Crossing the Bridge of Sighs

No, we didn't make it to Venice on our sojourn through Italy but I wanted to be sure that I had at least one up-beat book with me as I immersed myself in all things Italian. Unless one considers Paris, there probably isn't a more romantic city in all the world than Venice, a perfect location for a book, in this case a novel about a travel writer in love.

You may think, ok, that's been done a thousand times before, I thought it myself as I began to read. But the quality of Susan Ashley Michael's (http://susanashleymichael.com/index.html) writing soon drew me into Claire's story and suddenly I didn't want to be anywhere else. Newspapers with nothing but bad news were a distant memory as I lost myself in the sights, sounds, and smells of La Fenice.

Claire is a character you just can't help but enjoy spending time with. A smart, independent, forty-something travel writer, who's just discovered that her husband and co-writer Bernie, is gay. Well, it's not the first time that's happened, but Claire's biological clock is running out and she wants a baby more than she really ever wanted Bernie. So what's a girl to do?

Claire arrives in Venice to stay with her dearest friend, Josie, to sort out her feelings,  let go of her anger, and plan a future that doesn't involve men. But Josie has other plans. Why is it that women who are "coupled up" seem to want to pair up everyone else? Josie takes it upon herself to place an ad in the personals section of the newspaper on Claire's behalf and readers are left to wonder, each time Claire has an encounter with a handsome new stranger, which she does quite often, if it's fate or something else.

Author Susan Michael must have an impressive pedigree in art history and literature, as visiting Venice  with Claire is like having your own personal expert tour guide. Studying the Madonnas (and oh there are a bunch of them!) Claire takes us through all the major and minor churches of Venice pointing out the details of each. She also has an enviable expense account and moves from one grand hotel to another following the path of the great writers who lived and worked there before her.

The ghosts of these writers and painters follow Claire around the city, appearing at the oddest times, offering advice on life and love as Claire tries to work through her feelings for two disparate men, the young, impetuous, romantic art history student, Max, and the older, less exciting but more comfortable businessman, Michael. Along the way, she manages to dine at all the well-known restaurants and the tiny mom and pops, describing each drink and bite of food in loving detail, even sharing some recipes.

This novel was just what the doctor ordered after I'd read and reviewed two books for Library Journal, the new Coetzee with its sci-fi feel and the dark, tense, new novel from Patrick Flanery, look for it next month, called Fallen Land. My review went in today.

Now I'm in the middle of the stench and decay of Memorial Hospital in New Orleans in the weeks following Hurricane Katrina, as the medical staff agonizes over how to handle the overwhelmingly sick patients who can't be evacuated in time to save their lives. By Pulitzer Prize winner Sherri Fink, Five Days at Memorial, should also be out soon and I'll be writing about it here within days.




Trayvon Martin, This Decade's Emmett Till

Don woke me early this morning with the news I've been dreading for weeks now, a travesty of justice that I simply could not believe would happen again, the acquittal of George Zimmerman for the murder of Trayvon Martin. Once more, I feel that I have to apologize for being a Floridian. In the wake of the shooting in Sanford, Florida, a year and a half ago, I felt confident that there would be no problem convicting Mr. Zimmerman of something that seemed so obvious. But as time went by, the trial finally started, the strange seating of only six jurors, all female, the burden of proof for a second degree murder conviction seemed to be too much heavy lifting for the prosecution to bear.

Still, refusing to cave in to cynicism, I felt positive that the charge of manslaughter would stick. All the obfuscation, whose voice was on the 911 call, who was on top during the struggle, whose DNA was or was not on the gun, seemed superfluous to the first fact of the case. No means no in a rape case, no matter how close to consummation a couple may be, if one party says "no," then any further sexual advances constitute rape.

Why then, when the police dispatcher distinctly told George Zimmerman, "no," do not pursue the hooded stranger walking through the neighborhood at the, yes, ungodly hour of 7p.m. on a Sunday night, did George Zimmerman get out of his car and take the law into his own hands anyway? This one act, no matter its motivation, set in motion the entire tragedy that followed and resulted in the death of a 17 year old boy. Is this not manslaughter? Is this not the rape of innocence? Is this not yet another act of vigilantism that appears to be increasingly infecting our country? Is this not another reason why we should be tightening, rather than loosening up our gun laws?

My heart is once again sickened by this senseless loss of life. School children today learn of Emmett Till and we tsk, tsk, as if his brutal murder in Mississippi was the result of aberrant behavior from bygone days, before the Civil Rights Act, before the first black president, before we entered the supposed post racial world. In fact, Emmett Till and Trayvon Martin had eerily similar situations. One grew up in Chicago, the other in Miami, cities where races mix freely and profiling would be less likely to happen. Each was visiting an area they were unfamiliar with, Till in Mississippi with family, Martin in Sanford, also with family. Till "flirted" with a white woman, Martin walked home from a 7-11, neither dreamed that his life would end so soon.

                                                         

Now, some might say that George Zimmerman will have to live with his conscience for the rest of his life. I say no, I don't believe that a man who could go on a nationwide talk show and actually say with a straight face that it was "God's will" that Trayvon Martin died could be thought to have a fully-formed conscience. This is a man who will be aided and abetted in his crime, he'll be relocated, maybe to a country where he isn't known. He'll write a book about his "ordeal" and never give a thought to Trayvon's parents and their anguish. My only hope is that George Zimmerman spends every day of the rest of his life looking over his shoulder. Is that punishment enough? Of course not. But it must be a horrific way to live.

Ten Hours at JFK - The World Was Too Much With Us

My sister and I were having a long discussion on the telephone last night about mean people. She works in a particularly toxic office environment that's almost impossible to fathom when one has been as fortunate as I have been. Thank you Lee County Library System! Her anecdotes are simply appalling and seem to grow worse the longer she stays there. The situation is comparable to bullying in schools.

That conversation led to our talking about the saving graces, the people we meet along life's way and with whom we have an immediate rapport. You know, the way we seek out the kindness of strangers and glom onto them. This observation, in turn, led me to reflect on our last three weeks traveling the rails, buses and planes from London to Brussels to various spots in Italy and the kindred spirits that we interacted with along the way.

Don and I almost always lean toward bed and breakfast accommodations. We thoroughly enjoy the personal attention, the familiarity that one can quickly gain by talking to locals, asking questions, and seeking advice. Don's facility with languages and his brilliant smile can break down barriers in a heartbeat. Though not as adept as he, my enthusiasm for new experiences in other lands can also go a long way toward making inroads. To learn about another culture from other than a history book is why we travel, isn't it?

I've already mentioned the two gentlemen in Tibenham, England, who didn't bat an eyelash when Don, his grandson and I pulled up in our little rent-a-car to the nearly abandoned airfield that was once headquarters for an RAF bomb group where my dad was stationed during World War II. I'm so sad about the loss of my laptop, while fully realizing that it's just a "thing," because it held all my photos and videos of our experiences with these welcoming, everyday people who made our day.

When we arrived at the Villa Romantica in Lucca, we were greeted by Adolfo, the 75 year old owner of the inn where a friend of mine had stayed fourteen years ago. I had a photo of Adolfo and his wife Daniela, that I shared with them and we were fast friends from then on. We asked him where to eat that the tourists didn't go and he obliged us with several ideas, each one perfect. We met his grandson, Federico, who didn't exist fourteen years ago ( though we now have him on film). We learned that his daughter teaches at the University of Siena, that he owns a vacation retreat on the island of Sardinia, a place that Don has wanted to visit for as long as I've known him, and that he might even be amenable to leasing it out.

In Siena it was Giacomo at the Palazzo di Valli who loaned us his well loved wine glasses for our first exhausted evening on the terrace when we didn't think we could move too far from the view. We spoke with him of the olive trees on the property, a working grove that produces that lusted over extra virgin Tuscan oil. He gave Don a lesson in wine varietals speaking in excellent but studied English until the two found common ground in their shared love of French. We visited a museum in town filled with amazing iconography, sculpture and painting by Sienese artists and found only one other couple enjoying it. We commiserated with Giacomo about the lack of interest in the history of his beloved city.

An Italian cab driver originally from Algeria decided that we were the people he could share his life story with. In the ten minute drive to the bus station at Piazza Gramschi we learned of his anger and desolation when his wife left him after ten years of marriage, of his struggles, working two jobs and going to school, to keep it together until he met another woman and is now happily awaiting the birth of his first child. We spoke of his home country, how it's fared since the French left, whether or not the people are better off now, how the Muslim faith is misconstrued in the press and misunderstood by the general public. We then bonded over my knowledge of the Algerian writer Yasmina Khadra, a man using a woman's name to hide his identity from the military authorities, whose books we've discussed at the library.

In Florence it was the young Senegalese man whose prime position at the exit door of the Galleria de Academia allowed him to interact with us as we left the museum. He was hawking a restaurant, we were hungry for lunch, and Don, who lived in Senegal for many years, asked the young man in his own language if he'd like to walk us to the restaurant. Over the course of a few blocks we learned of his pride in his country, his pleasure in knowing that the Obama family had recently visited, covering the same trail that Don and I had taken only two years ago, his migration to Italy in hopes of making "l'argent." He made our day and I'd like to think that we did the same for him.

But then, the ugly return to earth began. A 4 a.m. wake up call, a testy 5 a.m. cabbie to take us to the airport, a two-hour delay on the tarmac at Charles de Gaulle which would invariably have us late for our connection in New York. I generally make it a point to never fly Delta, having had other less than satisfactory experiences on that airline, and I never go through JFK if I can help it, so what was I thinking?? Well, we flew Air France but it seems that they have an agreement with Delta for the local connections.  Delta was totally immune to complaints, connections to Maryland were few, the only one available would have us sitting in a terminal of chaotic humanity for 6 hours but we were simply too tired to object.

But then the 8:30 departure time loomed and we heard nothing. Thousands of people lay on the filthy floor, sleeping on their luggage, some wired to the Internet ports watching films, others glued to a CNN that couldn't be heard over the din. Totally unable to concentrate or read, we dozed and watched the departure time move to 9, then 9:20, then to a different gate, then to 10 and on into the wee hours.

Why, I wondered, couldn't we engage as easily with a fellow stranded traveler here in New York? Why did I deliberately avoid eye contact with anyone who looked even remotely interesting? Was I simply too tired, too lazy, or was it a deeper problem? Has the political climate in our country affected our willingness to look for a common humanity among our own countrymen?

As my sister and I finished up our conversation of lament for the U.S. and the unhealthy path it seems to be taking, she reminded me of the wonderful young people she meets through Kiwanis scholarship programs and her high hopes for the future. I really want to have her idealism. Perhaps my next trip should be a cross country, Travels with Charley-type odyssey, but for now, I'm ready to stay put and read.

Achebe's Things Fall Apart

Since reading is not work for me I had no trouble taking along two books to  review while on vacation. In fact, while trying to lighten up our luggage to meet the strict requirements for Ryanair, I actually left my paper copy of the new Coetzee novel, The Childhood of Jesus, on a bench in the Charlerois airport in Brussels. Imagine someone's surprise at their good fortune when they pick up a free copy of the Nobel winner's latest novel (even if I wasn't enamoured of it.)

Several months ago I had the honor of reading and reviewing Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie's new book Americanah, I'm sure that the review has been published even if my personal copy of Library Journal has been lost in translation between Ft. Myers and Maryland. I read many African authors but she has long been one of my favorites. In her outstanding TED talk that I was able to watch in podcast, http://www.ted.com/talks/chimamanda_adichie_the_danger_of_a_single_story.html
she speaks to the whole concept of storytelling and she credits her countryman (Nigeria) and idol, Chinua Achebe, for her desire to tell stories from an early age.

I know that many high schools have now placed Things Fall Apart on their required reading lists and I was ashamed that I had not read it yet myself. I understand that this is the first in a trilogy about Achebe's homeland and his feelings about the slow tumble of Nigeria from tranquility to turmoil. There's much to be said for globalization but Achebe's novel looks at the downside, when the term no longer means opening borders but taking over.

Through the metaphorical story of Okonkwo, his wives, children, and tribe, we learn of the early lives of Nigerians, how they lived, how they settled scores, their traditions and communistic, in the best sense, way of life before the British, first via the churchmen and then the politicians, arrived to "make things better."

It's a tragic tale as old as the hills, simply told in a scant but powerful 158 pages. Before reading this novel, we of the twenty-first century must set aside our pre-conceived notions of civilization, of what defines justice in today's world and try to inhabit the mores of another time and place and think about the logic of tribal wisdom.

To our current sensibilities, Okonkwo seems too angry, too quick to take offense as he strives to become the leader of his people. He's harsh with his son, expects much of his wives with little sentimentality for any except his daughter, the child of his heart. He works hard to provide for them all but his hot headedness is the beginning of his downfall, when he accidentally kills a man and is banished from his tribe for seven years.

During the time that he and his family are in exile in his mother's homeland, Okonkwo loses precious time to enhance his standing within his own tribe, the Church of England makes inroads, taking even his son into their fold, so that, by the time he can return to what he considers his rightful place within his tribe, his power and position have been weakened beyond repair, his sense of loss and desolation overwhelming.

It's disconcerting to write about such a difficult book while I'm looking out the window at an expanse of Tuscan hillside, olive groves as far as the eye can see. As I sit here I think of the writers over the centuries who have been inspired by this same vista, Edith Wharton, Henry James, the Rossettis, and I marvel. We may not even venture into town today but sit under the grape arbor and read all day. What would you do? http://palazzodivalli.it/en/

Trains, Planes, and Automobiles!

I guess it's like childbirth - you forget the pain after the baby arrives. So, it's been ten years since my friend Betsy and I trekked for three weeks throughout Umbria and Toscana by rail. Now, a tad older and with heavier bags, Don and I have come to the realization that one must have a good sense of humor to do this in one's '60's or '70's!

Brussels is a gorgeous, sophisticated city but the weather could get you down. We were oh so ready to leave the fifty degree days for the warmth of Italy, but not ready for the 6 AM wake-up call! The cab came at 7 to take us to the bus station where we schlepped onto a shuttle to the airport which - who knew? - is an hour outside of the city.

We were pretty darn proud of ourselves for booking the bargain flight with Ryanair, an Irish company no less, which would get us to Pisa in an hour and a half. We didn't figure on the weight limit for the checked luggage  - 15 kilos isn't a whole lot when you're packing for three weeks. We were cool with the carry-on but had to buy another bag, stand in a corner like bad students, and pull undies and shoes from each of our suitcases to put into the blue carry-on bag. Wish I'd had a photo of that! I was ready for a grappa and it was only 10 AM!

Once in Pisa, we got on a train that only took us to the center of town where we had to change to another train to Lucca. If you haven't traveled through Italy before, take it from me, the stations are unforgiving. There are stairs, stairs and more stairs. Handicapped? Va bene! Don with his cane and I in my heels were a sight to see. I looked around but didn't spy anyone else our age trying to pull this off. We looked at each other and just started to laugh. Hey, it's all fodder for the book, right?

We spotted a cab and fell into his arms where he immediately said to himself, "touristas!" He charged us 11 euro to go about 2 miles and then didn't even pull into the driveway of our respite, The Villa Romantica, But, all's well that end's well. We raided the mini bar for vino and bierra. You can see that it was all worth it:

Don chillin' on the patio:

With the owners: