No matter how far we travel, the memories will follow in the baggage car. — August Strindberg, Miss Julie

Creepy fact? Tim’s father, whom I never met, died on my birthday. My mother, whom Tim never met, died on his birthday. So each year, August 8 and February 6 come and go with very mixed emotions.

What does this have to do with travel? Not much, really. Or does it? Isn’t memory a form of travel — of going back to revisit (sometimes, whether we want to or not) places we’ve been, people we’ve known, dumb things we’ve done and good things we probably should have done. I think so.

And sometimes these infernal “trips down memory lane,” as they’re snidely called, exhaust me more than a ten-hour flight with three connections.

As I approach the date of my mother’s death, I’ve started thinking about all things Dorothy. The Wizard of Oz, certainly.  The late Bea Arthur’s irrepressible character on Golden Girls.  And, maybe most of all, Marvin Bell’s ecstatically romantic love poem, “To Dorothy.”

I first came upon Marvin Bell, who taught for many years at the prestigious and downright scary Iowa Writers’ Workshop, during  my three summers at the Bread Loaf Writers Conference in  Middlebury, Vermont. He was my manuscript advisor one year, and I still remember his kindness.

He read each summer, and each time he read this particular poem. He apparently reads it at every reading he gives, whether Dorothy is present or not. It is the ultimate expression of love and I share it with you here, in memory of my mother, Dorothy.

To Dorothy

You are not beautiful, exactly.

You are beautiful, inexactly.

You let a weed grow by the mulberry

And a mulberry grow by the house.

So close, in the personal quiet

Of a windy night, it brushes the wall

And sweeps away the day till we sleep.

A child said it, and it seemed true:

“Things that are lost are all equal.”

But it isn’t true. If I lost you,

The air wouldn’t move, nor the tree grow.

Someone would pull the weed, my flower.

The quiet wouldn’t be yours. If I lost you,

I’d have to ask the grass to let me sleep.

— Marvin Bell, New and Selected Poems, 1987, Atheneum

Buon viaggio, Mom.

Buon viaggio a tutti.

Here’s an oldie but a goodie. Did La Befana come to your house this year? Now it’s time to take down the tree in the Dini-Jenkins house . . . Buon Anno a tutti!

Christmas table happiness

When I was a kid, we celebrated Christmas on December 25. Santa Claus came down the chimney (I never knew how he got into our fireplace-less house) the night before and, since I was an only child, I awoke to boxes and boxes of joy. I loved it. And around 2:00 we ate the typical Italian-American Christmas uber-dinner: turkey with all the trimmings, lasagna and sauce (never “gravy” in my house, always sauce) that my father had slaved over for two days, an American fruit pie of some kind — and cannoli. And then my English-Irish mother, who would drive miles away to the only bakery she could find that made miniature Italian pastries, would bring out a tray of  yummy rummy babas, eclairs, napoleans, cream puffs, sfogliatelle, ricotta tarts, nut horns and more. I just gained five pounds writing these things down. My grandfather would enjoy his whiskey-laced black coffee with two teaspoons of sugar, and all was right with the world.

But at some point during the festivities, my Italian family always mentioned “Little Christmas” in the Old Country, their voices a little wistful and their eyes a little misty. Okay, maybe that’s an exaggeration. But it always came up. Years later, I realized that this January 6 event was the “Twelfth Night” that Shakespeare wrote about. The Twelfth Day of Christmas. And years after that I put it together that Little Christmas was Twelfth Night was the Feast of Epiphany in the Christian calendar. The feast celebrating the arrival (finally!) of the Three Wise Men to the manger. So what? Well, in Italy — especially in the poverty-stricken southern part of Italy where my grandparents came from — there is a Christmas legend about all of this. The Legend of La Befana.

My beautiful Deruta ornament

Today, Babbo Natale comes on Christmas Eve and does his happy-making work. But in the days of my grandfather’s generation, Italian kids mostly got their chance at some goodies on January 5, the eve of Epiphany. That’s when La Befana, an ugly old witchy-looking woman, would board her broomstick and visit the homes where children lived.

Legend has it that the Three Wise Men who were following the star, looking for the baby Jesus, stopped at the old woman’s house while she was cleaning. They asked for food and water and a place to stay, and also asked if she would like to join them on their quest for the new King. Suspicious, she said “no,” making an excuse about having too much work to do. They left, and very soon she felt a twinge of regret. Perhaps she should have followed them after all. She gathered up some meager gifts and ran out of the house in search of the men, but to no avail. She could not find them anywhere, even though she was trying to follow the star they’d told her about.

Realizing the opportunity that she had probably missed, the old woman flies on her broomstick to this day, all over the countryside, visiting homes with children and filling their stockings with gifts. Oranges, candy, cakes, nuts and small toys… for the good children. The naughty children get lumps of coal. (My parents actually did this to me once and it has scarred me for more than 50 years . . . but I digress.) She still flies because she is still looking for the Christ Child, and seeks it in the face of every child she meets. And children still hang up their stockings on January 5 and still sing songs to La Befana (from Epifania, Italian for Epiphany) the good witch of Italy.

If you’re lucky enough to be in Italy during the holidays, you’re likely to see a Befana toy fair or two. There’s a huge one in Piazza Navona in Rome, where stall after stall tempts browsers with candy and toys (even chunks of black sugar made to look like coal). And children leave letters to La Befana in a manger, telling her what they’d like her to bring.

Leave it to us Italians to figure out how to get a double dose of holiday gatherings, giftings and mealtimes in a single twelve-day period! What about you? Any “Befana” stories to tell? How was Little Christmas celebrated inyour Italian family?

Buon viaggio!

Countin’ the cars on the New Jersey turnpike

They’ve all come to look for America, all come to look for America

— Paul Simon

I blame this on the self-proclaimed “cultural concierge” Jesse Kornbluth. If you don’t follow his remarkable blog, Headbutler, stop reading this right now and sign up.

There. Much better.

Jesse’s been an active New York journalist for decades. Over the years you’ve probably seen his name in Vanity Fair, New York, Architectural Digest, Reader’s Digest, The Los AngelesTimes Magazine, Departures, The New Yorker or The New York Times. Man gets around. And I love his insights. I don’t always agree with everything he writes, but he always makes me think and that, my friends, is something of an achievement from the media these days.

Anyway, I was reading one of his pieces last week in which he crowned Paul Simon as our Poet Laureate, and I couldn’t agree more. For 40+ years, Paul Simon has been the voice of our (my) generation. Sure, there’s Bob Dylan and Lennon/McCartney. But, like the Energizer bunny, Paul’s still going. That counts for something.

So I went right out and picked up his new CD, Songwriter, which is a stunning 2-disc collection of the “best of” Paul Simon. Thirty-two songs, from “The Sounds of Silence” all the way up to his latest release, “So Beautiful, or So What?” I was listening to it in my car today and I had to pull off the road when “American Tune” came on. I’d forgotten about it and, as I listened, realized that it could have been written yesterday.

Here’s a clip from the old Dick Cavett show from September 1974, with a young (weren’t we all young in 1974?) Paul singing it: http://youtu.be/l_sl4r0eGVY

And here are the lyrics:

American Tune

— Paul Simon

Many’s the time I’ve been mistaken

And many times confused

Yes, and I’ve often felt forsaken

And certainly misused

But I’m all right, I’m all right

I’m just weary to my bones

Still, you don’t expect to be

Bright and bon vivant

So far away from home, so far away from home

And I don’t know a soul who’s not been battered

I don’t have a friend who feels at ease

I don’t know a dream that’s not been shattered

Or driven to its knees

Oh, but it’s all right, it’s all right

For we’ve lived so well so long

Still, when I think of the road

We’re traveling on

I wonder what’s gone wrong

I can’t help it, I wonder what’s gone wrong

And I dreamed I was dying

And I dreamed that my soul rose unexpectedly

And looking back down at me

Smiled reassuringly

And I dreamed I was flying

And high up above my eyes could clearly see

The Statue of Liberty

Sailing away to sea

And I dreamed I was flying

Well, we come on the ship they call the Mayflower

We come on the ship that sailed the moon

We come in the age’s most uncertain hours

And sing an American tune

And it’s all right, it’s all right

You can’t be forever blessed

Still, tomorrow’s going to be another working day

And I’m trying to get some rest

That’s all I’m trying to get some rest

Phwew!

I’m going to Iceland (not Graceland) next week, so I’ll have lots to tell when I get back. Maybe even some decent photos of the Northern Lights. Keep your fingers crossed. I’m packing right now and have more layers in my suitcase than a puff pastry…

Buon viaggio!

Happy Columbus Day!

I am an Italian-American

— Angelo Bianchi, Esq., 1982

Arco della Costa, Verona

I am an Italian-American. My roots are deep in an ancient soil, drenched by the Mediterranean sun, and watered by pure streams from snow capped mountains.

I am enriched by thousands of years of culture. My hands are those of the mason, the artist, the man of the soil.

My thoughts have been recounted in the annals of Rome, the poetry of Virgil, the creations of Dante, and the philosophy of Benedetto Croce.

I am an Italian-American, and from my ancient world, I first spanned the seas to the New World.

I am Cristoforo Colombo.

I am Giovanne Caboto, known in American History as John Cabot, discoverer of the mainland of North America.

I am Amerigo Vespucci, who gave my name to the New World, America.

First to sail on the Great Lakes in 1679, founder of the territory that became the State of Illinois, colonizer of Louisiana and Arkansas, I am Enrico Tonti.

I am Filippo Mazzei, friend of Thomas Jefferson, and my thesis on the equality of man was written into the Bill of Rights.

I am William Paca, signer of the Declaration of Independence.

I am an Italian-American; I financed the Northwest Expedition of George Rogers Clark and accompanied him through the lands that would become Ohio, Indiana, Wisconsin and Michigan. I am Colonel Francesco Vigo.

I mapped the Pacific from Mexico to Alaska and to the Philippines; I am Alessandro Malaspina.

I am Giacomo Belinimi, discoverer of the source of the Mississippi River in 1823.

I created the Dome of the United States Capitol. They call me the Michelangelo of America. I am Constantino Brumidi.

In 1904, I founded in San Francisco the Bank of Italy, now known as the Bank of America, the largest financial institution in the world; I am A.P. Giannini.

I am Enrico Fermi, father of nuclear science in America.

I am Steve Geppi, founder of Diamond Comics, the largest distributorship of comics on the planet.

I am the first enlisted man to earn the Medal of Honor in World War II; I am John Basilone of New Jersey.

I am an Italian-American.

I am the million strong who served in America ‘s armies and the tens of thousands whose names are enshrined in military cemeteries from Guadalcanal to the Rhine …

I am the steel maker in Pittsburgh, the grower in the Imperial Valley of California, the textile designer in Manhattan, the movie maker in Hollywood, the homemaker and the breadwinner in over 10,000 communities.

I am an American without stint or reservation, loving this land as only one who understands history, its agonies and its triumphs can love and serve it.

I will not be told that my contribution is any less nor my role not as worthy as that of any other American.

I will stand in support of this nation’s freedom and protect it against all foes.

My heritage has dedicated me to this nation. I am proud of my heritage, and I shall remain worthy of it.

I am an Italian-American.

NOTE: Mr. Bianchi is a former President of the Order Sons of Italy in America.

Don’t fear your mortality, because it is this very mortality that gives meaning and depth and poignancy to all the days that will be granted to you — Paul Tsongas

I had a birthday earlier this month, and it got me to thinking. Birthdays have a way of doing that as you get older, don’t they? This one got me to thinking that I was turning 62 and how the hell did that happen? It also got me to thinking about my mother and her father, both of whom died at 64.

In 1967, when I was 18 years old, the Beatles released a catchy little number called “When I’m 64” on their Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band album and anybody who doesn’t know what an album is can stop reading right now. A newly minted college freshman, I thought it was a quaint song about old people. Now it seems that Lennon and McCartney were wrong. I am not losing my hair, I am not wasting away and I most certainly do not need anybody to feed me or need me. Or am I? Do I?

I have to say that the spectre of “64” looms large in my thoughts, both conscious and unconscious. Longevity is not particularly rampant in my family. Of course, there could be a truck out there with my name on it tomorrow, but you never know. And that’s the point.

So I got to thinking: What if I suddenly started taking after my mother’s side of the family and my number really was up at 64? What if I really only had 730 days left? What would I do? What would I want to accomplish, complete, start? A sort of a bucket list, I suppose. Tim and I are going to Iceland with his mother and sister in November because that was on his mom’s 80^th birthday bucket list in June. Cool, huh?

Mom and me in better days

I think about my mother at this age. At 62, she was old. My father had uprooted her from her home in the suburbs of New York City to the west coast of Florida and she was miserable. She hated the heat and missed the snow and the city and never exercised a day in her life. She basically sat in a chair in Palm Harbor and waited to die. It was horrible.

Some days I feel like I want to retire (whatever that means in today’s economy and whatever it means for someone who, as a freelancer in this economy, has been semi-retired for much of the past 20 years). And then some days I still wonder what I want to be when I grow up. Like many of you, I also sit bolt upright in bed at three a.m., going over endless (and pointless) to-do lists, stuffing down regrets and trying to deal with the fear. 730 days is a whole different kind of fear.

So what do I want to do? Here’s my list:

• Learn Italian — for real
• Walk more
• Spend more time back up north
• Live in Italy for a few months
• Lose that 10 pounds (oh hell, I shouldn’t even care about that one any more!)
• Write another book
• Laugh more
• Read everything
• Eat very, very well
• Loosen up a bit
• Dance more
• Love more
• Travel as much as I can (even John and Paul mentioned something about a little cottage on the Isle of Wight)

Yeah, I know — I won’t get to do it all. But at least I’m focused now. And I can start. And if I get more than the 730 days, I just might finish.

Well — what’s on your list? Make it. Do it. Have the time of your life.

Buon viaggio!

You is kind . . . you is smart . . . you is important — Aibilene Clark, The Help

Short one today.

There have been two books in my life that brought me to tears. The first one was Zora Neale Hurston’s masterpiece, Their Eyes Were Watching God. I read it in Bermuda, with its insistent tropical winds driving me from page to page. I closed the book and wept.

The second time was more recent, when my friend Sharon told me I should pick up a book called The Help by a writer named Kathleen Stockett. I opted for the audiobook version to keep me company on an all-night train to Boston last spring and, like most well-read audiobooks, it kept me awake and riveted for hours. I never slept. Obviously, it’s an instant classic, beautifully written and exceedingly important.

Then Sharon and I dragged our husbands to see the movie last Friday. “Uh-oh,” I could hear them thinking, “chick flick.” Women outnumbered men in the audience 50:1. We assured them that this was not a chick flick. Anyway, I hope more men go and see it.

I’m often terrified of book-to-movie adaptations, but this one was good. Maybe great. Sure, there are scenes that have been left out, but the movie stands alone as a complete story and, hey, it’s already two and a half hours long! If you loved the book, you won’t be disappointed. My favorite part of the movie actually came while the credits were rolling. The audience applauded. In Richmond, Virginia, the audience applauded. I was over the moon. More tears. Maybe we’ve learned something, after all.

But it gets better.

At church on Sunday, Pastor Jon not only mentioned the movie during his sermon, but he adapted Abileen’s benediction for us as we stood to close the service: You are kind . . . you are smart . . . you are important. Then he added, You are blessed. You got it. More tears. I admit it: I’m a softie.

So what does this have to do with travel and travel writing? Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. Pick up the books. Go see the movie. Be transported. See how far we’ve come. And how far we still have to go.

Buon viaggio!

Only after a disaster can we be resurrected. — Chuck Palahniuk

There are some places that you have to see, no matter how  painful or emotional they might be.

As a native New Yorker who was living near Boston when  the terrorists attacked on 9/11, I knew I had to get down  there as soon as it was practical. I had to see it for myself. I  had to stand at Ground Zero and take it all in. It was  sacred space and I needed to be there.

Tim and I went to New York for the six-month  anniversary, although we hadn’t realized at the time that  we had chosen that exact date to visit. We were even  interviewed that day by a TV news team, ironically, from Boston. Walking around lower Manhattan, we witnessed some of the ceremonies that were being conducted for the anniversary, but more than that, we saw what the people had done. The missing posters, still hanging on fences and in storefronts, the ribbons, the phone numbers offering assistance, the closed gates of Trinity Church, sadness and disbelief and emptiness everywhere. Would it ever be the same?

Well, New Yorkers being who they (we) are, the city has certainly been resurrected. Better than ever, maybe for a time, maybe forever. And while the politicians can haggle all they want about this monument or that project — despite the fact that there is still today, ten years after the event, no building yet erected — the city has gone on. So I wanted to see what was happening in L’Aquila (“the eagle”) after its own disaster. Had it gone on?

Bridge Out

On April 6, 2009, the city of L’Aquila, the capital of the Italian region of Abruzzo in central Italy, was devastated by an earthquake measuring 6.3 on the Richter scale. With the city at its epicenter, the earthquake riddled much of the surrounding area, ultimately claiming 308 lives, injuring more than 1,500 people and rendering more than 65,000 people homeless. The statistics are staggering, the damage even more so. The main earthquake (there were several significant aftershocks) was felt in Rome, nearly 60 miles away.

Now, earthquakes are nothing new to L’Aquila. The one in 1703, which targeted most of central Italy, took more than 5,000 lives. But this quake of 2009 was the deadliest in all of Italy since the 1980 Irpinia earthquake, which killed nearly 3,000 people in the south, near Avellino. Let me tell you a little about the medieval city of L’Aquila.

Street scene

It sits majestically among the Apeninnes and the snow-capped mountains of the Gran Sasso range. The city comprises a virtual maze of narrow streets, lined with Baroque and Renaissance buildings and churches opening onto elegant piazzas. Home to the University of L’Aquila, it is a dynamic college town and has many cultural institutions, among them a theater, a symphony orchestra, a fine arts academy, a state conservatory and a film institute. There are even several ski resorts near the city. A good place to be. At least it used to be.

We drove to L’Aquila from Sulmona, a little farther south in Abruzzo, and were headed ultimately up to Civitella del Tronto, on the northern border of the region. We had to take a bit of a detour to visit L’Aquila, but the rest of our group agreed that it was something we shouldn’t miss. The closer we got to the city, the stranger things became. Whole city blocks of buildings were supported by two by fours . . . over the windows, buttressing the balconies, forbidding entry entirely. Some had metal scaffolding all around them. And the people were gone. It was nearly lunchtime, and there were virtually no people on the streets. Something was very wrong.

1,000 keys to reopen the city . . .

We drove to the end of what looked on the map to be a fairly central artery in the city and were eventually stopped by a wall of orange plastic. We could go no farther; the bridge to the city was out. Rocks and debris were everywhere. It looked like this had happened last week. A few of us got out to walk onto the bridge entrance and agreed that it was something out of one of those cheesy “end of the world” movies that have always been so popular. I wonder why we have to imagine these stories when the real thing is there for the taking?

Back in the cars, look at the map, find another way in. We discovered a way by the  Fontana Luminosa (“Luminous Fountain”), a sculpture of two women bearing large jars, built in the 1930s. Nearby several food trucks were selling lunch to the workers, and across the way stood the impressive Spanish fort (Forte Spagnolo) built in 1534 by the Viceroy Don Pedro de Toledo.

Forte Spagnolo

We parked the cars and walked in, not sure what we might find. It took our breath away. The original plan was to have lunch in L’Aquila, but we soon discovered how difficult that might be. We walked through street after street of closed buildings, once so beautiful, now barred by intricate webs of heavy iron rods. Overhead, makeshift barriers prevented further spillage from falling onto the streets and, one assumes, onto pedestrians. Not that there were many of us there. The most prominent presence was the military police — standing nearby their Hummers, decked out in their camouflage, armed to the teeth to discourage looting and maintain order on the streets. To be honest, it felt like a war zone.

Fontana Luminosa

There were two hopeful signs indicating restaurants that were still open. We followed them down a side street only to find one closed and another that looked quite lovely, but only seemed to serve fish, which most of us didn’t want. So we went on, hoping for the best. We soon came to a broad spot in the road, near one of the former government buildings. A banner signaled that this had possibly been the site of a memorial service for the victims of the “terremoto” (earthquake) and, across the street, was a chilling memorial just like one I had seen in lower Manhattan those years ago: a wall of house keys, belonging to either homes or residents which no longer existed. A large paper key had a note on it that read: “1000 keys to reopen the city.” The keys are still there, and the city is mostly closed, most of the former residents having moved out of their government-issued blue tents and into the countryside (or even farther away) by now.

Today, L’Aquila is a city of a great historical past and an uncertain future. The people on its streets are largely workers, soldiers and a few die-hard shopkeepers who come to work each day to try to keep body and soul together. We found lunch in a slick, modern cafeteria-style place called Nero Caffe that was so totally out of place in this environment that we had to pinch ourselves to see if we were really there. But the food was good and the cost was reasonable and we felt that in some way maybe we had made a contribution to the city that day.

For your protection

As soon as the tragedy happened, the National Italian American Foundation created a place to donate; to date, they have collected many hundreds of thousands of dollars to the Abruzzo Relief Fund. On their website it says, “Individuals, corporations and foundations who wish to donate to the NIAF/Abruzzo Relief Fund can do so by visiting www.niaf.org/relief. Additionally, donations can be made by check payable to the NIAF/Abruzzo Relief Fund, The National Italian American Foundation, 1860 19th Street NW, Washington, DC 20009.” I’ve given, and I hope some of you will, too. The churches and cathedrals need to be rebuilt; the forte needs help (it houses the Museum of Abruzzo and its third floor completely collapsed); even some of the “earthquake-proof” modern structures — hospitals and university buildings — had to be closed. The people need to come home.

I’ll leave you with an entry from a Wikipedia post that sums up the energy that the government put towards L’Aquila in the weeks and months after the earthquake. Not much has been done since:

“Because of the 2009 earthquake, the Berlusconi government decided to move that year’s G8 summit from its scheduled Sardinian host of La Maddalena to L’Aquila, so that disaster funds would be distributed to the affected region and to show solidarity with the city’s inhabitants. World leaders converged on L’Aquila on July 8 and many of them were given tours of the devastated city by the host Prime Minister. A Washington Post newspaper article on April 11, 2010 reported that in February 2010, residents of L’Aquila, frustrated that cleanup efforts of the destroyed downtown had not begun after ten months of waiting, had organized daily volunteer crews to haul away rubble themselves. Many of these displaced residents have been re-housed in new housing on the fringe of town, and missed the vibrant life, shops and cafes downtown that were damaged and shuttered (reportedly some 2,000 businesses have closed).”

Can it be resurrected?

Like the author Nan McElroy writes in her wonderful little guidebook: “Remember that Italy is a country, not a theme park.” Sometimes the authentic Italy is not so pretty. It can move you to tears and reach out for help. Will you?

Buon viaggio!

April is the cruelest month . . . — T.S. Eliot

I’m sorry about April. About not writing in April, that is. It must have been a busy month. But I’ve let all of us down.

When you start this blogging thing, you make explicit promises to yourself and implicit promises to your (wished for) readers. I promised to write every week, and I did just that for almost a year. Then I got a fairly regular paying writing gig for almost four months, and all bets were off. Weekly turned to bi-weekly turned to monthly and then all of a sudden, five weeks went by with nothing. What was I doing? Mostly planning for my upcoming trip to Italy. When you travel with a group and you’re the instigator, all the questions funnel into you, eventually. And most of the planning. And all of the worry. And there’s been a whole lot of that since the activities of last Sunday night! So I’ve been worrying a lot, I guess.

But I also did some amazing things, culturally, in April. Saw Madame Butterfly at the Virginia Opera (not the best production ever, but not bad). I saw one of my all-time favorite plays, A Thousand Clowns, with Richmond’s own thesbian master, Scott Wichmann. And I got to see a rare appearance of Mary Oliver, whose poetry has inspired me and moved me to tears for years.

She’s a lot funnier than I expected her to be in a reading, although there’s certainly a great deal of humor in her poetry. She read from a number of her books, covering oldies but goodies like The Journey and Wild Geese. And she read from several of her “Percy” doggie poems. As a dog momma myself, I greatly appreciate these, but no more than masterpieces like The Journey, which has probably saved my own life a few times.

She recounted regularly running down Commercial Street in her pjs after Percy (all of them) escaped — a sight, she says, that Provincetown locals are quite used to. Wish I was there! And, flipping madly through volumes, she muttered that she’s such a big shot now that it’s hard to manage a reading, what with poems lodged in so many different books. Would that I had such a problem!

Assisi-bound (hopefully!)

So I guess you could say that I’m back. But you could also say that I’m going forth very soon. To more adventures in Italy. First to Abruzzo to sample first-hand what has been called by some the best food in the country. Then to an agriturismo in Le Marche that I’ve been reading about for more than a year in the blog La Tavola Marche. Then off to Verona, with a stopover (I hope) in Assisi. There will be cooking classes and tours of confetti factories. There will be visits to vineyards and olive oil producers. There will be history absorbed, photos taken and stories written, and you will be privy to all of it over the summer.

For now, I will leave you with one of Mary Oliver’s “Percy” poems. Enjoy!

Percy

(One)

Our new dog, named for the beloved poet,

ate a book which unfortunately we had

left unguarded.

Fortunately, it was the Bhagavad Gita,

of which many copies are available.

Every day now, as Percy grows

into the beauty of his life, we touch

his wild, curly head and say,

“Oh, wisest of little dogs.”

Buon viaggio!

His love for glasswork and his desire to guarantee the Murano glass tradition led him, in his retirement, to teach future generations of those who share this passion, including in the United States at nonprofit glass centers such as Public Glass in San Francisco and Chicago Hot Glass. — The GLASS Quarterly Hot Sheet, December 21, 2010

You never know who you’re going to meet when you go on a trip abroad. This past November, when I went to Umbria with Dream of Italy’s Umbrian Harvest Tour, I lived amongst a dozen interesting, funny and smart people for a week. I saw two of them — Rosemarie and Valerie — for dinner in New York a few weeks ago. And one couple, Lee and Tarie Harris, are among those I also know I’ll stay in touch with. The very first night, Lee regaled us all, as we sat around the fireplace waiting for dinner, with the prior week’s experiences, among them a three-day trip to Murano to visit his glass-blowing mentor, Elio Quarisa, who was very ill with cancer.

None of us had ever met a glass blower before. A PBS special on Dale Chihuly was about the closest any of us had gotten. But Lee had studied with a “first master” of the Venetian glass school and the love he had for this man and his art and the people who are involved in this incredible industry was evident as he talked into the night.

A month after we returned home, we got an e-mail from Lee saying that his beloved mentor had finally

Maestro Elio and Lee

succumbed to the disease. He was distraught, of course, but grateful for the days he and his wife had spent with Elio and his wife, Adriana. He wanted to get the story out about Elio, his work and the scholarship fund that has been set up by The Studio at the Corning Museum of Glass, where Elio taught in his retirement. I hope you enjoy reading about this amazing man and his efforts to keep an ancient art alive. Thanks, Lee!

“I was incredibly honored not only to be in a workshop with the Venetian Goblet Maestro Elio Quarisa, but to become great friends with him, from the very first day of the workshop at my home glass studio, Chicago Hot Glass, about seven years ago.

Elio and Pino Signoretti, the greatest glass sculptor ever — and one of Chihuly's most treasured Muranese glass artists

“Because of his stature as a living legend I, as well as other top glass artists in the U.S., found ourselves reserved in his presence, to say the least. At the same time, from the first moments of assisting Elio, his quiet reassurance and sincere gestures of kindness made these fears melt away, and in their place came admiration and the sheer joy of being with him.

“With Elio’s awesome good looks, poise and wonderful carriage, he confidently sculpted exceptionally thin and delicate glass into amazing dragon and “delfino” (dolphin) stem creations. You realized quickly that you were in the presence of someone of supreme confidence that only a lifetime of working with glass and the hands of God could produce.

Elio and Adriana

“After only a few weeks of becoming friends with Elio, I and my wife Tarie had the additional gift of becoming friends with his wonderful and beautiful wife, Adriana. I  told Elio that he was actually the Marcello Mastroianni of glass and, were it not for the fact that Adriana had frosted hair, I would have called her the Sophia Loren.

“When you worked with Elio, rushing to bring him a bit of hot glass to finish a complex, delicate goblet, he would look up from the bench, with his wonderful smile, and say, in his broken English, ‘easy, easy…ELEGANTE, slow, breathe’ — in effect, reassuring both the advanced glass artist or neophyte to relax, enjoy and not worry. ‘It’s only glass,’ he would say.

“After these years have passed and now that he has left us, I must admit that if I ever really thought about the

Shaping the dragon

stature of this remarkable glass legend, I might not have experienced the depth and majesty of this amazing man.

“When Tarie I stayed with Elio and Adriana at their wonderful home on the island of Murano, we would walk along the canals, and we would constantly hear people calling out, ‘Ciao, Elio.’ And without even turning around, Elio would call back, ‘Ciao Rosa,’ or whoever it was, knowing everyone by their voice.

“He was Murano — a time and place where neighbors came out early in the morning, sweeping their front streets, or trimming their flowers in the planters of their front windows.

“Seeing this gentle Maestro, one would never know that he had actually gone to work in the glass factory at nine years old during World War II, when his father died and he needed to help support his mother and sister. At an early age, he was recognized for his energy and amazing glass talents. By the time he was 21, he was regarded as a ‘Primo Maestro,’ the highest level of glass artist in what has been the undisputed glass center for 1,200 years.

“After working with several different famous glass studios in Murano, he worked for nearly 30 years at the exclusive — and oldest — furnace in Murano: Barovier & Toso. Jacobellus Barovier was a French chemist, who started the company in 1295. His secret glass coloration formulas are still held by this glass studio, and the company is still held by the Toso family. Elio became their chief of design, in itself an amazing accomplishment.

Signing one of his amazing dragon goblets

“I visited with Elio in November, just a month before he died, hoping that his battle with cancer would end differently than it did. I am grateful that for those amazing three days, not only did I find Elio mobile, but could hardly keep up with his energy.  One day he and Adriana had planned to have his cousin and his wife meet the four of us at the ‘vaporetta’ (water taxi) to get their cars at the Venice airport parking garage, to tour part of the mainland and have a wonderful lunch and dinner. It was about a 12-hour day, and though Elio was experiencing intense chemical poisons to kill the cancer, he never complained and hardly seemed tired.

“Those three days will always be something that makes me smile, because I was with ‘my Elio’ at his home, finding the embracing residents of Murano, whether garbage collector or fellow maestri, all happy, as always, to see Elio.  And, as usual, Elio would stop and ask them how they were, and would want to know how their family and friends were…to catch up.  He would listen and look into their eyes with each word they spoke.

“Of course the people of Murano — many of whom were his artistic contemporaries, legends, suppliers and shop owners who had the benefit of being a part of their lives and their families — also felt he was ‘their Elio.’ I can only smile with the one thought, that perhaps he is now God’s Elio, which I am jealous of.

“So, when I email or speak with other Maestro friends, or glass suppliers and friends in Murano and Venice, when we say hi, or goodbye, we say ‘Ciao.’  To me, it has the same meaning as ‘Shalom,’ because when Elio said Ciao, he meant take care of yourself, because I care about you and your well-being and want you to be happy.

“Ciao, Elio. Shalom.”

Lee wanted me to tell you about a wonderful project being organized by the Corning Glassworks:

Elio, after he retired, came to the U.S. to be sure that anyone interested in Classic Goblet creation could learn from, study with or simply watch the Maestro. It was critical for him that his love of Muranese Goblet design would live on. And so The Elio Quarisa Scholarship Fund has been created by Corning Glass. Each year, Corning hopes to have Elio’s legend live on by awarding scholarship(s) to students wishing to learn and develop classic Venetian Goblet creation.

For more information, contact Amy Schwartz at 607.974.8914 or thestudio@cmog.org. To donate by check, please make checks payable to: The Corning Museum of Glass (designate which scholarship fund in memo/note). Mail donations to: The Corning Museum of Glass, Development Office, One Museum Way, Corning, NY 14830.

Buon viaggio!

I’m going to show you the real New York — witty, smart, and international — like any metropolis. Tell me this: where in Europe can you find old Hungary, old Russia, old France, old Italy? In Europe you’re trying to copy America, you’re almost American. But here you’ll find Europeans who immigrated a hundred years ago — and we haven’t spoiled them. Oh, Gio! You must see why I love New York. Because the whole world’s in New York! — Oriana Fallaci

I was in New York City last weekend. A native New Yorker, I need to go a few times a year, and I am reminded of another quote each time I go. This one is from the writer Sherwood Anderson, who said:  “I think you know that when an American stays away from New York too long something happens to him. Perhaps he becomes a little provincial, a little dead and afraid.” Maybe so; I don’t want to find out.

Anyway, my friend Sharon and I flew up last Friday night for a girl’s weekend. We had tickets to a play at the Brooklyn Academy of Music. (That’s not true, really — we had tickets to see Alan Rickman. He could have stood there and said nothing for two hours and we would have been happy). And I had a mission. I wanted to see what all the fuss was about a certain little Italian comestibles shop called Eataly.

Hotel Mela: Trendy Lobby Area

We checked into the Hotel Mela (which means “apple” in Italian; I loved that) on West 44^th Street. A super friendly boutique hotel that opened in 2007 right in the heart of Times Square, Hotel Mela is comfortable, features amazing staff, offers free Wi-Fi, has beautiful Egyptian cotton sheets and is remarkably well-priced for a hotel this cool. Best of all, it sits directly across from one of my all-time favorite hangouts, Café Un Deux Trois, which I discovered when I worked a few blocks north in the 1970s. A pleasant surprise was that the Café is now open for breakfast as well as lunch and dinner, and it was oh-so-continental to start the day with a steaming cup of caffe au lait under the chandeliers.

And let’s face it . . . I came to eat. So Sunday morning we set off to be at Eataly when it opened at 10:00. The fact that I could even think about eating again after the fabulous dinner we ate with friends Barbara and Geoff on Saturday night in the tiny and tres chic Aurora (Soho) was another thing. It takes practice and, I’ll admit it, I’m well practiced at over-eating good food. Not to mention good wine.

But back to Eataly. Twenty-third Street and Fifth  Avenue (right where, as I once said in a poem, “Fifth  and Broadway do-si-do . . .”) will never, ever be the  same. This was not even a neighborhood when I  lived in New York (and I lived just 4 blocks away!).  The only reason you’d go over to this corner was to  catch a cross-town bus. Especially on a Sunday  morning. My, how things have changed!

Getting there early was a good idea. The entrance  that we chose opened into a little Italian café . . .  authentic coffee concoctions (made from Torino-based Lavazza, of course) were paired with yummy pastries, and couples and families were coming in slowly and filling up the seats. It was friendly and bright and relaxing and we were off to a good start. As the morning went on, the crowds grew more intense and, while I’m not big on crowds, there was something enjoyable about this. Maybe because we were all here to have the same experience. Maybe because there were so many different languages being spoken (including a whole lot of Italian) and it was transporting. Maybe because the places is just so smartly designed and the products are so irresistible that you didn’t care. We stayed for nearly five hours.

Eataly was created in 2007 in Torino (Turin), Italy, the brainchild of Oscar Farinetti, an appliance/food store impresario who had a dream to create an experience that combined the elements of a lively Italian marketplace with a resource where customers could eat, shop and learn. His first 30,000 square foot enterprise began the journey to make high-quality Italian foods available to everyone. Today there are Eatalys throughout Italy (Torino, Bologna, Milano, Asti and Pinerolo) and Japan (Daikanyama, Mitsukoshi and Gransta); the New York City location, which opened in 2010, is the latest venture.

Joined by business partners Mario Batali, Lidia and Joe Bastianich and the Slow Food Movement, Farinetti’s Eataly NYC is a singular experience, sometimes overwhelming but always amazing. The store’s 10-point Manifesto begins with the statement, “We’re in love with food” and sets the tone for the tour. These people are passionate about food and passionate about sharing it with the public. They believe in selling quality products (which means they don’t always come cheap) and offering quality service. I wasn’t disappointed.

Delizioso!

Where to start? What’s your pleasure? Fish? Buy it for later and enjoy the raw bar while they wrap up your gorgeous selection. Vegetables? There’s a produce market like none you’ve ever seen and you can be seated to enjoy fresh-made soups, bruschettas and more. Pizza and pasta? Of course. A little wine and cheese? Go straight to La Piazza for your tastings. Looking for some bread or sweets to take home? There are almost too many to deal with. There’s a selection of house wares in the back, including the always amusing Michael Graves-for-Alessi selections. Restrooms? Of course. And, as the sign says, they’re in the back by the beer . . .

Bello carciofo!

While all the individual tasting areas were more than tempting, Sharon and I opted to have the full Eataly experience and put our names in for a 12:15 seating at Manzo, the formal dining room. I’m happy to report that this meat-centric restaurant has something for everybody, even mostly-meat-avoiders like me. The service was impeccable and the food was to die for. We each started with an appetizer — a roasted beet salad with hazelnuts, poppy seeds and smoked ricotta for one, and then crispy baby artichokes with oven-dried tomatoes on a bed of arugula with a dressing of whole mustard and olive oil. We could have stopped there. But of course, we didn’t.

Ham and Cheese!!

Sharon had the Girasoli di Mortadella with Pistachios and Scallions. There’s nothing quite like a stuffed pasta in the shape of a sunflower to make you smile! And I opted for the Angolotti del Plin with Brown Butter and Parmigiano. These closed-up little guys were stuffed with a combination of chicken and mortadella and the shaved cheese on top was so sweet it almost made me cry. Stop there? Not on your life! Bring on the Torrone Semifreddo and café! Sure, it would have been cheaper if we’d just gone over and ordered a slice . . . but really, who knows when I’ll get back here? I have no regrets, just another pound or two to work off before the next Weight Watchers weigh-in. I only wish I could have stayed for one of the Lidia Bastianich-inspired cooking classes. Next time . . .

And with that, we went back to the hotel to wait for our car to the airport, armed with a few gift selections and good memories of the theatre, the restaurants, the hustle and bustle of it all and Eataly. You should go. Sign up for the mailing list and take a cooking class. Travel to Italy without the passport. Mangia bene!

Buon viaggio!