By Marilyn Karr
The dread of ending the writing of my book and knowing what the next steps must be, recent deaths of friends and being in the midst of Covid-19 have me in a state of funk.
But, I watched a new program – at least new to me – entitled Write Around the World with Richard E. Grant.
The program spurred me on to want to share with you my holiday in the late 70’s to Italy. Being my first trip to Europe – and a green horn – I over packed. With a garment bag in one hand and a heavy, leather duffle in the other, I was not able to eat a gelato or read a map.
My travel companion enrolled in Italian classes beforehand and hoped to seek out his roots. We also tacked on a cruise through the Mediterranean. Other than having the name of the village where his father was born, we were at the mercy of fate.
After we visited the usual sites of Rome – the Colosseum, Spanish Steps, Vatican City, we boarded a bus south until we reached its terminus. The next bus travels up and down and all around as the driver honks his horn at every curve. Heading in a somewhat easterly direction, we arrived at the mountainous village and checked into some accommodations.
First, we looked in the local telephone directory for any last names listed the same as his. With one name the same, he called the front desk to ask if they would contact them and ask them to come.
Now, Tom was tall, well-educated with an air of sophistication. But, the mother and son who arrived at our door were toothless, short and squatty. He thought, no, they must not be part of his lineage.
In the morning, we walked to the police station to ask for help. They searched marriage certificates and found a woman who was his cousin. It’s a sure match because they had his college graduation photo.
We met them at the weekly outdoor market. While the men lag behind, she proudly entwined my arm with hers and held it close to her body as she proudly strutted through the market on the way home.
She quickly fries veal in a pan of 1-1/2 inch deep olive oil, while her husband pulls out his homemade wine and vintage cottage cheese glass jars and places on them on the bare table. The quantity of olive oil is enough to sicken my stomach. I quickly excuse myself to go outside and have a cigarette. Veal, masses of olive oil, ugh. Yet I don’t condemn my drags on the coffin nail. How things change with time.
It was a balmy, moonlit evening as we sat in the square and enjoyed a glass of wine. Young adults soon surrounded us, asking questions, practicing their English, telling us about themselves, their village, their lifestyle. A warm, memorable evening of camaraderie!
The cousin and her husband’s daughter was married to the mayor of the village. We were invited to dine with them the following evening. While waiting for a car to pick us up, we heard the doorbell. The mayor is there to not drive us but to walk us to their home.
With an interpreter present, conversations flowed smoothly. A different variety of wine with each of the six courses, the evening flows smoothly – actually too smoothly for Tom.
The following morning we board a bus in our attempt to arrive in Naples. When we arrive at a point where both a highway and a train run parallel, we must walk along the highway until we find a WC that sits between the road and the railroad tracks! Poor Tom! He imbibed too vigorously last night. Now, it was my job to stay on guard and flag down the first train or bus while he sat on the throne!
Being short of time in Naples, we only visited Herculaneum, the remnants of the AD 79 volcanic eruption. This excursion instilled a lifetime interest for me in volcanoes. As time evolves, hopefully, I can share some experiences that furthered my fascination with volcanoes.
We cruised through the Mediterranean Sea, terminating in Greece. We took a tour to Meteora, the Christian monasteries – dating back to the 14th century – that sit atop dark and high rocks. At that time, supplies were received only via a cable. We passed Stromboli rather than to stop. Stromboli, one of four of Italy’s active volcanoes, almost continuously erupts. While in Malta, I remember the luzzu, the colorful fishing boats, each with the Malta eye at the bow. In Malta, I remember being inside a cave where people attempted to hide from aerial attacks during World War II.
Italy beckoned me 50 years ago. I loved the liveliness of vivacious voices while sitting close to one another in restaurants. I loved my first wood-fired pizza. I loved the laundry that hangs over the cobblestone, and balconies so close to one another it reminds me of Romeo and Juliet.
