The Dregs…

Mine was a difficult job during our week at the music competition in San Bartolomeo al Mare. I had the very difficult task of looking good, providing a gracious Italian greeting for those to whom I was introduced, and kissing when the occasion called for it. I’m not certain if I did any of these things well, but I enjoyed trying. The kissing part was a little confusing because the number of kisses depended on the other’s country of origin, and many nations were represented at the competition. Russia was 3 kisses (one cheek, the other cheek, then the first again), Italy was 2 kisses (one on each cheek), I think Brazil was 3, and I am uncertain of any other countries. I took my cues from the other person and hoped to avoid international incidents.

Having an undergrad degree in piano made the competition much more enjoyable than it would have been otherwise. During the piano portion of the competition, I walked to the school where it was held and listened for a couple of hours each day. Some of the pianists were ho-hum while others made me want to weep for the beauty of it all. I was very glad, however, that I was not John as he was required to listen to pianists up to 10 hours a day. Even though I love and understand piano literature and the playing thereof, I would have been forced to drive a pen through my ear into my brain until all sensibilities had ceased.  Milton, our table mate and one of the judges of the strings and ensembles sections, would ask in the morning what I planned to do.  When I would announce my intentions to listen to the pianists in the morning, he would bless me with the word “courage” in a very serious voice. Of course, I teased, I could leave any time I wanted while he could not!

Another very difficult part of being Arm Candy was sitting on the balcony with the breeze blowing off the sea and reading for hours on end. I was forced to read many hundreds of pages. I picked up The Patron Saint of Liars by Ann Patchett, who is a very fine author. I also reread The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver. Once again, I was moved by Kingsolver’s story and her beautiful use of language in this the pinnacle of her achievement. As with any fine piece of music, a beautiful piece of literature deserves to be read over and over. This is my second reading, and someday I will read it again, I am certain.

When not occupied with reading, listening to music and such, I walked along the sea, watched the boats in the harbor and looked in shops. As in Riomaggiore, the “beach” was largely stones, although here they were smaller like gravel. It held no appeal for sunbathing, so I enjoyed the sea breeze sitting on our balcony or walking up and down the avenue along the coastline.

I discovered that my position as eye decoration created a kind of quietness in me that I cannot often experience (not to mention the language barrier!). There were no people coming to me with crises of poverty, abuse, and disturbance, no places to work or volunteer (especially as I did not speak the language!), and no children needing to be driven, fed, and taught life skills.

In the midst of my quietness, I found that I needed fewer spoken words and that many of the words I say in life are simply taking up air space. The peace that came with saying fewer words allowed me to receive my week and life itself to a greater degree: to see deeply, hear acutely, and feel sensations more fully. I even found that I liked myself better.

I know it is not possible to continue such a degree of simplicity and silence in the busyness of normal life, but I hope to continue some of the quietness and sensitivity to life that I found in Italy. And I look forward to any other future opportunities I may have to be Arm Candy.

The day before we leave Riomaggiore, we discover that there is a last minute 24 hour train sciopero (strike) scheduled for the following day. (Train strikes can be scheduled?!) This means that our train to San Bartolomeo will not run, and we will have no way to the competition. We fret, worry, stress about how we will get there. Should we go today while the trains are still running and hope that there is a place for us to stay?

John calls the office of the Rovere d’Oro competition. Fortunately someone is there. Problem solved. Or not quite yet. Enough English is spoken to communicate to John that he should call another number. Another person who speaks a little English directs John to yet another phone number for the Maestro heading up the competition. When Maestro Lanfranchie answers he can’t understand John, and John can’t understand him. He speaks no English, and John speaks no Italian beyond a few basic words. Although at the time my Italian vocabulary is larger than John’s, it is clear that I would fare no better at communicating with the Maestro. John calls the office back.

Several phone calls and halting English words later, we learn that there is to be one train to a nearby city from which we will be picked up by an assistant of the Maestro. We are satisfied and make our plans accordingly.

The next day we arrive at the train station (downstairs, uphill, upstairs, uphill, downhill…) with all of our belongings and look for the scheduled train. An announcement in both Italian and English notifies us that it will not be coming, but it looks as though there may be another one an hour later. Still, we are uneasy. John calls the Rovere office again, and they inform him that there is a young man walking around the Riomaggiore train station trying to find us! No one is sure what got mixed up in translation and why John thought we were to take a train, but we are relieved to the utmost.

Alessio, a former student of Maestro Lanfranchie, drives us into the beautiful mountains around Liguria via smaller roads and then the autostrada. We stop in Camoglie a while later and pick up the Maestro himself. Alessio does his best to speak to us and interpret for us and the Maestro. We even manage a few laughs that are easier to translate or need no translation. Then we stop at Alessio’s house in Genoa to pick up a few things before heading onto San Bartolomeo. The drive from start to finish takes at least 5 hours (with stops). We are glad to be out of the car finally but are grateful beyond words for Alessio’s service and friendship.

When we are deposited safely in our room, I feel a surge of joy when I discover the telephone in the room – our first in-room phone on the trip! The room is spacious and fairly comfortable with a balcony that looks out onto the Mediterranean Sea. I think I will enjoy our week in San B.

A long, hot train ride takes us from Siena to Riomaggiore in the Cinque Terre. We arrive at the station and discover that carting our luggage will not be easy: uphill, downhill, stairs without end, amen. When we finally reach the building we will stay in, the door opens and we see yet another steep, narrow staircase up to our room. “You’ve got to be freakin’ kidding!” John mutters under his breath, hoping that the Italian woman who brought us to the room understands as little English as we think she does. Huffing and puffing, up we go… again.

But perhaps the climb was worth it. Our room overlooks the tiny harbor with a nice view of the Mediterranean beyond it. We are shattered with fatigue so rest a bit and enjoy the view. Later we venture out around the point to Riomaggiore’s “beach.” It consists of stones the size of large potatoes. There is no comfortable place to lounge, so I head back to read in the shade and breeze, while John goes on to explore the deeps of the Mediterranean. With snorkel and goggles, he spies different schools of fish and sea urchins. Unbeknownst to him, he steps on an urchin. This causes not a little trouble for walking as the poison causes extreme irritation. Still, the next day he snorkles again, this time with water shoes.

Below our room, the Town Fathers hold court. Some mend fishing tackle and make lures, while the rest make no pretense at accomplishing anything. They sit in a circle talking and watching the goings-on in the harbor. John wishes he knew enough Italian to crack a joke with them. I am glad he does not. Sometimes jokes can go wrong, terribly wrong, especially in another culture. Thus far we have avoided being obnoxious American tourists, and I’d like to keep it that way.

We explore the territory of the Cinque Terre over the next two days. Terraced vineyards and olive groves climb up the steep hillsides. The towns of Riomaggiore, Manarola, Corniglia, Vernazza, and Monterosso are tiny towns with one main street up each steep hill upon which they respectively sit. The food is good, the sea beautiful, and the pace of life lazy. We stroll from Riomaggiore to Manarola on the Via dell’Amore and take the train to Vernazza and Monterosso. In each of the little towns, there is a church or an oratory, and sometimes both. (An oratory is a bit like a spiritual clubhouse with a particular purpose, I gather.) Most have elements of graceful artistry and age as well as tacky twentieth century kitsch. I find that I both love and hate these little churches.

Liguria, the region around the Mediterranean Sea, is the birthplace of pesto. The basil used in the sauce grows exceptionally well here, so I eat pesto many times. Gelato continues to be a part of our nightly routine. John discovers that he likes pesca (peach) and fragola (strawberry) with cioccolato or caffe. We hope that San Bartolomeo al Mare will also have good gelato because it is very quickly time to move on.

Siena -

We arrive in Siena to be delighted in so many ways: Our room is lovely, our missing bag has already been delivered by the time we arrive, and the city is charming. Narrow streets wind through a picturesque, old city leading to Siena’s main piazza (square), Il Campo. There is life here, although it is not suffocating as it was at times in Florence.

After walking about a bit, we head for the Duomo. Upon entrance, I must remind myself to breathe. Every inch is covered with artwork of one kind or another, and it takes my breath away: mosaics on the floor depicting sacred scene and legend, paintings and sculpture around the sides, alters and pulpit in their appropriate places. Side chapels provide even more, with the library hosting an astounding collection of huge, illuminated musical scores that choirs of old would have gathered around to sing from. At one point I sit in a chapel and pray, “Kyrie Eleison – Lord have mercy on me, on our world.” and then, “Gloria!” When we finally feel as though we have explored every inch, we sigh and exit, looking back over our shoulders like Lot’s wife. Perhaps this wouldn’t be such a bad place to be a pillar of salt.

Feeling the need for a bit of time to allow the Duomo to settle, we rest a bit. Then we climb the city tower over Il Campo. 300 steps to the top, but the view is reward enough for the climb. The people in the piazza below are ants tunneling through an ant farm. Off one side of the tower is the Duomo in all its glory, and off the other side is what appears to be the remains of an ancient (Roman?) wall. Around the back are the rolling green hills of Toscana. The bell rings the time while we are in the tower and startles me. We leave reluctantly as the tower is closing for the day.

We have our best meal yet at Locanda Garibaldi and finish with more gelato on Il Campo. It is the perfect place to enjoy a bit of people-watching and listening. Speakers of many different languages gather in the piazza, a virtual United Nations of sorts. We are sorry to leave Siena the next day (especially me), wondering if any other place will be as sweet. Our cab snakes its way through the impossibly narrow streets and deposits us at the train station. Once again, I sigh and look longingly over my shoulder.