Presepi di Natale: Beautiful 2 Behold!

Since our arrival in Naples a week ago, the traditional presepi (nativity scenes) have been appearing throughout the city. Every church displays one or more tableaus which can be very small or big and grand. There are three components to presepi: one, when the shepherds are told that Christ has been born; two, the scene in the manger which is always set in a grotto; and three, the tavern in which there was no room for Mary and Joseph and where secular life continues in all of its vivacity. These three scenes, ranging from the sacred to the profane, are arranged in a pre-formed "set," much like the model theatre sets I used to build in college. 

The presepi in these photos came to life in our hotel yesterday. The figures are particularly fine--they have terra cotta heads and appendages with cloth/straw bodies (the oldest presepi are carved wooden figures). We discovered the Christ child hidden on a ledge in the grotto awaiting his cue to join the others on December 25!

The Shepherds (one fast asleep)

The Manger (minus the baby, for now)

The Tavern (unaware of the momentous event in the grotto)

Buon Natale!

Ciao.

Torna a Surriento (Return 2 Sorrento): Thanksgiving in Italia

My little dog Lucca is not pleased. She watched the suitcases emerge from storage this morning and rightly surmised that our departure is imminent.When I told her that we were going back to Italy, this time to Naples, she demanded a belly rub. I think that's a fitting response, don't you? Going to Italy makes me feel like a belly rub is about to materialize, too.

Thirty years ago on my first trip to Italy with my mother, we went to the Amalfi coast. Sorrento was our base for a couple of days' sightseeing in Pompeii and Capri. At night we strolled the streets during the passeggiata, eating gelato and marveling at the many street musicians playing Neapolitan songs which made you want to simultaneously cry and laugh. The songs grabbed my heart despite not understanding more than a word here or there, especially Torna a Surriento. That song squeezes my heart hard, a little like what the Trevi Fountain in Rome does to me. "How can you abandon this place of love?"

Sorrento derives its name from the ancient mythological sirens calling seafarers to their everlasting fate:

"Look! How lovely the sea!
The fragrance of orange blossoms fills the air.
Sea maidens encircle, enchant, watch, and wish to kiss you.
And yet you say, 'Farewell, I leave?'
But can you abandon this place of love?
Don't go! Don't torment me!
Return to Sorrento so that I won't die!"

So, thirty years on, I'm going back. It's my fate.

Ciao!

A Quixotic Quest 2 Find My Lucchesi Family

Three Tries Before I Can Say "Sono Lucchesi!" to a Living Relative

First Try

Ever since my first trip to Italy in 1982 with my mother, I have yearned to meet someone connected by blood to her father, my Italian grandfather. On that first trip, we got as close as Florence, but I couldn't convince Mom to go further west from Florence to Altopascio and Badia Pozzeveri to search for family. I think she was self-conscious about depending too much on the willingness of a guide to bridge not only the language gap but also the decades of broken connection with her father's birthplace since he had emigrated to the U.S. never to return. 

Second Try

In 1998, I traveled to Tuscany again, this time with Kit and friends Bill and Mia. We hadn't planned to visit the Lucca area, but fate intervened in the form of a little car accident (a woman talking on her phone ran into our car) and we found ourselves on the road to Lucca. When the signs for Altopascio began to appear, we decided to take a look at this (fabled, in my mind anyway) place. No matter that none of us spoke Italiano, we rolled up to the post office where I inquired (with creative sign language and my repertoire of five Italian words) about the local cemetery where I hoped to find a few residents who shared my grandfather's surname. Miraculously, we were able to understand enough Italian to follow the directions to a cemetery where we found so many gravestones bearing grandpa's surname that I cried in amazement at all these ancestors together in this ancient place. I felt rooted to the spot.

Third Try's a Charm

When I went to Lucca Italian School last May, one of my goals was to learn enough Italiano to be able to talk with relatives in Altopascio or Badia Pozzeveri if I were lucky enough to find anyone. But where should my search begin? Could I find that cemetery again? Was it the one on my maps, outside of Altopascio? I really had just two slender threads to follow, a 31-year-old address for someone in Badia Pozzeveri who might or might not be related and a 60-year-old letter from my grandfather's sister to my grandmother. 

Again, fate intervened. A friend of a friend produced another friend who works as a guide in Tuscany; David Beatty, guide and raconteur, calls his business "Follow Your Nose." I immediately followed my nose right to him, and "yes!" he had a day available to take me in search of my relatives. David and his trusty GPS got us to the Altopascio cemetery, but, alas, it didn't look familiar to me and there were just a few familiar surnames, not the scores I'd remembered. Undeterred, David encouraged me to put my Italiano to work by asking a couple of cemetery visitors if we were in the "right" cemetery. 

Per favore, signora...

Three weeks of Italiano made me fearless in approaching them, but it was the 60-year-old letter in Italiano from my grandfather's sister that bridged the language gap and produced answers. We were advised to go back to Altopascio to pick up the road leading to Badia Pozzeveri and its cemetery. There we would likely find the gravestones I sought.

Dritto, poi a sinistra, per via Francigena...

After a couple of hiccoughs (GPS loves exact addresses and abhors place names or proper nouns), David put us on the right road to the cemetery. I hadn't remembered the small medieval church outside the cemetery wall, nor the fact that it lies on via Francigena, the ancient pilgrimage route from Canterbury Cathedral in England to Rome. Although no one was working on the day we visited, archaeological work in the area and church restoration have begun, and relatively new directional signs now mark the pilgrim path. No doubt the growing interest in these medieval survivors has been fed by awareness of potential tourism opportunities in difficult economic times.

Abbazia di Pozzeveri, founded in 1103 as a Camaldolese congregation of the Order of St. Benedict

I considered finding the cemetery and paying my respects to the ancestors a great coup and would have happily wandered on to some other adventure, but David, for whom "follow your nose" is not just a business but a way of life, reminded me that I still had the 60-year-old letter from my grandfather's sister and a 31-year-old street address for her son in Badia Pozzeveri to use as clues in the search for relatives. So, we plugged the address into the GPS and went to find a dwelling that could potentially yield information about my family.

We found this house at the address, but before we even approached the door, a neighbor came to greet us. Like the kind people at the Altopascio cemetery, she spoke no English, but I produced the 60-year-old letter pronto having learned that it could explain the reason for my presence and my questions better than I could do in my fledgling Italiano. The letter released a torrent of information along with regret that I had come too late to meet the relatives who once lived here. Indeed, my grandfather's sister's son had lived here, but mother and son were both deceased and someone else, most certainly not a relative, lived in the house. 

My grandfather's nephew lived here. His mother wrote the 60-year-old letter in my hand.

I pressed the neighbor for information about any other relatives, perhaps descendants who might live in the area. As if to throw more resources into this language-challenged exchange, she briefly disappeared into her house and reappeared with her husband who produced an index card and pencil and began to write what seemed to be a rough family tree. I'm not sure what I finally said that made him understand I was interested in finding a living relative, but he took out his cell phone, dialed someone, talked for a minute, then hung up and smiled. Whoever had been on the other end of the line was going to join us. 

Soon, from across the street, I saw a man coming toward us. As he approached, I was amazed by his resemblance to my grandfather. Same body build. Same facial shape. Same nose! He didn't speak any English, but by this time, English was irrelevant. He took the index card with the names written down by his neighbor, then added more names, including his own, Vasco. If I followed the outline of the index card lineage correctly, Vasco's mother was my grandfather's sister. That made us cousins. Davvero!

Vasco

I can't express how surprised and thrilled I was to meet Vasco. But no sooner had I begun to absorb this happy event than Vasco's son arrived home from work. Another cousin, another generation! When I learned his name, Luca, I tried to explain that my beloved dog (who I imagined was languishing at home awaiting my return) is named Lucca (feminine, after Lucca, the city). If only my Italiano had been good enough, I would have mused romantically about the thread in my life connecting Lucca, Italy with Lucca my dog, and now Luca my cousin.

Luca

 Dizzy with the realization that I'd fulfilled a wish held for most of my life, and overwhelmed by the language challenge, I bid farewell to my new-found family with the promise that I would return. In my "I-can't-believe-this-just-happened" state, I forgot to ask for their addresses! Thanks to David who followed his nose back to Badia Pozzeveri a few days later, I now have addresses and an e-mail for Luca. I can retire the old address and put away the old letter and look forward to a future in which our Italian and American families stay connected.

I sure hope I interpreted that family tree on the index card correctly! What a great incentive to keep working on my Italiano so that the next time I visit I can confirm I didn't just will this connection into being! To be continued...

Cousins

Ciao!

Piano, Piano: Words 2 Live By

Piano. Piano. I went to Lucca Italian School to learn Italian. What I took away was a philosophy for living.

I'm not sure when piano, piano first flowed into the reservoir of Italian words and phrases in my brain. It may have been during morning break on the second day of school when I asked Angelo, one of the founders, about paying the balance of my fee. Other students were jockying for attention asking about scheduling or housing or what activities were planned for that afternoon. I think it was then that I first heard Angelo say piano, piano. Of course he didn't translate it, but he added something else in Italian that I interpreted as "no need to worry, no rush, we'll figure everything out in due time, just relax."

I immediately translated piano, piano as "softly, softly," drawing upon my long-ago piano playing. Whatever meaning other students attached to it, piano, piano became an instant hit among us. Soon we were saying it to each other and to our teachers and using the critical defining gesture: both hands extended, palms down, fingers spread apart, smoothing the air at waist level.

Angelo, artful practitioner of piano, piano eating a bloom from a tree on a "Parla e Cammina" excursion.

It wasn't easy going to language school. Another student likened it to being in the first grade again and I think that's a good description, even for students who entered knowing some Italian. Imagine dozens of adults from all over the world, many who are long-time professionals used to being in charge of people and programs, suddenly finding themselves in a position where someone else was in command and everything said and heard was in a language not their own. For people accustomed to grasping information quickly in order to solve problems, meet deadlines, and anticipate the next challenge, the slow pace of learning a new language can be frustrating. No wonder piano, piano struck a chord.

But I mustn't give the wrong impression. The teachers at Lucca Italian School are vivace (brilliant, vivacious)! They love their language, their city and surrounding countryside, their food and wine, and their art and culture. Most of them are natives of Lucca Province and have deep roots in their community. The depth of their knowledge about all things Tuscan inspires their vision for the school: students are welcomed as part of a large, extended family and encouraged in their study of Italian to explore Tuscany and what it means to be Italian. They have created a center of learning that's "all about the student" which is calibrated to bring forth each student's self-confidence to learn Italian without feeling the need to compete and without being judged. As my friend and colleague Eric put it recently, "they don't teach to the test." Piano, piano.

In hindsight, I believe my adventure at Lucca Italian School was the best learning experience I've ever had.The teachers invested their knowledge, energy and creativity in lessons and activities that provided me with a powerful incentive to join in the fun so that I wouldn't miss out on unlocking the mysteries of Italian life.

The first mystery is solved, though, as you already know: piano, piano.

Atop Lucca's walls I am practicing piano, piano with my friend Rebecca.

Piano, piano, guys!

Imparting the wisdom of piano, piano to the young.

And embodying piano, piano for the ages.

Wait a minute! We're not anywhere close to the Veneto! 

The sway of the breeze, the rustle of the card  deck, piano, piano.

In Parma, the street paver personally knows every stone! Piano, piano.

In Bologna, the fish are jumping out of the walls. Piano, piano. 

In Orvieto, i miei amici practice piano, piano while waiting for the sun to set on the cathedral...

And this is their reward!

Ciao for now!

2 Cinque Terre We Go! Speaking & Walking in Italiano, Part 2

Up, up, up and away we climbed from the village of Vernazza following the trail to Monterosso al Mare in Cinque Terre on the day our Lucca Italian School "Speak & Walk" group had most anticipated! The day unfolded in spectacular weather as we hiked a part of this iconic, loved-to-death coastal route designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 1997.

Admiring the port of Vernazza before starting our climb.

Looking back on Vernazza shining in the sun (and taking a breather) as we gained elevation.

From the top of the trail, Vernazza's beauty shimmers.

However, in the beginning, our day started ominously under a heavy downpour in Lucca. Our mentor and guide Angelo nearly cancelled the trip because of dire forecasts except for one which he chose to trust (bravo, Angelo!). We set out early in the morning in Angelo's car bound for Viareggio where we caught trains up the coast to La Spezia in Ligeria, just across the Toscano border, then to Vernazza, the next-to-last village, if walking from south to north. Although it is possible to hike from the southern-most town up to Monterosso in a long day, we didn't have that much time, and the drenching May rains had forced some trail closures between the middle villages.

Our hike between Vernazza and Monterosso al Mare is the longest leg between Cinque Terre villages and considered the most difficult. Once we climbed above Vernazza, following the ups and downs of the trail clinging to the cliffs wasn't bad, except in stretches where slick rocks and muddy ground threatened to send us hurtling down into the sea if we misstepped. Another challenge was passing oncoming hikers on what is essentially a one-person-wide trail. As the day wore on, and we drew closer to Monterosso, the hikers we met head-on became an unbroken stream. In order to keep the human chain moving, a kind of elegant dance  developed in which those of us going one direction would stand aside (often flattening ourselves against the rocky hillsides or pooling in little "turn outs") to allow those going the opposite direction to pass. Calls of "Grazie!" from those passing through received spirited replies of  "Prego!" We were all speaking and walking in Italiano!

With so many hikers on the trail, finding a spot to capture the scene proved difficult (but not impossible)!

In 2011, Cinque Terre suffered torrential rains and mudslides and nine people were killed. Vernazza and Monterosso received the most damage and are only now recovering. One of the reasons heavy rain causes such serious consequences is that cultivation of the hillsides in vinyards and olive groves has waned, resulting in greater erosion. Recent generations raised in Cinque Terre have not embraced their parents' difficult work of  tending the terraced fields and have left. Government incentives to keep the land in cultivation are encouraging, and conservation efforts are underway to rebuild retaining walls, but hillside sloughing is evident  everywhere and severe weather exacerbated by climate change makes one fear for the future of this precious place. The thousands of tourists help sustain the economy, but the environmental impact from tourism, where the trails are approaching human gridlock, contributes more worries about long-term sustainability.

Evidence of a new retaining wall supporting a hillside between Vernazza and Monterosso.

There may be impending human gridlock on the trail, but the resident ferral cats are unfazed.

The closer we got to Monterosso, the wetter and slicker the trail became. An older Italian man right behind us slipped and fell into a creek next to the trail and bashed open his head. A quick-thinking young woman approaching us jumped into the creek and staunched the wound and got him back on the trail where we accompanied him to his hotel ironically named "Point of Rocks." 

About two hours after we'd started our hike from Vernazza, Monterosso came into view with its picturesque and pristine beach. Que bella!

Can you see the giant carved into the rockface above the beach?

Time for lunch!! Shrimp and avocados. Water and wine. And this is just the primi.

Satiated, happy, and tired hikers enjoying a little caffe con Sambuca.

A last walk on the beach at Monterosso.

We hopped the Cinque Terre "local" train from Monterosso to the southern-most village, Riomaggiore where we explored for an hour or so before heading home. Riomaggiore's steep streets reminded me of San Francisco's invigorating inclines. Just what I needed to help digest that lunch in Monterosso.

The day's fishing may have been over for these men, but I "employed" them as colorful subjects for my camera.

Whizzing home on the train, we again passed the famous marble towns of Massa and Carrara hugging close to their majestic marble mountains. On our right, the Ligurian Sea sparkled and danced.

Here, from the speeding train, is a shot of what lined the route for many kilometers. I took this thinkning of Caro, friend and sculptress who can transform a fine piece of marble into fine art with a streak of soul.

We said good-bye to the Ligurian coast as we turned inland and headed home to Lucca. Our happy day had come to an end, but the sun was still shining.

Ciao!