about why the fortress was necessary. The leaders who built it and controlled it for years were a bloodthirsty lot. The fortress was used for imprisonment, torture and execution, all at the whim of whomever happened to be in charge at the moment.

And did I mention that some of them went on to become popes?

Throughout my stay at the fortress I was constantly stumbling onto two things: Angry pigeons who did not want their aerie disturbed, and the German family. This father, mother and two teenaged sons were always two steps behind me. The American couple left as soon as they saw the steps they would have to climb, so it was pretty much me and my German shadows for the hour or so I was checking out the place. Every time I went to a window, they came to see what I was looking at. Every time I found a new staircase to climb, they were right behind me.

As I was leaving, I went to sit under a shade tree. There next to me was a golden tabby, a cat as affectionate as Snoopy. Within seconds he was crawling all over me and I was letting him do it. I thought that this was a lucky cat. After all, he was in Assisi, the home of St. Francis, the patron saint of animals and children. I mean, if you were a cat and you wanted to live where the karma is right, you couldn't do much better than this town.

As I was leaving the fortress, I noticed a man huffing his way up an incline that appeared to split off toward the city. I figured that this would be faster and prettier than the circuitous route that I had taken earlier so I headed in the direction he had just come from.

It is a sign of how steep this city is that many roads have staircases built into them. This was a street that was maybe seven feet across with a two-foot staircase running down the center. I found it easier to walk on the road portion. About halfway down, I found a secluded gelateria with an arbored terrace overlooking San Rufino. I stopped in for a large mint granita, my liquid air conditioner of choice.

I didn't really have a plan for the day except to just keep looking for things to see. As I was approaching the bottom of the stairs/street, I was thinking about what direction I should turn. Just then, a young Chinese woman came running around the corner. She saw me then looked around with darting eyes. She noticed a bench next to a doorway. Both were surrounded by pots of flowers. She whipped her head around to me and held out her hand. In it was a small digital camera.

"Take picture," she said. "Please!"

I smiled, said I would, then took the camera. She started pointed to a button.

"Click. Yes. Picture. Point. Click. Yes."

I'm glad I knew how to operate the camera before she handed it to me. I'm not sure those directions would have done the trick if I hadn't.

She rushed to the bench then sat down. Just as suddenly, she froze into an uncomfortable stance with a plastered-on smile.

"Now!!!"

I took the picture.

"Take another!" she shouted, still frozen in the same uncomfortable position.

I took a second shot. It wasn't one iota different from the first.

She leapt up, grabbed the camera and looked at the picture. She smiled broadly then bowed her thanks and ran up the stairs.

I made the decision to turn to the right. Within a minute or two I was in the Piazza di Comune. Taking it as a sign, I went back to the Temple of Minerva, sat on the steps and started to shoot tourists. I wound up doing this for about an hour. Pretty soon, I was getting hungry. I went next door to get some lunch.

Just before I went to bed last night I got a text from Bridget. She was in OHare and had just had a caprese sandwich and a bottle of Pellegrino. She wanted me to know this because she was clearly in denial about being back in the states. I texted back that I would have a hamburger today because I was in denial that I wasn't there with her. So that's what I had for lunch.

Afterward I went to the Chiesa Nuova, a quaint (at least by Italian standards) church. Nuova, of course, is a relative term. This church was built after the death of Francis in the 13th Century and, like Santa Maria degli Angeli, was built over an important place in his life. In this case, it incorporates the small cell where his father locked him up when he was a young man. The cell currently has a statue of Francis praying to God that his father will stop beating him. This faces the altar. I'm sure there is some symbolism in this, but I wasn't really willing to divine it.

I followed the long downward slope to Basilica di San Francesco. The grounds for this are massive, taking up approximately a quarter of the city. Much of it is a functioning monastery and so off limits to visitors. The Basilica, though, is open and free (although another one where photos are not allowed). The Basilica itself is impressive for its size but not for its decor. There are only two ancillary chapels, each flanking the altar. The long walls leading up to these are filled with religious frescoes, but the ceiling, all blue and gold, upstages these literally and figuratively.

To the left of the altar is the entrance to the chapel and tomb of St. Francis. You go down about twenty steps before you can see into the underground chapel. Unlike its counterpart upstairs, this chapel is ornate. Fusing red and gold in the palette, it manages to be both intimate and grand at the same moment. Just past the chapel is another flight of steps that go down to the crypt. Rather than a sarcophagus, the remains are in a covering that is then made to appear organic to the altar on with they lay. This altar is surrounded by intricate wrought iron that is open in the front so that it can be used for a mass. Kneelers surround the crypt and these were filled with worshippers.

The one consistent architectural design between these three areas is the profusion of signs that read, "Silenzio." They are everywhere. You can't even turn a corner without finding one to greet you as though the sudden turn of your body in a new direction might have erased your memory of this command. As if the signs weren't enough, occasionally an electronically amped voice reverberates through the sanctuaries: "Silenzio! Shhh!"

I was nearly blinded by the sun when I came out of the tomb. The exit empties out in to a long, wide piazza whose brickwork surface creates a dizzying array of angles in black, white and gray. I found a place in the shade and sat for a while in the shadow of the Basilica.

When I finally got up to leave, I started to walk down the long piazza toward the gate. Suddenly, I heard a familiar voice.

"Hey! Take my picture!"

I turned to see the young Chinese woman. She was shoving her camera in my face. It was quite obvious that she did not recognize me from earlier.

"Here. Click. Picture."

At least she had honed down her instructions. I took the camera.

She ran back about thirty feet then looked up at the campanile of the Basilica to make sure that she was lined up the way she wanted. She then turned back into her uncomfortable smile and stiff demeanor.

"Now!!!"

I took the picture.

"Take another!!!"

I took another one.

She ran back to me, looked at the camera, smiled and bowed her thanks. I watched her run away. Within thirty seconds she found another tourist and had that person take a picture of her with the colonnade behind her.

The bus stop at Piazza Giovanni Paolo II was just outside the gate and I was getting tired. My bus was there so I headed for it. Just as I was getting to it, it took off. I checked the schedule and saw that the next one wasn't for another half hour. With time to kill, I went to Chiesa di San Pietro, a church just outside San Francesco and a few steps from the bus stop. This one is gray slate and sparse. It is also very cool, so it was the perfect place to wait out the bus. While I was in there, a woman came in and sat in a pew across from me. She sat still and silently for the whole time I was there. She only got up to leave when an Australian couple came in and started to comment loudly on what they were seeing. Where's the "Silenzio" sign when you need one?

I took the bus back down. Seated facing me and two seats up was the young Chinese woman. She looked completely exhausted. I couldn't help but wonder if she actually got to see anything while she was here. She got off at the train station, presumably to find another town in which to have her picture taken.

When I got back to the hotel I decided to rest for a while. Eventually, I wanted to get a snack so headed out to a terrific and inexpensive pasticceria across from Santa Maria degli Angeli. As I left the shop, I decided that I needed another fix of the Cathedral. Like yesterday, it was quiet in a way that put out a nice sense of peace. I walked around the inside and went into the Porziuncola for a few minutes.

Honestly, this is rapidly becoming my favorite church anywhere.

15. The Big Catch-Up; or, She Came, I Saw, We Conquered

Sunday, June 17
Early Morning

I got out of the Mirage as fast as my little feet could carry me then carted my bag across the Termini to the Hotel Atlantico. My hope was to check-in, put my bag behind the desk and get some breakfast at one of the cafes on the street while waiting for Bridget. It never occurred to me that the room at the hotel would actually be ready, but it was. The desk clerk sent me right up and told me that I could have breakfast here. This place is already night and day from the Mirage.

Beyond the courtesy, the room is big, nicely done, and on the top floor so it gets plenty of light. The rest of the hotel is fairly upscale and the breakfast is huge. I'm just happy that they are serving pastries that didn't first see the light of day in the Paleolithic era.

According to Flight Tracker, Bridget's plane landed eleven minutes ago. Yes, I'm counting the minutes.


Monday, June 18
Early Morning (Very Early)

Bridget's shuttle from Fiumicino arrived at the Termini at 11:40. We had tried texting so that I would know when to be there, but problems with her text application meant that I really didn't have a clue when she would actually arrive. To be safe, I headed over around 10:30 and took up position just outside the Moleskine shop at the end of the arrival track. She was finally able to get ahold of me around 11:00 and told me that she was on the train.

I guess I was anxious. Instead of waiting in the prearranged spot, I went straight to the train the minute it pulled in. After a few minutes, she came down the walkway. She was craning her head to see if she could spot me by the shop. I have to admit that I thought the same thing that I do every time I see her after an absence: God, she is beautiful. With that, all the stresses of the past few days disappeared. I was in Rome with Bridget. That was all I needed.

She didn't see me until she practically bumped into me. We hugged for a ridiculously long period of time then made our way through the crowd and out to the Atlantico.

Although she had gotten some sleep on the flight from Dallas to JFK, she got none on the flight to Rome. She was feeling just this side of jet lagged so we decided to spend the afternoon in our room. About 6:30, Bridget took note of the fact that she hadn't eaten more than a croissant and a bag of popcorn in the preceding 16 hours. And I hadn't had anything since breakfast. Dinner was suddenly sounding like a good idea.

The east side of the Termini is decidedly downscale. With our move to the Atlantico we were back on the much nicer west side. The neighborhood is filled with nice hotels, most of which have outdoor ristorantes. My favorite is at the quizzically named Hotel California. I suggested we get dinner there.

The waiter seated us right at the curb. At the table next to us sat a husband and wife, American, probably in their mid-fifties. Bridget and I were holding hands and talking when I became acutely aware that the woman was staring at us. She was looking with a kind of wistful sadness at our intertwined fingers. I glanced at her husband. He was wearing a napkin for a bib and silently twirling spaghetti onto his fork.

Throughout the meal and for the rest of the evening, Bridget and I would suddenly break into giggles about the fact that we were in Rome. It wasn't a matter of being in an unfamiliar and exotic locale. I've been here five of six times and Bridget has been here numerous times over the years for equally numerous reasons. It was more that we were here together. Italy was a large part of our conversation when we first met and I haven't been over since when I haven't at some point or another thought about what it would be like if she were here with me. Now, finally, it was happening.

After dinner we were both up for a walk. We decided to go straight down the Via Cavour toward the ruins. Along the way, we stopped for gelato and within another five minutes we were on the Via di Indipendenza, the wide boulevard that connects the Colosseum with the Vittoriano. We turned in the direction of the latter.

The Vittoriano is lit at night, now a virtual neon wedding cake. We walked around there and looked into the ruins below Maria di Nome. These appeared especially eery in the light reflected off the monument.

At this point we could have walked south to the Colosseum or turned north toward Fontana di Trevi. We chose to head toward the fountain, something I had never seen at night.

I now know that it doesn't matter what time you visit the fountain, it is always jam packed. Bridget and I managed to work through the crowd and find a seat on one of the steps facing the center of the massive sculpture of Neptune that dominates the cascading waters. Several people were flinging coins over their shoulders. I imagine most think that this is some kind of ancient rite, but it is really a ritual invented by the screenwriter of the film "Three Coins in the Fountain." No matter. Everyone enjoys the toss. I've done it a few times myself. What I haven't seen is Anita Ekberg floating through the fountain in a black dress, but I keep hoping.

When we started to feel the crowd, we decided to walk over to Piazza di Spagna, about five minutes away. We found a perch on one of the platform steps, put our arms around each other and enjoyed night air. Soon, though, we knew we would have to head back if we were going to have any hope of getting some sleep before our early train to Messina.

Right now, we're in a semi-private compartment on that train. The conductor just came around looking for change for a 5 Euro note. We're just outside of Naples with the Tyrrhenian Sea on one side of the train and the high peaks of the Apennines on the other. Bridget is reading Patty Smith's books about her relationship with Robert Mapplethorpe and has her bare legs flung over mine. My iPad is on top of her shins as I write this.

This love thing is pretty cool.


Monday, June 25
Mid Morning
On the train from Messina to Napoli

I decided not to blog the Bridget portion of the trip for what I hope are obvious reasons. At the same time, our leaving Messina allows me the opportunity to thumbnail our trip so far.

We arrived in Messina more than a little ragged. Our respective moods were not improved by the singular peculiarity of living out in life a scene from the screenplay. In "Through a Door Like Anna," Ray and Nina meet at a car rental agency when both are unhappy to find that the automatics each requested are not available. When we reached our agency, the same thing happened to us - and with a similarly harried clerk. We had to wait an hour which was pleasantly spent sitting in a piazza sipping drinks. When the car did show up, the clerk kept stopping to argue with a friend about where they were supposed to go for a party that same evening. I asked him several times to knock it off, but my request would only be heeded for a minute or two then he'd go back to the far more important issue of party location.

We were given a Smart car, something of which I am apparently too Dumb to master. Although an automatic, the shift was entirely foreign to me. By the time we got on the road and confronted the justifiably infamous Sicilian traffic, I was in a foul mood, something that only succeeded in putting Bridget in one as well. To say the least, our first night in Mascali, the site of our apartment rental, was rocky.

This, though, was not a bellwether of the week to come. Although the neighborhood was loud during the day and most of the night, the apartment was quite lovely. The kitchen was relatively well stocked with utensils, the bathroom (and especially the tub) was large, and there were two bedrooms, a small airy one with plenty of light and a master bedroom with a larger though rather lumpy queen-sized mattress. The anomaly in the apartment was the living room. Like so many Italianate houses I knew as a child, it attempts to be more than it was built for. A couch runs along one wall, but instead of facing an open room, it is practically butt up against a dining room table. This has a plastic tablecloth with an overly busy pasta motif. The walls of this room are covered with pictures of Sicily and a few prints that are a long way from the masters. In an apartment that was otherwise a model of modern design, this living room reminded me of the overcrowded and airless one that was presided over by my Grandma Muscolino.

The real joy, though, was the deck. Wrapping around the building, it has two large terraces running perpendicular to each other. One is empty and takes direct sunlight. This made it ideal for drying clothes fresh from the wash. The other has a large arbor that along with a towering shade tree made this one of our most important living spaces. This is where we would have dinner each night, where Bridget began most days with an early morning yoga practice, and where we read side-by-side in matching chaise lounges, me from Patti Smith and Bridget from "50 Shades of Grey." I can't say how many times she would burst out laughing and read me a particularly purple and execrable piece of prose from this thing, but it was a lot.

In spite of the difficult first night, I can easily encapsulate the next six days by saying that it was one of the best weeks I've ever had. Period. While Bridget and I have never denied the depth of our relationship, this time in Sicily deepened it even more than we would have thought possible. With the exception of an afternoon run to Caltanisetta (where my grandfather was indentured to the mine and a major location in the script), a Sunday morning church service, and a very hot but pleasant several hours on the Mascali beach, we never left the apartment. Sometimes, we didn't even leave the bed, preferring to use it as a platform for our discussions about our shared future, our joint and separate pasts, and, most important, our feelings for each other.

As we were on the train down to Messina last week, I mentioned to Bridget that this was really our first opportunity to set up a household that is entirely our own. To that end, we rapidly found the right rhythms for respecting each other's need for space or quiet time, for sharing the chores, and for perpetually finding joy in looking up and seeing the other one standing in a doorway or quietly reading in the shaded light of the deck. We both knew that this was the real bellwether.

At this particular moment, our train is standing in the station at Villa San Giovanni. It is hellishly hot since neither the air conditioning nor the breeze functions when the train is still. This may portend a difficult travel day, but I really don't care (at least not at the moment). Bridget is sitting across from me eating her lunch and reading, and we're on our way to the island of Capri for two nights in a high-end B&B carved out of a monastery.

I really don't the I have anything to complain about. In fact, I feel ridiculously content.


Wednesday, June 27
Late Afternoon
On the train from Naples to Rome

If Sicily was wonderful then I'm at a loss for how to describe Capri.

The train trip was not the easiest. The air conditioning never did come on and the one window that could be opened slammed shut every time we turned a corner. By the time we got off the train we were soaked straight through.

The cab between Napoli Centrale and the port had the advantages of open windows and a fearless driver who understood the crazy Neapolitan traffic. We got on the ferry and took the forty-five minute ride while sitting inside the boat. The windows were so stained with years of salt water spray that it was hard to see what was out there. As we started to approach the port, I went outside to get a few shots.

I'm not sure what I was expecting, probably another cute little island town like Giglio. Capri isn't quite that. A huge waving rock shaped like a reclining woman, it is dominated by a town that crawls from the base up to the top of the torso between to the two peaks. Nearly all of its architecture is white or cream. My first response was to gasp. I went back and got Bridget, telling her that she had already scored major points for this choice.

We took an open-air cab to Anacapri, the smaller of the two villages on the island. The road to get there twists and turns around hairpins with the ever-elevating view of the harbor visible on our right, then our left then our right again. By the time we reached Anacapri, it felt like we were about a mile high.

It took a few minutes to find our B&B. It was nicely hidden behind Chiesa San Michele which made perfect sense since our place had once been a monastery. I don't know how the monks lived back in the day, but I'm pretty sure that it wasn't like this. There are only rooms for two occupants at a time and for the first night the whole place was ours. Under any circumstances, ours was the luxury suite. We had a big bed at the base of which was a trough-style bath tub. This was dominated by open windows looking directly onto our interior courtyard. There was a large living room and a narrow but beautiful and sunny kitchen done in whites and yellows. And then there was the bathroom. If it were any bigger it would have needed its own zip code. The dominant feature of this room was the shower. A black marble pedestal running the width of the room, it had two side-by-side rain-shower heads and opened without doors or curtains into the room. It was like being onstage.

After giggling at our luck, Bridget and I went out to get dinner. We found the Capri Palace, at two-star restaurant, at the highest point in Anacapri. We had what can only be called an intensely romantic dinner at a private booth on the patio. Over our heads, the clouds moved from white to pink to flaming red as the sun set over the harbor.

We got up yesterday with the full intention of enjoying the island as well as each other. We had breakfast then went to visit Casa Rossa, a small red mansion that overlooks the sea. Built in the16th century as a fortress against Saracen invaders, it was later bought by a lieutenant colonel of the Confederate Army who couldn't bear to live under Yankee domination. He filled with art of that period and dedicated it as a museum in his will.

We did a little shopping (well, Bridget did while I shot tourists) then got lunch at a pleasant trattoria on the outskirts of the Piazza Vittorio. From there, we took the bus back down the mountain in the other direction and went sunbathing a stone's throw from the Blue Grotto. Afterward, we went back to our room and stayed in until it was time for a late dinner. Our original plan was to get takeout and bring it back to the room, but the pizzeria we found was so pleasantly surrounded by trees and greenery that we decided to eat there. Like the night before, it was more than a little romantic.

This morning we got breakfast, assembled our luggage then took the bus down to the Marina Grande. We left out luggage with a deposito then took the bus to the village of Capri. More touristy than Anacapri, its best feature is its duomo. In keeping with the rest of the architecture on the island, it is blazingly white on the outside, and bright and airy on the inside. Although small, it had no less than eight beautifully appointed ancillary chapels and an altar dominated by gold ornaments and leafs.

In no hurry to get a ferry back to reality, we decided to head back down to the marina and lay out on the beach. We did this until 3:30 then, much to our regret, we got onboard the ferry and left Capri. By halfway to Naples we were making plans to come back next year.

The connections were perfect. As soon as we got off the boat there was a taxi waiting. After freaking out the driver by asking him to take us to Milano Centrale (this, he was nice enough to point out, was Naples and not Milan), we got to the station and bought tickets for the first train heading to Rome. This one was leaving in three minutes. When we couldn't find our seats in second class, we grabbed two in first. So far, no one has caught onto this.

Of course, tomorrow is the hard part - saying goodbye at the station. It has been quite extraordinary having her here, giving us both the time to explore this relationship and get even more committed to each other and to our future. One decision we have made is to slow up her moving up to Chicago with Liam. We realized that we were rushing it and that we both need some time to get ready for it. Instead, she will be flying up to Chicago on the fourth and will be there to meet me when I get back from this trip.

I honestly can't wait for that.


Thursday, June 28
Mid Morning
On the train from Rome to Foligno/Assisi

OK, that was tough.

Saying goodbye at the station was no fun. We got up round 7:00, got breakfast in the Sala Grande then walked over to the Termini. We got tickets for our respective trains - her to Fiumicino, me to Assisi - then waited a few minutes, ducking into the occasional shop. When it was time for her train I walked her to her car and kissed her goodbye. We both agree that the saving grace in this departure is that we'll be back together in a week when she flies to Chicago. Still, it won't be that easy to continue the trip on my own now that I've had the pleasure of her company.

We spent our last night of the trip back at the Atlantico where the desk clerk immediately recognized us and tried to give us the same room as earlier. It wasn't available but an equally nice one was. I really hadn't been focusing on the trip post-Bridget so had to make a quick decision on what my next stop would be. I landed on the idea of Assisi because it is one of the last major towns in central portion of Italy that I've never visited. After arranging a room and figuring out the train schedule, Bridget and I went out for a quiet dinner at a little outdoor trattoria on the Via Cavour we had noticed on our walk around Rome on the first night.

And, yes, it was romantic.


Early Evening

I could see Assisi as the train was arriving in the station. Like Orvieto, the station is at the base of the mountain that houses the ancient city of Assisi. This ranges all across the top of a broad mesa and spills down the sides like neatly ordered layers of candle wax. In keeping with Italian tradition, all the buildings are the same color. In this case it is umber. Not a big surprise since we're in Umbria.

The mountaintop, though, was not the first place I saw. Before seeing this, I looked out the opposite side of the train and saw the huge dome of Santa Maria degli Angeli. The basilica is as impressive as any I've seen and provided me with a first impression of the town.

As soon as I got in the cab, I discovered that my hotel is below the mountain rather than on it. It's also two blocks away from Santa Maria degli Angeli so I knew this would be my first stop.

The hotel is certainly quaint, a small homey place with small homey rooms. The concierge is an English woman with both the manner and looks of a wary pug. She refused to warm to me until she had my passport as well as proof that I really did have a reservation. After all was provided, I asked about Internet service.

"Not until later this afternoon," she barked in an accent that clearly refused to "go native."

Why this would only be available at certain times would have been a worthy question, but I really didn't want to get barked at on this topic. I changed the subject and asked about how to get to Assisi.

"By bus," she said as though I should know this. Then, as if she now accepted the fact that I might not actually have knowledge of how to get around Assisi, she said, "You have wait until you get to Piazza Matteoti before you get off." Then, pointing at several stops on the map, she said, "You don't get off here. Or here. Or here. You get off here!" She pointed of course to Piazza Matteoti.

"OK," I said, pretending to know why she was telling this to me.

"If you stop here, here, or here," she said, once again pointing to each spot, "then you will have to walk uphill to get to everything. Piazza Matteoti is at the top. Get off there and you'll always walk downhill. At the bottom is Piazza Giovanni Paolo II. You get the C bus there to take you back here."

This struck me as sound advice. She also told me that everything in Assisi shuts down from noon to two for lunch so not to even think about heading out before two. This gave me an hour and a half to kill so I went down to my room and rested up.

I headed over to the basilica at 1:45. I wanted to get the necessary biglietti for the bus and something cold to drink before going into the church. I accomplished the tickets and the drink, but not the church. It wouldn't open until 2:30 so I decided to take the bus to the city on the hill.

As we were driving up the mountain I could tell that I would be glad for the concierge's suggestion. Although the streets on which the bus drove were not particularly steep, it was clear that the visible roads inside that town were quite canted.

Piazza Matteoti isn't a piazza so much as a narrow bus stop. I got off the bus, checked my map and then set off into the labyrinth of "pedestrian only" vicolos that would lead to San Rufino, the first of the churches I wanted to see. Much to my surprise, they actually got me there.

The first thing that I noticed about Assisi is how quiet the place is. There were not a lot of tourists, and the vast majority of these were in tour groups. As anywhere else, this means clumps of people listening to guides then posing for a group picture in front of whatever monument or church they've been alowed three minutes to explore.

At least for the time I was there, San Rufino was spared this. Situated at the end of a long narrow plaza, the church is relatively plain on the outside. Inside, though, it makes up for this. White and constructed along a colonnade, it does not have the ancillary chapels of most Medieval cathedrals. Instead, there are kneelers facing large icons. some quite modern. One, for example, is dedicated to John Paul II. The real prize in the church, though, is the baptismal font. This is the same font where both Saints Francis and Chiara were baptized.

One thing that separates San Rufino from several of the other churches is that they let you take photos in this one. This was not true of the next church I visited.

The Basilica di Santa Chiara is larger but far less impressive than San Rufino. The nave is Spartan and very dark. A rather officious nun sits in a booth to the side to make sure that no one takes pictures. Given the lighting circumstances, any shots would have to be done with a flash so I can see the reason for their reticence.

Downstairs is the crypt of Saint Chiara. Unlike the church, it is well-lit and beautifully tiled in off-white and blood red. To one side is a collection of her vestments while the crypt is in a secluded section on the opposite side. The sarcophagus is topped by a replica of the nun lying in repose. This is inside a glass enclosed tomb. The only people who are allowed to get up to the window are praying priests and nuns. All others stand behind a second glassed-off area and observe.

Outside the church I grabbed a slice of pizza and a coke and sat in the piazza for a while. The tourists were huddled in their groups and nearly every priest who passed by was enlisted to have their picture taken with individual tourists, or asked to shoot groups of them on the front steps.

I walked from there to the Piazza di Comune, the center of local government back in the day. The most impressive part of this square is the Temple of Minerva. An ancient bit of architecture dating back to the Roman Empire, its ionic columns and triangular cornice seem wildly out of context in the midst of this Medieval city. Originally constructed as a temple to a Roman goddess, the building was usurped by the Catholics and converted into a church in the 14th or 15th Century. This is where the incongruity really hits you. While the outside is Roman ruins, the inside is a small but brightly painted (mostly in shades of deep blue) collection of Christian iconography. I couldn't help but feel like it was the Christian revenge for all those lions. Here, Christianity was defiantly defacing the Roman aesthetic.

By now I was getting tired in the heat and sun. I didn't want to see too much today because I'll be here for a couple of days. Besides, I wanted to see Santa Maria degli Angeli before calling it a day. I walked down the long steep roads to the Piazza Giovanni Paolo II. Occasionally I would be passed by a huffing and puffing tourist attempting to walk up the same incline. At these moments, I blessed my concierge.

I got to the stop a few minutes before the bus did and took this back to Santa Maria. The church was now opened and was filled with priests, nuns and monks, all part of their own pilgrimage.

Unfortunately, this is one of the churches where they do not allow photos. Since I really do respect these rules, I was more than a little disappointed. It isn't that the church is ornate (although God knows it is), it is quite unique for other reasons. When you walk into the mammoth basilica you can't help but notice that below the dome is another church. This small church is known as the Porziuncola and it is the nucleus of the first Franciscan monastery, built by Francis in the 13th Century. It is also the location where he bestowed the cowl of the religious order on St Chiara. It is a small, dark chapel built of stone and decorated with murals. The light flooding in from the dome windows illuminates it in a way that separates it from rest of the darker basilica. Directly behind this church-within-a-church is the Cappella del Transito. This is where Saint Francis died in 1226. It now houses a relic from the saint and was currently the site of numerous priests kneeling before the small altar on which it sits. This entire cathedral was designed and built over these two locations and done so in a way that brilliantly contextualizes them.

I sat in the church for quite a while then headed back to my place for the evening. My guess is that I'll go back to this basilica while I'm here.

14. In Case You Were Wondering...

Given the delightfully personal nature of my time with Bridget, I've decided not to blog her visit here. The blog will resume on June 29 when I will be alone and God only knows where.

13. Back in Step(s)

Saturday, June 16
Early Evening

After two less than stellar days, this one went a good long way toward correcting the balance.

It did not start with getting up. Like yesterday, there was no hot water. Today's water was at least tepid so I guess that's an advantage. Still, my thought is to not shower tomorrow until I change hotels. Tonight is blessedly the last one in this place.

And, by the way, did I ever mention the name of this hotel? It's the Hotel Mirage. There has to be some points given for truth in advertising. Any resemblance to this place and a real hotel is strictly an illusion.

My main mission for the day was to hang out with Jean O'Sullivan. Jean is a state legislator from Vermont who is very close friends with my cousin Judy. I met Jean at Judy's wedding a few years back. When Judy was looking to put up relatives with friends she thought that Jean and I would get along. Her thought was spot on. We hit it off big time over that weekend. When Judy told me that she was going to be in Rome at the same time I was more than happy to get together with her.

Jean is an incredibly smart, politically savvy woman of great energy and sense of humor. In short, she's the perfect best friend for Judy who matches that same bill. And like Judy, she's a born storyteller.

Jean and I had been emailing possible times and places over the past few days and ultimately decided on meeting up on the Spanish Steps in the Piazza di Spagna at 10:30. From there, we could walk to the gardens at the Villa Borghese. Her hope was to get to know her way around the gardens since she had to come back at 4:00 for a tour of the villa.

When I got to the Piazza, the first twelve or so steps were taken up with a military band. In a fashion that one might consider "typically Italian," they were using martial rhythms to play pop tunes. A large crowd had gathered to watch, many of them old men who were wearing the same feathered hats as the musicians. I decided to take a position on one of the platform steps so that I would be visible to Jean when she got there. Since I have a hard time distinguishing faces in a crowd I assume everyone else does.

After a few minutes I turned around to look up the Steps toward Trinita di Monti, the double-spired white church at the top of the steps that also marks the highest point in Rome. The sun was poised between and above the two spires. I decided not to take a picture at this point since everything between the sun and the camera would be nothing more than a silhouette.

At that point I saw a wildly waving silhouette. It took a second to process that it was Jean seated on the next platform step up.

As fun as the music was, it was a little too loud to have a conversation so we went to a little cafe next to the subway stop and sat for about an hour-and-a-half. Around noon, we figured it would be a good idea to head up the hill to the Borghese. It was now officially hot (it was over 90 degrees) so the walk up the very long staircase took the breath out of both of us. We took a minute to look down the Spanish Steps and across the sweeping skyline. Since this is Jean's first time in Italy, I pointed out some of the spots on the horizon like the Tribunario, the Vatican and Castel Sant' Angelo. We then walked the quarter-mile road along the ridge of the hill to the Borghese.

Once in the park, we found a nice shaded area overlooking a rotary on one side and the park on the other. We continued our non-stop conversation here. This went on for the next three-and-a-half hours, hitting on every topic imaginable from Vermont politics to costume design to filmmaking to our own theories on where Mad Men is headed. Finally, at a few minutes to four we had to fold up tents. We looked around for a standing map of the park and figured out what she needed to do to get to the Villa Borghese. By the time we made our goodbyes I think it's fairly safe to say that we were both sorry to do it.

She went west and I went back south. Along the way out of the park, I stopped to watch some impromptu roller blading skills. An instructor had created a straight-line gymkhana out of green plastic cones and a young boy and a young, well-muscled guy were taking turns going through the line. The young boy was very intense. The young man seemed to be performing intensity more than living it. Every time he took a break, he would dry himself with a towel while chatting up whichever unattached female happened to be closest to him.

I walked back the same way we had come in. When I got to Trinita di Monti, I decided to go in. It is the kind of 17th-18th Century church that reserves its wild flights of religious art for the ancillary chapels. The nave itself is fairly unadorned, it's most striking feature being the wrought iron gate that bisects the church into two seating areas. The altar is much more ornate, made more so by two giant cloth sashes that criss-cross over it. There is also colored lighting to set it off and a nun who seemed to be there just to make sure that no one disturbed the sanctuary.

When I went back out I was pleased to discover that there is a subway entrance at the top of the Steps. This meant that I could take an elevator down to the platform and not have to brave those steps again in the intense heat of a late Roman afternoon.

As soon as I got back, I settled up my bill with the hotel so that I wouldn't have to do it in the morning. In a few minutes I'll head out to dinner so that I can get back in time to get a call from Bridget. She should be arriving in New York in another two hours. Then, she's on her way here. Finally. Thank God.

Of course this does beg the question of how much writing I'll get to do in the journal once she's here. I guess we'll find out. Under any circumstances, my ability to write in euphemisms will get a hell of a work out.

12. The Networker and the Man Not in Black

Friday, June 15
Early Afternoon

I woke up still groggy from last night's news. The overhanging air of sadness was not helped by a complete lack of hot water and a continental breakfast that tasted like it was flown in weeks ago from one of the lesser continents.

I decided that the best thing for my mood would be to take a good long walk. I headed down the Via Cavour to the Colosseum. It was 9:00 so the sun was up but not yet hot. I sat in the shade of the old walls facing the Constantine Arch and just let my mind wander. After about a half hour, I decided that the time had come to do something I had always promised myself but had never quite accomplished.

The Vittoriano sits at the opposite end of the Roman ruins from the Colosseum. I have always loved this building unconditionally and make it a point to gawk at it whenever I come to Rome. The only way I've ever been able to describe is to say that it looks like a ridiculously overdone Italian wedding cake plopped down at the end of the Via di Corso. Dazzling white and layered with a massive staircase and not quite matching floors, the obvious intent was to recall Roman Imperial architecture. The irony is that it commemorates the victories of Vittorio Emmanuele in the Risorgimento, the unification of Italy in the 1860's after having been carved up by the Romans two thousand years before.

I ascended the long exterior stairway that stretches the breadth of the first several floors. Nowadays, the monument does double duty - celebrating the victories of Vittorio Emmanuele as well as extolling the virtues of the Italian military. To the latter end, there are two halls of photos of Italian soldiers, most showing them smiling and being nice to Arabs. Like most American depictions of the military, it scores points for public relations, but avoids mentioning the actual work accomplished.

The former is much more interesting. A long hallway that runs the length of the monument details the history of the Risorgimento in a way that makes it easily grasped. Quite an accomplishment since the joining together of the nation required complex negotiations with foreign powers and constantly clashing egos as well as numerous battles.

I worked my way through this then went onto the terrace overlooking the ruins. Across the street are two domed churches I've always found quite striking. Figuring that the goal so far had been to go inside places I'd only seen from the outside, I headed out and across the street. One of the churches, Nome di Maria, was closed. The other was blessedly open. An overwhelming series of murals and reflection stations, the small round church shoots up like a Renaissance silo to the spectacularly painted dome. It's practically an orgy of iconography. I looked around for the name of this one but it was nowhere to be found on the building. I'll have to look it up.

About this time the sun was beginning to get quite hot. I decided to head up the Via Nazionale so I could get some production shots on my way back to the hotel. I wanted at least a few minutes of air conditioning before I had to leave for my 1:30 meeting.

Early Evening

I caught the subway at the Termini and took it to Lepanto, a stop just the other side of the Tiber. The Roman subway system is quite different than any other subway I know in Europe. For one thing, it isn't exactly clean. I don't know how they do it, but most European subway stations and trains are so clean you could eat off the floor. In Rome, you just stick to them. It isn't anything that I'm not used to - it's remarkably similar in that sense to Chicago's Red Line - but it always throws me a little when I'm here. On the other hand, it is efficient and fast.

Just before getting on the train I texted Giovanni Piperno, the producer with whom I was to have lunch, a brief description so that he could recognize me. I agreed to wait just outside the Lepanto station exit. Fortunately, there was a shaded island right next to it so I decided to wait there. About two minutes later, Giovanni came flying across the intersection on his silver Mata-framed bike. Dressed like a slightly disheveled young professional crowned by a beat-up riding helmet, he skidded to a stop not quite short of the curb in front of me.

"You are Ron," he said. "I take you to a little place here for the not sophisticated."

O.K..

We walked about two blocks to a little corner bar/ristorante, the kind where you have to go in, order and pick up your food and the only time you see a waiter is when he brings you your check. I got a plate of spaghetti with oil and zucchini and we found a table outside. Just as we were about to start eating, a young waitress came by and told us we had to move because this particular table was reserved. We shifted one table to the right.

Giovanni is the kind of person who gets a great kick out of networking. As soon as we sat down, he starting giving me a battery of names and emails, all of whom he also wrote down with notes to himself about getting ahold of them before me. Many were contacts to different film commissions that we would need to meet with. The most interesting contact was to Giovanna Taviani, the daughter of one of the Taviani brothers. She is apparently a solid filmmaker in her own right and has had multiple dealings with Sicilian authorities. Hers, Giovanni assured me, was necessary information to have, particularly since the term "Sicilian authorities" is sometimes a euphemism for "Mafia." These folks apparently insist on pay-offs if we are to shoot in Sicily.

When lunch was over I decided to walk to the Vatican, about a mile or so away. It was beginning to get fairly hot so I stuck to the shade as much as possible. I wound up approaching Vatican City from the side with Musei Vaticani (aka the Sistine Chapel) and the papal residence. This means moving along the massive wall that reminds one that that this was meant to be a fortress as much as the home of a religion.

The St. Peter's Square was, as always, crowded. My mission for this visit was to get a decent series of pictures of the basilica. Because of issues of lighting and time of day, I have never gotten any good shots of St. Peter despite how many times I have been here and tried. This time, I did better than I have in the past, but still not perfect. Ah yes, I guess another visit someday.

I grabbed a bus and got back to the room in time to call Bridget. I also tried calling Diana and Joe to see how they were doing but, not surprisingly, they weren't picking up the phone. I left a message telling them I loved them and giving them my number in case they wanted to call back.

A bit on my meeting with Davide last night. We had agreed to meet at the information booth at the Termini. I gave him a quick description of me and he gave one of himself. He told me that he was tall, had black hair and would be dressed in black and carrying a black bag. I didn't say it to him, but I thought, "You've just described 80% of all Italian men."

The real problem, though, had less to do with looks than it did with the meeting place. Since my last visit here, they have started a new system for giving out information. The booth is on wheels and they push it about the Termini. This makes it a difficult to meet someone in front of it. This led to a series of texts telling Davide that I was at the end of Binari 1 (where the information booth had just landed) and that I would wait for him there. When he didn't respond, I called his number. An older woman answered. I tried asking for him but she only said something in Italian. As it turned out, this was Davide's mother. She immediately called him and told him that his father was making prank calls. Somehow, he tumbled to the fact that the caller was not his father, but me. He called me and we finally hooked up.

Probably best we did it this way. He hadn't had the chance to go home so was not dressed in black.

I suggested a little bar I know on the Via Gioberti. We walked over, got a quick drink then sat at one of the street-side tables. There was a certain amount of sniffing out going on, but once we were both sure that the other one was legit, we settled into having a great time. We talked about production crews and how to get what we need in Italy, but we also had some acquaintances in common and this led to a fairly far-reaching and fun conversation. After nearly three hours, there was a palpable feeling that we could have gone on. Unfortunately, his car was illegally parked and around here that is about the time that the police begin to notice. We split up at the Termini with talk about possibly getting together for another drink when I swing back through Rome in a couple of weeks.

This was the prelude to getting back to my room and hearing about Eileen.

11. Looking for Words

Thursday, June 14
Late Morning

Today is turning into one of those major stress travel days and it isn't even 11:00am.

I woke up to an email from Bridget. Last night there was a massive hailstorm in Dallas. The term "baseball-sized hail" was not only tossed about but also demonstrated in the news feeds that I checked out. Bridget's front and rear windshields were shattered, her car took some body damage, and, most frightening, it broke the window in Liam's room.

This fell on the heels of yesterday's Skype. In it, Bridget pointed out that although she leaves the US on Saturday, she doesn't arrive in Italy until Sunday. I had it in my head that she was coming in Saturday morning although I should have known better. The result is that the plans I put in place for everything have all gone up in smoke. I had to spend this morning trying to rearrange things while at the same time trying to find out which trains to Messina actually have seats on them. When we spoke last night, Bridget said she was fine with getting straight onto the train from the plane, but I want to avoid this if at all possible. The question is, "Is it possible?" I won't know until I get to Rome and can figure out the train situation. That will control everything down the line.

Until then, I just get to sit on the train and wonder. Not a favored prospect. At the same, it's worth pointing out that my initial reaction to Orvieto was correct. It's a lovely place, and it was sad to see it disappear into the horizon as the train moved on toward Rome.


Rome
Late Afternoon

I got to the Termini and went straight to the hotel. As I expected, it is definitely on the down low, but at a price I can afford. I'm in a fourth floor room that is only about six feet across and ten feet deep. A monk would be happy. The building is located across the street from the Termini one one of the lesser streets. The check-in only took a minute and I was able to add the extra night that I needed. It is a statement of the differences in price between Orvieto and here that in Orvieto I had a four star hotel for three nights for 150 Euro. Three nights here are 180 Euro.

At check-in, the receptionist insisted I have the bellboy take my luggage. This wound up being necessary since the reception desk is actually four doors down from the hotel. The bellboy pushed my suitcase onto the elevator built for two then got in with me and it. We had a bit of a struggle opening the doors when we got upstairs. These open in, a decidedly silly innovation in an elevator so small. He then showed me how to buzz myself into the security door. This led us into a hall that smells suspiciously of sweat socks and curry and then into the room. Getting around with him in it wasn't that much different from trying to maneuver in the elevator.

Once I had gotten everything settled in, I went back to the Termini to see if I could figure out what could be done about the train. There were none that left after noon on either the 17th or the 18th. A later train would mean getting into Messina too late to pick up the car necessitating a night in a hotel there. I changed my search to search for an earlier train. As it turned out, there was one leaving at 7:39 on the 18th and it still had two first-class tickets. I snagged these. Not only did this get us into Messina well in advance of the rental agency closing, it also meant that Bridget was not going to have to get off a plane and then onto a train. I really wanted to avoid that if at all possible.

When I got back to the room, I went back online, this time to look for a hotel that was both very nice and not this one. I found a room at the Bettoja Atlantico on the other and much nicer side of the Termini.

Since all of this is now paid for, I hope to God that nothing else jumps in the way, but it doesn't look like it will. I purchased some Skype credits and called Bridget. She's fine with all of this.

After talking to Bridget, I set up a couple meetings. The first is in a couple of hours. I'll be meeting with a filmmaker, Davide Daniele, to talk about ways of dealing with the Italian officials and film crews. Tomorrow, I'm meeting with a producer, Giovanni Piperno, to talk about Italian contacts and tax credits. Getting these meetings set up via a cellphone that boomerangs between the US and here is more than a little chore. That's the other reason I bought the Skype credits.


Late Evening

Meeting Davide was good, but unfortunately, my evening was broken by some very bad news from home. My brother had tried to call while I was having a drink with Davide but my phone was switched off. When I saw that he had called, I texted to find out what was up. He told me that my cousin Eileen died suddenly of a heart attack. Eileen was a beautiful person in every way imaginable, one of a very tight knit family. She and her sisters Karen and Chris were as thick as any three people I have ever known and the thought of one of them being gone is quite simply unfathomable. She's the first of my generation to go, and one of those who we all would have assumed would have outlasted us all.

With a home in Casetta just outside Florence as well as a very full life back in the states, I used to kid her that I didn't want her life, but I would certainly be willing to rent it for awhile. I reminded her of this last summer when I saw her at a family get-together. She smiled and agreed with fairly typical understatement that, yeah, her life could be worse. A few minutes later, I got her and her sisters and two other favorite cousins together for a picture on the front steps. It's framed and sitting on the bookshelf next to my bed.

I talked to my mother about it as soon as I found out. As usual, she finds the strength whenever she needs it, but this has hit her hard. In a family like ours, one member's child is every member's child. This is especially true of my mother who is the matriarch of the whole family. She spoke with Diane, Eileen's mother. It seems safe to say that the hit to Diane and Joe has yet to be processed. After talking to my mother, I called Karen to check in. Karen is usually a ball of unflagging energy, but of course she was subdued. Right now, her mind is focused on what has to be done. Chris is currently flying to her place in Virginia and the two of them along with Karen's husband Mike will be driving down to North Carolina in the morning to deal with what has to be dealt with.

Right now, all I can think about is the day I spent with Eileen at Casetta in 2005. It seems so odd to be in Italy when receiving this news.

10. Getting Down

Wednesday, June 13
Late Morning

I managed a very pleasant dinner last night in a fancy trattoria so far off the beaten path that I was the only person in the ristorante for the entirety of my meal. The owner/waiter hovered over me in the nicest way and made sure my every need was served. It was fine, but I couldn't help but feel sorry for the guy. After dinner, I took a walk through Orvieto then headed back to my room for a reasonably early crash.

For now, the laundry battle has been engaged. I'm currently sitting here in a small (very small) and crowded lavanderia in Orvieto Scalo. Getting here was a piece of cake - two buses with an immediate connection followed an equally immediate connection to a cab. The cab was the one problem in that, like most small town cabs in Italy, they enforce a high minimum. In this case, it's a minimum 10 Euro charge to anything within 5km. If the lavanderia had been farther away, it would have been a much cheaper cab ride.

This lavanderia has four washers and two dryers, a not equitable situation guaranteed to cause a logjam. When I got here an older couple was waiting for their load to complete drying. Thank God they were here since the instructions to use these particularly complicated machines were not translated in a way I could deal with. The two of them helped to get me through the process in spite of our lack of a common language.

I sat back and watched the season finale of "Mad Men" and waited for the wash to finish. Suddenly, the tiny shop was filled with women, all battling for washers and dryers. I managed to get mine into the dryer amid the jealous stares of old ladies then went to put money in the machine. The smallest I had on me was a 20 Euro note so I put it into the dispenser and waited for the change. It didn't come. I realized too late that the machine gives credit, not change. I went next door to the office where the proprietress, a middle aged woman with a decent command of English, came over, opened the money trap, got me my change then made sure my machine was going.

A few minutes later, a young American woman came in with her laundry. She was as confused as I had been earlier. I managed to help her out, paying back the earlier "pay forward." We eventually fell into a conversation. She is visiting Orvieto with her husband, an air force pilot stationed at Rammstein AFB in Germany, and her mother. Both were tagging along as well as her two daughters, aged 2 and 4. At least for a few minutes, the Americans got to dominate the lavanderia.

I'm now waiting for the dryer to finish its job and for the remaining little old ladies to stop glaring at me. Of course the next task is to get back. This part is not going to be so easy.



Late Afternoon

I was wrong. Getting back proved to be just as easy, even if a little silly. I asked the proprietress for the best way back to the train station. Not wanting to steer me wrong, she made me come to the window so that she could point the way.

"No more five minutes," she said. "Cinque."

Her English slipped irreversibly into Italian at this point, but it seemed clear to me.

As soon as I got down to the street I spotted the bus stop. There was another middle aged Italian woman with long dyed black hair not quite covering the chip on her shoulder. She was reading the schedule posted on the stop and muttering a blue streak to herself. After a minute she realized that I was there so started complaining to me - loudly and very fast.

"No parla Italiano," I said and reached out my hand as if to say stop. For some reason, she thought I was reaching for her and jumped back. When she realized that I wasn't on the attack she went back to her muttering.

The bus came after about ten minutes. I sat down for the five minute ride to the station.

It didn't take that long.

We turned the corner that was maybe fifty feet from the bus stop, went another hundred yards and turned into the train station. Apparently what the proprietress meant was that it would take no more than five minutes to walk. I didn't get too upset about the 10 Euro cab ride since I had no way of knowing this before getting in the taxi.

Just like the ride down, every connection was waiting for me as I got to the stop. All told, the laundry adventure lasted less than two hours. There may be a record in that. At least an Italian record.

I spent a few minutes online setting up my hotel in Rome for the first two days then headed out for a light lunch and a walk. To accomplish the former, I stopped at the Cafe Clan Destino (yes, that's what it's called) and got a fresh fruit salad and an ice tea, both of which taste infinitely better here than back in the states.

The latter needed some direction so I went over the map for places I hadn't yet been. One, the Chiesa di San Domenico, was fairly close so it looked like a good prospect. I followed the Corso Cavour to Via di Cavalotti, a narrow side street that leads to the Piazza XXIX Marzo. No, I have no idea what significance the date March 29th holds. In any event, it isn't much of a piazza, just a little alcove on an otherwise quiet street.

Next to this, though, is the Chiesa which more than holds its own. A 13th Century church, it houses the ashes of Cardinal deBray and an even more interesting relic: a crucifix said to have spoken directly to St. Thomas Acquinus. I can't say that I know exactly how this worked since the crucifix said nothing to me. It is, though, a rather extraordinary object. Shaped more like a tree than a traditional cross, it's branches/wings convey the idea of Christ's ascension as well as His death.

The Chiesa itself is like most Medieval churches. Extremely tall and topped by a wood-beamed ceiling, there is very little architectural ornamentation. This is provided by the accouterments of the statues, altars and standalone confessionals. Although the center of the church is aimed toward the altar, the sides break into impressive ancillary chapels for more reflective worship.

I really loved this church, but this was not an opinion shared by the only two other tourists who showed up while I was there. They walked into the back of the church and looked for about five seconds. The man said to his wife, "This isn't much," and the two of them walked out.

After leaving the Chiesa, I headed back toward the Piazza dell' Duomo. After I had been sitting there a few minutes, around 20 cyclists came into the Piazza and took up residence in one of the few shaded areas. All wore identical blue and white riding jerseys and shorts. A few minutes later, another flock of cyclists, these wearing identical yellow, green and white, descended on the piazza. Any hope this would turn into a Sharks versus Jets knife fight were quickly dashed. Like all cyclists, they speak the same language and were quickly quaffing beers (good for carbs, you know) and bragging how each had the tougher climb to get to the town. Eventually, they all gathered together for a group shot in front of the Duomo then went off their respective ways.

So did I. I headed back to my room for a hoped-for Skype with Bridget. On the way, I stopped at a little shop to pick up something for her. Now, with any luck, we'll Skype soon then I'll make it back to the Piazza dell' Duomo for a 5:15 tour of the Orvieto underground.


Late Evening

After a quick Skype with Bridget I made my way to the rally point for the subterranean tour and purchased my ticket. I had to wait for around twenty minutes but sitting in the Piazza dell' Duomo is hardly something to complain about.

There were eight of us on the tour, not counting our guide, Ariston. He is a thin young German with brown hair down to his shoulders and piercing blue eyes. He walked us down the slope toward the edge of the mountain then a few hundred yards along the mountainside walkway to the entrance to the first of the two caves we would be visiting.

Dug over several hundred years into the clay that supports the city, the underground functioned as a world within a world. So far, they have uncovered over a thousand of these passages, enough so that no one can walk more than three meters above ground without having one of the caves 10 to 20 meters below their feet.

In the first cave, we went through the area where olives were pressed, wine was made, and wheat was milled into flour. Since the caves were man-made and dug from clay, the scratch marks left by the original tools are still quite visible. Also included was a well. Our perch was thirty feet down from the top of the well. It then went another sixty feet below us.

Ariston kept up a running commentary, freely admitting at times that he couldn't remember what he had just told us two seconds before, an admittedly common problem when you have to repeat the same things over and over each day.

The first cave was surprisingly spacious. The second one was not. Just before we entered, Ariston addressed the group.

"To get into second underground," he said, "we must go down 55 steps and are not so regular. Also, if any of you are of claustrophobia, you should please to be last."

The woman behind me gulped audibly.

The staircase down into the cave narrowed with each step, making it in effect a funnel. Once inside, I was struck by how much daylight there was. Windows had been carved into the wall of the mountain. The reason, though, had nothing to do with light. It had to do with the thousands of orderly rows of 6"x6" holes dug into the walls throughout this section.

The holes, it was explained, were dovecotes, small nests for pigeons. This wasn't because of ancient bird fanciers. The pigeons were harvested here for meat. The windows were so that the adults could fly out and retrieve food for the young. This area also contained kilns for pottery and several cisterns.

Throughout both caves, darker areas are illuminated by single high-beam lamps. The result is to expose the different colors of clay that are striated throughout. It also made for a strange quality, as though the caves were somehow generating their own light source.

By the time we got to the far end of the second cave, I think it is fairly safe to say that everyone was glad to note that we could exit straight to the exterior walkway rather than brave again that claustrophobic staircase and the many low entrances.

At end of the journey we found ourselves on one of the overlooks so a number of us hung around to enjoy the view. Afterward, I went off in search of dinner.

I checked a few places, but many didn't open until 7:00. Since that was a half hour away and I was hungry, I decided to try out a place that I knew was open all day and evening. After a very nice asparagus-laced lasagna, I'm now officially ready to crash.