I Saw G-d Before Leaving Italy
WEDNESDAY, April 26, 1995.
The train from Milazzo to Naples was overcrowded in a typical
Italian way. Somehow, I managed to get a seat. After about two
hours, a woman sitting with her young daughter across from me
began making sandwiches with chunky canned meat that I'm not sure
I'd feed the limping dog in the lobby of this hotel. They noticed
me watching them and offered me a sandwich, a generous offer which
I graciously declined. Now that the conversations with strangers
had begun, the Italian woman across the aisle named Yvonne started
talking to me. A native of Palermo, she had just spent four months
in St. Louis. She also visited New York and Chicago but ate no
pizza except Domino's (horror of horrors!) so I couldn't get a
Sicilian review of Chicago deep dish. She was headed to Naples
to take an accounting credentials exam, accompanied by her cousin
Gabriella who was just along for the trip. The exam is a two day,
fourteen hour beast on which she fully intends to cheat her best.
She has belts with little pockets, and in each pocket are stuffed
hundreds of little pieces of paper. She has more papers for her
normal pockets and entire books for her bag. She says the controller
won't always be watching (I guess not) and that she can tear out
the pages she needs.
Upon arriving in Naples, the birthplace of pizza, we all found
a hotel together (separate rooms, don't go getting any funny ideas)
and then headed out for dinner at Michele's Pizzeria. The place
was very popular, packed with locals waiting for tables. There
were only two choices - Margherita (what we call plain or cheese
pizza) or Marinara (a pizza with sauce, garlic and oregano - no
cheese). There was a guy who just kept feeding them into the wood
burning oven and a restaurant full of people shoving them down
when they came out. Tasty, though my best pizza award still goes
to a little joint in Lucca.
THURSDAY, April 27, 1995.
Yesterday was my day to explore Naples. It started off with
a rare, miserable cappuccino (it happens) and cold, under-done
toast. You only live once so you can't waste a good opportunity
to get ripped-off on a mandatory hotel breakfast. From the hotel,
I walked down the Corso Umberto, peeking down side streets at
the produce markets, strolling by the clothing, the jewelry, and
electronics. I checked out the port, Castel Nuovo, and a little
mall that looked like a less glamorous copy of the Galleria Vittorio
Emmanuelle in Milan. Then I was up and down via Toledo and via
Roma sightseeing and hunting down an English bookstore. Having
finished with Hemingway, I was once again without anything to
read. Keruoac's On the Road practically jumped off the shelf and
into my hands. A quick scan of the back cover revealed that "Just
as more than any other novel of the Twenties, The Sun Also Rises
came to be regarded as the testament of the Lost Generation, so
it seems certain that On the Road will come to be known as that
of the Beat Generation" - Gilbert Millstein. How could I
turn it down? A classic "sequel" to the classic I'd
just read.
From there, I headed up the hill in the funicular to Vomero,
an upscale neighborhood overlooking the dirty, crowded, bustling
Italian port. I'd planned to meet Gabriella at the Villa Floridiana
at noon. We ran into each other as we were both looking for it.
Though it was raining, we strolled the gardens, admired the view,
and skipped the ceramics museum (because we wanted to stay out
in the rain?). Then it was time for some food. We found our way
into a little bar with some stools at a counter in the back. I
had the best bowl of gnocchi al pomodoro that I've ever had and
a tasty side plate of pepperoni (sweet red peppers in olive oil)
with some bread and water. Delicious and cheap. After lunch, we
continued wandering the neighborhood in pursuit of the ultimately
closed monastery Certosa di San Martino. On the way, we found
the Castel Sant'Elmo and took a look around. We heard music and
went to check it out. There was a guy guarding the door, but someone
came along and he opened it and we snuck in for the final ten
seconds of amazing music - vocals, cellos, flutes - musicians
standing around in sweats and jeans singing and playing their
hearts out to some microphones. I'd have paid $50 to stay and
listen but we got kicked out. I wish I knew what piece they were
performing so that I could buy it.
After the castle and the closed monastery, we took a long walk
down the hill on an awkwardly stepped cobblestone switch back
nightmare. A guy passed us, awkwardly climbing on his moped which
was ill equipped (as any moped would be) to handle the steps.
At full volume, Gabriella was telling me repeatedly (since at
first I didn't understand and then became reluctant to talk about
it) that this looked like a poor section of town. I'm sure we
were overheard by the local residents through open windows. Ironically,
this morning Gabriella and Yvonne told me that it was best I keep
my voice down while making "mooing" noises on the subway
(we were packed in like cattle). I guess we're both right. We
finally arrived at the closed but beautiful Duomo before searching
out (with surprising, even to Gabriella, difficulty) some mediocre
gelato and returning to the hotel. The evening was a Pizzeria
Michele repeat. This time I had the Marinara.
Today I went to Pompeii with Gabriella and looked at the ruins
in the rain. Everything was soggy and wet through and through.
I was feeling really irritated because the weather sucked, and
I had a throbbing headache from banging my head on an overhang
coming down the stairs at the hotel, and from the non-stop effort
to communicate in 100% Italian. An exercise like that is invaluable
for learning but it's painful. We ate an overpriced, underwhelming
lunch at a tourist trap restaurant that I don't think either of
us wanted to eat at. When we were trying to decide where to eat,
we were having one of those, "Well, what do you want?"
types of ridiculous conversations with a language barrier to boot.
After seeing Ostia Antica, Pompeii wasn't really that great. It's
the same kind of thing - the ruins of an old Roman city. Pompeii
is much denser and has a lot more buildings, but it doesn't have
the park-like feeling that Ostia Antica provides with its grass
and trees. Still, pretty amazing to walk around imagining that
people used to live here, that Pompeii was once a thriving city.
Photos of Pompeii and Herculaneum
From Pompeii, we went to a lesser known, more recent, and more
impressive excavation in Herculaneum. It's a small site, but remarkably
well preserved. Some of the buildings, including the bath houses,
even had their roofs intact! This is great news for the mosaic
bath floors, which I'm hoping yielded a few great photos.
FRIDAY, April 28, 1995.
Well, well, if I'm not in Rome again. I'd called Paula to
say that I was coming to town, hoping that she'd offer me a place
to stay again. I said that we should get together and she said
OK, and I said OK, and then I paused a bit too long before saying
good-bye, and then she said, "Oh, I guess you need a place
to stay." And so she graciously offered to let me stay the
three nights that I'd be in town. Afterwards, I felt a bit guilty
and tried to make a reservation in a cheap hotel, but everything
was booked! I spoke to her again this morning to make specific
arrangements and it really sounded like my coming wasn't a problem,
that she was happy to have me back around, so I felt a little
better. It really is the strangest thing though. I guess I'd say
we're friends, but what a strange friendship. It has no foundation
except for a five minute introduction by an unreliable Roman in
November. Life has its funny little ways.
I traveled to Rome with Yvonne who was continuing her trip north
to visit a friend. Gabriella went home to Palermo. Our train arrived
in Rome twenty minutes late - no big deal, but Yvonne was mad
and wanted to try to get a refund for the rapido supplement! (It
was a special intercity direct) I really couldn't believe that
she suggested it. I laughed her off knowing damn well that we'd
never get a dime out of the Romans.
It turns out that she got caught cheating on the second day of
the exam. Frankly, I'm glad, but she's really pissed off. She
thinks it is outrageous that they actually had controllers! She
says that next time she'll take the exam in Palermo where she
should have no trouble cheating. She wants me to tell her if I
hear of any accounting job opportunities in Zurich, but how could
I honestly recommend someone so openly willing to cheat to earn
her credentials? We had a talk on the train to Rome about "the
law" and how Americans respect it (generally) and Italians
don't (generally). She mentioned how she was surprised that a
photocopy shop in the states refused to Xerox an entire book for
her. Though, you know, the Belgians do that too. She also told
me that her Italian boyfriend (also living in St. Louis) got out
of a speeding ticket by telling a judge that in Italy, you're
supposed to speed up when there's a cop behind you.
SATURDAY, April 29, 1995.
It was terrific to return to Paula's place last night. While
travelling, everything is new and that's part of the thrill, but
there's always something comforting about familiarity. I bought
some flowers and fresh baked Italian goodies and showed up in
the midst of dinner party preparations. Turns out I wasn't going
to be the only dinner guest. An old teacher of Joe's and another
friend of the family were coming over too. I had a great home
cooked meal and lots of white wine which left me feeling warm
and happy and at home with my adopted family. Sitting there slightly
drunk, sipping coffee, eating cookies, listening to Glenn Gould
Goldberg Variations, and watching seven-year-old Joe playing with
a toy airplane on the floor, making noises and hoping to catch
a little attention, I felt suddenly like I'd tasted "adulthood."
I can remember dinner parties at home growing up where I was the
little seven-year-old boy playing with toys, not understanding
why everyone was acting a little strange or what exactly was so
funny. I fell asleep utterly content.
It's nice to be back in Rome. Of course, I visited the Spanish
Steps, and I found them covered with purple flowers! It looks
great but it limits the seating. I spent the day just walking
around the city, enjoying the sights and the shops and the feeling
that I didn't need to rush. I strolled by the Pantheon. There
was amazing sun pouring in the roof - a very distinct and slightly
diverging beam coming through that ancient circular hole. I did
laundry at a laundromat near the station, where I met some girls
from U of Iowa and a honeymooning Australian couple. None of them
understood my sense of humor. I felt like knocking on their heads
with my fist and saying, "Hello?"
SUNDAY, April 30, 1995.
Today I day-tripped on crowded busses out to Tivoli with Jen
and Melissa. We walked around town thwarted by spurious thunderstorms.
We visited Villa d'Este which tickled distant memories of my trip
to Versailles in 1989, though I'm sure they're not too similar
- just two mansions with amazing gardens behind them. The gardens
here were composed largely of elaborate fountains which cascade
down from one side of the property to the other. We also visited
Villa Gregoriana where we descended deep into a hole at the bottom
of which we found a little cave with water pouring through its
smooth large stones. FromTivoli, Iheaded back to Rome for the
Clapton show.
I can't fucking believe it. I'm at the Clapton show. I bought
this ticket on February 14 when I was in Sienna and still thought
I'd be working in Rome! Ever since Rome fell through, this show
has been a point in the future, a mark on my calendar, a day to
try to make my path cross through Rome. It's a true milestone
in my journey. I've got a good energy here. I have a feeling that
Clapton is really going to jam. Even looks like it going to start
on time. The lights have just gone out and the crowd is going
wild in anticipation of seeing G-d. (for those of you who don't
know, Clapton was nicknamed "G-d" early in his career.
I believe this was before "Slowhand." Clapton buffs?)
When I bought the ticket, I didn't get the actual ticket. What
I got was a reservation slip. I showed it to a bunch of people,
even some Italians, but no one could make heads or tails of what
I was supposed to do with it. I carried this slip of paper in
my wallet all over Europe wondering if it would in fact get me
in to see Clapton. It did. A helpful woman at a ticket booth outside
the arena found my name printed on a computerized list and handed
me an envelope with my name written on it and a ticket inside.
Amazing, especially in Rome. It's strange to have parted ways
with that little reservation slip after months of intimacy and
mystery.
A guy named Clarence Gordon Brown (maybe?) played a fine opening
set, with some interesting fiddle work, a nice "It's Early
in the Morning and I've got the Blues," an impressive Duke
Ellington cover, and closed with a fun Texas double-time jam-o-rama.
The set got me dreaming a cliche'd and corny dream about bumming
around Texas and Louisiana with a guitar, trying to learn the
blues.
The Italians are generally sedated. They applaud and cheer like
mad at the end of each number, but during the songs they sit quietly
and still, perhaps tapping their feet. The Americans (and there
are a fair number of us here) are easy to spot. They're the ones
dancing or on their feet just itching to shake a tail feather.
When I went to see the Eagles at Shoreline last summer, a security
guard came over and asked me to please sit down. I thought this
was outrageous, but I guess that's what happens at a concert with
a critical mass of 40-somethings. That security guard would prefer
an Italian venue, though perhaps not one of their soccer games.
Clapton came out and said, "I'm going to play nothing
but blues tonight. I hope that's OK. And if it's not, I hope someday
you can forgive me." Then he kicked it off with a high-energy
acoustic version of "Motherless Child," did some Robert
Johnson, and by the fifth song had gone hollow body electric.
After the sixth song he ditched his chair, and by the eighth song
he was jamming out a super electric version of "Blues All
Day Long" on a white-on-white Stratocaster. "Hoochie
Coochie Man" rocked the house. He delighted me with "The
Third Degree," an Eddie Boyd classic and one of my favorites.
By this time, he was letting all his favorite licks fly and it
was pure Clapton electric blues ecstasy. "You Can Make It
If You Try" included an extended and delightful psychedelic
jam which seemed to confuse the Italians. He played "Have
You Ever Loved a Woman?", but in my opinion, the version
on Layla will never be surpassed. He poured his soul into "Have
You Ever Been Mistreated?" and it kicked, but I still prefer
Buddy Guy for that one. The show closed with a high energy, grungy
arrangement of Crossroads - really it couldn't have been any better.
He came back out for a one song encore - a fun, piano centered
version of "Ain't Nobody's Business But My Own" which
built up into a monster jam for the finale. All in all, a twenty-five
song set. The Clapton blues concert of my dreams. It makes up
for the bland show he played for me in 1988 in New Jersey, and
I never need to see him again.
MONDAY, May 1, 1995.
Hard to believe, but it's May! Back on that fateful afternoon
in Siena when I called UBILAB to beg for a job, May seemed like
a long way off, and it was. The week after I left Siena and visited
Venice, Bologna, Parma, Pisa and Lucca seems like a lifetime ago.
Now I'm stuck sitting in the hallway on a crowded Italian train
on my way back to Venice. Why back to Venice? My friend Jack from
Taligent is in Europe on vacation and we've planned to rendezvous
there tonight for dinner. From Venice, I'm going to Zurich to
sign my contract, and then to spend a week depressurizing in Paris
(where Jack will catch up with me after a few more days in Venice,
along with Randy, Li-Whei and Anthony) before starting work. Work?
Travel has become my life. It's strange to think about making
the transition.
TUESDAY, May 2, 1995.
I spent over five hours cramped in that corridor on the way
to Venice, but somewhere after stopping in Florence, who appeared
in that corridor but Jack! Well, I guess it's not that amazing
- we were both going to Venice, but still, the same train, the
same car. We had dinner together and then caught the night scene
in Piazza San Marco. Last time I'd been there it was jammed with
people for the carnevale. This time, the piazza was largely empty.
Three cafes had tables set up outside with live classical music.
It was wild to stand in the middle of the piazza and listen to
the different "bands" battle it out. We'd have sat down
and soaked it in, but on general principles I refused to spend
12,000 lire for a cappuccino. In the morning, it was a quick look
around the city before catching the noon train to Zurich. Here
I am, sailing out of Bell'Italia, savoring the memory of my last
cappuccino, and looking to the future with a big, excited sigh.
Copyright 1997 by Bradley Edelman
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E-mail: Brad Edelman