Sorrento is located just south of Napoli, but has no smog and no Mafia. Everyone still hangs their laundry from the two- and three-story brick and concrete and mostly stone buildings. It lies directly west of the beautiful island of Capri (cap’-pree). Originally it was protected with a Roman wall totally surrounding it. Here and there you can still see the wall. We can see it from the solarium on the roof of our hotel. Being here is like being in a foreign country.
Sandy has decided that we should start here to explore Italy for almost three weeks in honor of our 40th wedding anniversary. John Hansen and John Cerri told me what to say. “Yes, Dear!” Music flows from the markets, shops, restaurants and cafés. There are no ethnic restaurants here. No Thai, no Chinese, no Mexican. Absolutely no fast food except pizza or Italian sandwiches (paninis) Only Italian.
Dean Martin, Paolo Conti, Andrea Bocelli, Frank Sinatra and Pavarotti are big here, but we smile when we hear Elvis singing “It’s now or never. Come hold me tight. Kiss me my darling. Be mine tonight.” A graffiti’d white wall has a red heart painted on it with the word, TI AMO. There are sidewalk singers and for tips they sing “Arrivederci Roma” and “Come Back to Sorrento” and even “Besame Mucho” (kiss me a lot), which was written by a really young Mexican woman who passed away last year at a really old age. The singing really adds to the dining experience. Gregorio on Isla Mujeres sings “Besame Mucho” for us, but our daughter Kezia and I like “Cinco Perros” (five dogs) the best.
A wall in Sorrento's Old Quarta:
Tips. You do not leave them in restaurants. They won’t even accept them. They add in a cover charge, very piccolo. In the evening after 7:30 — no earlier — you can order dinner. The restaurants are closed tight until then. Then the Passeggiata starts. John Cerri told me about this. He was born in Lucca, north of here. It is the stroll or the promenade. Every one walks arm in arm. Boys with boys, girls with girls, lovers with their lovers, couples with their babies. Seeing people and being seen. Stopping to shake hands with friends and to exchange the time of day with them.
Hey, it’s Eeeetaly! The double cheek kiss is nice to see again. People will just stop dead in the middle of the street and kiss and embrace. One night, a couple was kissing very passionately right in front of our hotel’s main door. We said “Scusa,” and slipped by. I do not think they even realized that we were passing. Allora! (Al-orrrr-ah) — roll the R. We hear that everywhere. It means “Whatever!”
I feel right at home here. I grew up in the Eeetalian section of my little town. Carnazzola, Dellaghelfa, Monchecci, Tomasini, Volpi, Balardini, Smachetti, Decenci, Sondrini, Malioni, Chicheti . . . to name a few. The Bongiolattis came to Adams and brought a whole Italian town with them. They came to work the limestone quarry – a change from of the marble they had worked back home. One of my great grandfathers worked there his whole life, as well as my father and my brother and my cousin Craig Garofano. I worked there in the summers between grades in high school and before I went into the service.
The quarry boss was Ippol Bongiolatti, a first class guy. He treated me like a son. We drilled limestone all morning and then blew it up with dynamite in the late afternoon. My mom always had to straighten anything that was hung on the walls of our doll-like, tiny, squeaky-clean house. The blasting rocked the valley, but it was normal if it was late afternoon. It was like church bells ringing — you didn’t pay much attention. That’s just the way it was. The limestone dust covered everything. My dad opened the storm windows in the spring because Mom couldn’t — they were sealed shut with limestone dust. Your car needed to be washed twice a week because of the dust. Dad said, “You’ll never keep your car that clean once you are married and have a family.”
Limestone is actually calcium carbonate — fossils of fish. They line Yankee Stadium and Fenway with it. People spread it on their lawns and gardens and it is fed to chickens. I would never lie to you, Eileen. Really! It is also in toothpaste. At one time, Adams was under an ocean. We would find fossils from time to time in the blasted limestone. To get the dust off we washed with motor oil. Maybe we should have used olive oil.
The bottom of the quarry was cold in the morning and really hot in the summer in the afternoon, or when the sun came up over the quarry. We constantly had to pump water out of the open pit quarry floor. Occasionally the pump would fail and a person from the drilling/blasting crew would totally strip down and walk into the ice cold water, barefoot, to restart the pump. Usually it was the youngest member of the crew. Ippol said, “Bobby went in like a man but came out like a boy.” Hey, it was ice cold!
You can tell a limestone employee, even today, by the color of his work clothes. They are coated in white. During a physical for high school football, the doctor found something in my lungs. “Oh,” he said, “You must work at the lime company. Calcium is good for you!”
After the limestone was blasted, it was loaded into gigantic Euclid trucks with no tailgates. The wheels on the Euclids were each as tall as a man. (TRUCKS! Abel our Grandson loves TRUCKS!) The drivers would back the trucks up to the crusher and dump their loads. Basketball and baseball size stones would be the result. Allan Sylvester managed such a place in Vermont, and so did Tom Donovan, in Saudi Arabia.
Dad was a Navy SeaBee (Construction Battalion = C.B. Get it?) during World War Two. He was a motor machinist mate and a diesel mechanic, as well as a welder and steelworker. He never spoke of Okinawa in the South Pacific. In civilian life he became a millwright. When the crusher malfunctioned, Dad with his crew of seven or eight men would show up and fix it with levers and pulleys and ropes. Dad knew all the knots, the running bowline which will not slip, the half hitch, and the square knot. He was very mechanically inclined as they say. None of this rubbed off to his eldest son however.
Adams has always been a football town and Dad played halfback. And he was good — so good that he was nearly drafted by the New York Giants. But the United States Navy got him first. In my family tree albums, I have a photo of him making a shoestring tackle against Drury, the North Adams bitter rival. North Adams is a separate town, five miles north from Adams. That is why they call it North Adams. Derrrr.
Francis Chelsea Bacon was better known as Joe — as in “a regular Joe” kind of guy. He did not know where the name Chelsea came from, nor did he care. Dad was a tough, hard guy and a binge drinker. He would go missing for three days every once in a while but never did he miss work. Once he saved a guy climbing a metal ladder on a tower above him by holding on tight with his body arched out to stop the fall.
It seems that most of Adams’ young men went the Navy route, including Sandy’s father and uncles. Dad’s best friend Matt Kustra served on the very famous carrier, The Hornet. B-52s flew from the Hornet to Japan very early in the war, knowing they did not have enough fuel to return to the carrier.
I wondered why we had to take the small island of Iwo Jima, rather than just starve them out or just go around it. In Yosemite this year, Tom Egan gave me this book, Fly Boys, which took my breath away. I would have to take breaks from reading it because of its intensity. Believe it or not, remember that television show? The father of the author of Fly Boys was one of the men who raised the flag on Iwo Jima. Did you hear that all you fiction readers? One of the Marines’ names was Ira Hayes. He was a southwest Pima Indian. Johnny Cash wrote a song about him. “Call him drunken Ira Hayes, he won’t answer anymore, Not the whiskey drinking Indian or the Marine that went to war.” It turns out we needed Iwo Jima for runways to launch our attacks on the cities of Japan. The SeaBees fought with the Marines and then built the barracks and the runways. Facto mundo, Iwo Jima, at 1/2 mile wide and 5 miles long, is exactly the same size as Isla Mujeres. John Wayne made the movie The Fighting SeaBees, in which he dies while driving a bulldozer over and into a pillbox. Am I right, Chet?
My Dad’s other best friend, Chief Ray Young, had three ships blasted out from under him and lived long enough to fight in Korea and Vietnam. The greatest generation? I think so. Definitely, yes. I wonder what they would think of the Japanese playing for the Red Sox.
I see their names everywhere while traveling around Italy. Mt. Cerrato (Willie), the town of Trimarchi (Joey and Tom), an appliance truck with Cerri written on it (John Cerri). On the menu, bianchi (white) — Dennis and Hugo Bianchi, and pescatore (fish) — Phil Pescatore. The town of Salvi — Arthur. They came to Adams, Massachusetts with their wives and children and their gnocchi recipes, dandelion wine, Parodi cigars, and grappa (roll the R in “grappa.”). I never knew that grappa was made from the skin of the grapes. Have you ever had a sip of grappa? Be careful.
The quality of the food here. Mamma Mia! No supermarkets. You buy your meat from the butcher, and your bread from the baker, and your fish from the fish market. It is the same in the villages of Mexico.
The wine—oh, the wine. Chianti . . . “Good chianti, that aged majestic and proved wine, enlivens my heart, and frees it painlessly from all fatigue and sadness,” said Grancesco Redi, Toscano, Italy 1685. I usually sip wine when I write my stories. I do not possess the talent that my daughter Kezia has, so I have to cheat a little. I have really sweet dreams the nights that I write. Wow! Steve Riley just came on the stereo and the tune is “Bon Reve” (good sleep). Oh, you don’t know the Mamou Playboys from Louisiana? Really? I am telling Barb Sylvester what you said. When asked how he slept last night, comedian Steven Wright said, “I made a couple of mistakes.”
“Wine. You are too young for it now, but make a note of it” — Richard Harris from his album, “Slides.” It was on the Bob’s World compact disc last year. Maybe you missed it. No Christmas CD for you!
We have no car here in Sorrento. Who would drive a car around Naples? Only a native. We traveled for three weeks, almost always by train, and only four days by rental car.
All the cars seem to be scraped on the shotgun side. Almost all the cars are really small. Fiats and Alphas and BMWs and Volkswagens, and the new Euro two-seater. I never saw a pick-up or Cadillac around Napoli. There are a million motor scooters. One hotel owner said that to fill her van with fuel, it cost 140 Euros — that is $193 dollars, folks. You can buy a Coca Cola for $3.40 or get two cappuccinos and two croissants for less.
There he is again. Elvis, singing “It’s now or never.” Eventually we figure out the “It’s Now or Never” is really “O Sole Mio.” So Elvis stole it.
The time here is military time. After 12 noon is 1pm or 1300, and eight at night is 2000. It has been 38 years since I figured time like that. It all came back fast.
Don’t come here if you are not in shape and don’t like steps. We must have climbed a million steps. Allora! We walked down to the boat dock to catch the ferry to Capri. The cruise ship Marco Polo sits in the harbor of Napoli. “The island of Capri is over-commercialized,” many people said, but we did not think so. We loved Capri. Past the harbor, we hiked to the Centro near the big town clock piazza, where we sat in the sun and drank bitter Campari and people-watched. The church right in front of us was Moroccan in architecture. Hey, they were here first.
Our plan today was to hike to the emperor of Rome’s house (Casa Jovi). Tiberius lived there the last ten years of his life and ran Italy from Capri. On the way, we passed restaurants proudly showing who had eaten there —Sylvester Stallone, Woody Allen, Lil’ Anne and Bon Jovi to name a few. On the way back, we stopped for lemon gelato and grappa. The perfect combination. Hey, we are on vacation!
The grappa and gelato we enjoyed on the way back from our Casa Jovi hike in Capri:
Back at the Capri Marina, where the boats come in, Sandy suggests a boat trip around the island. I don’t really want to do that. Years ago on Seinfeld there was an episode where George Costanza decides that his life is crap, that when he makes a decision, it is always the wrong choice. So from then on he says, “I will do exactly the opposite of what I think I should do.” I have made some mistakes in my life and decide that I will try George’s way and I say to Sandy, “Sounds good to me.” But tour boats are not running today especially to the famous Blue Grotto. The sea is too rough.
Meanwhile back on Capri, Paolo and his wife from Milan (Mee-lohn-o) are trying to get enough people together to tour the half of the island that is not as rough. Euros work and Capitan Fabio says he will take us. We end up motoring right under Casa Jovi where Tiberius had his enemies thrown from the cliff. It is three hundred feet to the blue Mediterranean Sea. We also travel by the famous Faragrionni Rocks. At the end we take our leave, and thank Paolo for his persistence in organizing the trip.
The Faragrionni Rocks near Capri:
Our next boat trip is aboard a hydrofoil, to Positano. Positano is a glittery town that hangs off the Amalfi Coast road towards Sicily. The names from there are Santacross (Carol, my barber), Buccafusca (Bobby, a retired Boston Police detective and neighbor), Busa (Richard, my Ultra-running friend and winner of the Silver star for gallantry in Korea — he is still running at 78), Sanguedolce (Phil, singer, rub-board player from the Zydeco band, Lil’ Anne & Hot Cayenne). All Sicilian names.
The beautiful Amalfi coast. Going to the Sun Road in Montana . . . cool. Route One down the California coast, Big Sur, etc. . . . cool. The Hairpin Turn on the Mohawk Trail in North Adams . . . cool. Route 66 . . . cool. Triple 6 north of Gallup . . . cool. Amalfi coast road . . . hands down the most beautiful road we have ever laid our eyes on.
The Amalfi Coast:
Our tour director with thirty years experience says, “There is a beautiful photo opportunity coming up. I will count to six. Cameras ready. 6-5-4-3-2-shoot.” Her enthusiasm is contagious. Is this not beautiful? The coast here is peppered with circular watchtowers built by the Romans to look out for the pirates of the Mediterranean. Sophia Loren has a casa here. It has an ancient watchtower on it. Gore Vidal and Roger Moore are her neighbors. It is where the rich and beautiful people live and where the beautiful people shop. At one point, a whole bunch of these Italians packed up and moved to Brooklyn. Again you question me. It is true, and I do not know why unless it was to make the movie Moonstruck or Goodfellas. I forget.
Bacchus, the god of wine, in Amalfi:
Sandy picked up a book in Italy. It explains what Italians think of us. “Everything that happens in the United States is big news in Europe, because you set the standards we end up following. Ever since the war, you’ve influenced us on every level — from how we dress and what music we hear to how we think about who we are. Turning on the TV here is like opening a window directly onto America: we get your films, sitcoms, soap operas and of course the live news from CNN.”
We should be watching you, Italy. You’re not at war. You have moratoriums on building. No restaurant tipping. No “World Series.” (I forget, did we beat Germany or Japan?) A great national train system. Great food, wine and cheese. The Pasagiore (the Italian stroll ); siestas every day; and the whole month of August off.
World statistics on bottled water consumption: USA ranks first, with Mexico second and China third. I do not know where Italy stands, but all the towns we saw had fountains in the center that everyone seemed to be using.
Years ago we decided that we would start going to the opera here in Boston. Cerri, Zabek, Files, Donovan and us. The first time was the last time we all went together. Every year the Cerris and the Bacons go — it is tradition now. Giovanni Cerri explained Italian opera to me. The story she’s-a always the same. He said to me and I quote. “Some one-a falls in love, some one-a sings, and then some one-a dies.” Carmen, Madame Butterfly, La Traviata, Rigatoni, and Rigoletto are the ones I remember.
Many of our friends claim to have Italian blood. Boretti, Buccheri, Casoni, Donovan and Lazzaro. We never saw these names in Italy, so it is pretty obvious that these wanna-be’s are impostors and I am being very kind to say it that way.
Our next bus trip is quite different. We tour Pompeii and Herculaneum. Pompeii is like Marshfield compared to Herculaneum, which is like Duxbury. Both still lie under the mountain Vesuvius. Both are between Napoli and Sorrento (JoAnne, Reliable Fence Company). Mr. Boulger taught history at Adams Memorial High School. As Tom Egan says, and he did not take any prisoners — he took no crap from any of us. I loved the French and Indian War: Ticonderoga, Fort William Henry, Saratoga, Last of the Mohicans stuff. Nicholas Bachand (Bacon) was my first relative to reach the Americas from France in 1646. Rumor has it that he married an Indian from the Seven Nations. She was fourteen and he was twenty-nine. She could have been Mohican or maybe Seneca or Mohawk. We will never know for sure. But anyway, Roman history really rang a bell with me and for once I received good grades. Mr. Boulger, I am here! I am here in Pompeii. Allora!
On August 24th, at one o’clock or 1300 in Roman time, in the year 0079, Mount Vesuvius blew its top. It blew its top for eighteen continuous hours. Within a short time of the full eruption, the cities of Pompeii ceased to exist. Hot ashes buried everything. More than half of some 2,000 residents died, most falling victim to the poisonous gases. The rest escaped the rain of death, never to return.
A plaster cast of a person caught in the hot ash, along with some wine casks, in Pompeii.
Pompeii was never caught by the lava of Vesuvius. It was just buried by the ash, burning stones and pyroclastic material. At the end of the eruption, the layer of material was 35 to 45 feet high. Higher than a telephone pole. As much as the ruins themselves, the one thing that stands out is the plaster casts of many of the victims. Archaeologists poured plaster into cavities where the remains of those who perished were locked in the ash. The casts reveal the death poses of those overcome by the gases. Can you even imagine that? Outside the door of one residence is a mosaic of a barking dog — Pompeii’s answer to a “Beware of dog” sign.
One of the Pompeii tour guides had a client once who was quite taken with the facts and said. “I keep up with world news by reading U.S. News and World Report and all the top newspapers. How come I never read about a catastrophe as large as this in ‘79? Hey, knuckle head it was in 0079!
A mosaic portrait of a woman, in Pompeii.
Pompeii is pretty well preserved. The brothels have signs of stone penises on the street corners marking the way. Allora! Above each brothel room is a ceramic depicting what the prostitute’s specialty was. If you were a housewife and wanted to make some money for groceries, you could simply go to the brothel and satisfy a gladiator. Hey! You cannot make stuff like this up. When will you stop reading fiction? I would never lie to you.
Herculaneum, on the other hand, was buried in mud, eighty feet of it. National Geographic says the mud traveled at sixty miles an hour. It swept the residents right into the Bay of Naples. Few bodies were found in the town itself. Because it was only mud, Herculaneum is much better preserved than Pompeii. If you go, see both towns the same day, with Herculaneum second.
If Vesuvius blows again, this area could lose a million people. Even Al Capone left. But the Mafia is here in full force. Forty-four people were murdered in Napoli last year. The only main road in, the Auto Strada, is easily clogged with no emergency. It is similar to the New Orleans situation, but I think much more serious if Vesuvius erupts again.
Janis our superb travel agent – in addition to setting up our itinerary – has scheduled Rolando to be our driver. He drives us to the railroad station in Napoli. Clothes are drying everywhere. Prue’s sister would not of approve. (At Camp in Brant Lake, New York you are not allowed to hang towels on the railings.) Rolando plays only opera on his cassette player in his shiny black Mercedes. He applauds after I sing all the words of “O Sole Mio.” When we reach the railroad station, he declines the tip. “Arrivederci! Ciao.”
A brief summary of recent Italian History.
• In 1994 Billionaire Silvio Berlusconi is elected prime minister as part of a “clean government” campaign.
• In 1995 Berlusconi resigns as coalition dissolves and corruption trial looms.
• In 2001 Berlusconi is re-elected prime minister by a huge vote.
• In 2002 the Euro is introduced as the currency of Italy.
• In 2004 Berlusconi transfers $400,000 to a judge’s bank account.
• In 2004 the Judge dismisses all corruption charges against Berlusconi.
• In 2005 new corruption charges are introduced against Berlusconi.
Assisi (Ah-Zee-Zee) is next. We have been there before. Sandy wants to see it again. I reply, “Yes, Dear” and we go by train from Napoli. Assisi is famous because of Saint Francis and Saint Clair. We purchase a small painting of Saint Clair for our Saint Clara in Mexico. She always does our reservations at Hotel Cabanas perfectly. Church bells toll here every half-hour. It seems that every town has at least four churches. In the center of Assisi is a Greek temple with ancient columns called Minerva. Minerva is Davido’s wife’s name. He is the chair and umbrella hombre on Isla. Our daughter Marnie is in nearby Gubio at a yoga retreat and was doing a side trip today in Assisi, but we missed her. That is okay because she is meeting us in Tuscany for the balance of the trip.
Assisi:
In the Basilica we light candles for Sandy’s cousin, Dick Brodalski, who passed away this year. He was at my 60th party and was dressed as a cowboy, with cap guns. Do you remember him? He really added to the party, and I know he had fun. I did not know he was such a good dancer. His wife Pam would e-mail us from Atlanta nearly every day with updates on his health. He fought the good fight for a long time One of the last e-mails simply said “Today we left the hospital for the first time with no plan.”
We lit many candles in many churches. But we never lit those electronic ones. There were the candles you see everywhere, and in Bonassola they were a foot long. They were so big I put my prayers for three people on one. If you know us and we like you, you got a candle. No, Fenway, you did not get one, but it was a tough decision.
My opinion of churches changed after this vacation and I am not a opinionated person. Oh, be quiet, Lisa! Speaking of saints, Willie, Lisa’s husband, got a whole row of candles. I have learned to enjoy churches. They even have a place where you can wash your hands. They are quiet except for the Basilica where every once in a while a speaker, I think from Heaven, roars “SILENCIO!” to the masses of people.
You step off the strada and there is dead silence. No barking dogs, no like teenagers like, and no cell phones. The first time I really paid attention to the cell phone thing was in 1996, in Santa Margarita next to Portofino. There was a table full of Italian young people in a restaurant and nearly every one of them was talking on their cell phone. The only thing I enjoy more are the morons at Fenway talking on their cell phones and waving to the TV. Kathy Gregory likes my tee shirt that says, “I find your cell phone conversation fascinating.”
Rent the movie Enchanted April. You will thank us. It’s a “disarming period study of four miserable British women miraculously reborn during an idyllic vacation it Italy. Impeccably acted and intoxicatingly gorgeous, it’s an exquisitely civilized feel-good movie.”
Next stop, Tuscany. It takes three trains to get to Siena and the car rental place. In Siena we skipped the downtown and missed going to the Bueno Vista Social Pub. Twenty minutes and we are at a farm in Aiola in Chianti country in Tuscany. Frances Mayes wrote the wonderful book Under the Tuscan Sun and for the next five days we will be exploring it by car. Not the book, the land. There was a terrible movie by the same name and even beautiful Diane Lane couldn’t save it.
Marnie Bacon in Greve, Tuscany:
Officially the fattoria (farm) is called Casoli Della Aiola and it is in the tiny ancient, beautiful town of Vagliagi, population 400. Only 399 if you do not count Dario, the author of a new very humorous book that Sandy purchased here called Too Much Tuscan Sun. Dario is a tour guide who was brought up in England, speaks fluent Italian, and caters to wealthy Americans and Englishmen. One of his clients was constantly tossing a coin, which was driving Dario crazy, so finally he asked the client, “What’s with the coin?”
The client replied, “It is an ancient coin that I bought off a street vendor in Rome.”
“How do you know it is old?”
“Because it has a date on it, 42 years B.C. “
Dario said “ Well he was either a psychic or you have been taken.”
Think about it . . . the coin was minted before any one knew Christ was coming?
From the window of our room facing the main, dirt road, only forty feet away, sits the farm house. It is on top of a medieval castle as in Casoli Della Aiola. Castle. Oh! It has a moat and it has a draw bridge. They took down two of the turrets to build the 400 year old stone farm house, which would be a four-family in Boston.
Sandy planned the whole trip. Sandy, you did good.
Aiola is actually a 250 acre or 100 hectare working vineyard. It has been in the family for generations. Chianti was originally put in those straw bottles because the bottles were hand blown and uneven on the bottom. Does Bob know factoids or what?
Leslie, from whom Marnie worked at a bed and breakfast in Dolores, Colorado, drives Marnie all the way to Aiola from Gubio where she also attended the yoga workshop.
It is so quiet and dark here at night. It is even quieter than the desert or the bottom of the Grand Canyon. But in the morning we wake up to gun shots. It is illegal to hunt deer in Tuscany. “Oh that is just hunters, hunting the wild boars,” Federica says. WILD BOARS! Roger Welch says there are still wild boars in the South and in northern Florida. As a matter of fact, a 1300 pound boar was recently shot there.
The next morning we find out we are in the dead center of an antique bicycle race. The race goes by our lodgings all day. Some of the race numbers go into the 2000’s so there are many of them. Later we find out that it is a 100-mile race. Halfway through, a tour bus leaves our farm and one of the riders runs smack into the bus at a sharp corner on the way up to town. It takes the ambulance 1-1/2 hours to get here from Radda. On our walk to town that evening, a few riders still come by us and it is 12 hours later. I holler out “Hey Italianos!” (Remember when in the movie Breaking Away the Italian racer puts something through our hero’s wheel and knocks him out of the race?) Anyway, I holler out “Hey Italianos, remember Breaking Away?” and flash them the Italian, up yours , elbow and hand and fingers gesture. Okay, I didn’t, but I COULD have.
The next day, on the way to Greve, we run into another practice race for today — the real race is tomorrow — of older sports cars. Austin Healeys and BMWs and Alfa Romeos and Fiats and MGs and Porches — really cool. It is mostly older men driving these old cars, and they are all dressed in those fire retardant suits with advertising all over them. Peggy and Bill, ya would have loved it.
Greve was the home of two famous explorers, Amerigo Vespucci, who the Americas were named after, and Giovanni di Verrazano, who organized the first New York City Marathon and then named the bridge that they start on after himself. Okay, okay, you caught me on that one. Randy and Donna Adams and John Cerri and I ran that marathon in 1981. It was actually the first marathon I ever ran, way back in 1978. Check out our blog to read all about how truly wonderful we all are and were and how strong we looked at the end, and for a blow by blow for all 26 miles and don’t forget the 385 yards and how Donna Jean came in fourth (Only kidding. We do not have a blog. But Donna did come in fourth. It is a really good story though, and a memorable weekend, and we would be more than happy to bore you with all the details. Call us. Please call us.)
On our last night here a bunch of English people on bicycles show up. They were going to ride all day, be in a different hotel and a different town every day. Cool idea. The Tuscany/Chianti countryside is truly gorgeous. One half of the roads are gravel. The other half are not. That was a joke. It is full of walled towns, forts, castles and beautiful vineyards and olive trees. The hills just roll and the mountains are not so high and they are filled with roses, lavender, spanish broom, acacia, iris, rosemary and sage. I never saw any parsley. Simon and Garfunkel. Get it?
Life is a circle. Next to my mother’s house was the only grocery store in our section of town. Carnazzola’s was owned and operated by Santino and Rose. Their son Reno was the working guy and beautiful Rosseta would work on the weekends. It was a big event when Rose and the other Italian ladies made the gnocchi. It was the same thing when the Polish ladies in the East Hoosac Street section made the pierogi. Susan B. Anthony was born here. That is Adams’ claim to fame. Adams was either named after Sam Adams or the beer. Having lived my first 18 years there I would say it was named after the beer. It seems Mom would always call on Sunday morning and asked Rose if she could send me over to get something that she forgot to have delivered the day before. Carnazzolas’ delivered the groceries that you picked out. That’s the way it was. I don’t know why. Mom always sent me instead of my brother. She would always put some thing extra in the bag.
I had a Brownie camera. Twelve frames and black and white only. Santino was out picking his tomatoes one day and I took his photo. He was holding four in one hand and he had his other hand in his pocket. It was the last photo ever taken of him.
The last leg of the trip is Cinque Terra (five lands), near Genoa. Chris was from here. He sailed and found the Americas but not for Italy but for Spain. We are happy to have Marnie traveling with us, especially for a third person and someone younger than us to keep us from making any mistakes or to keep us from forgetting anything — just kind of looking out for us. Today we drive to Siena, leave the rental car, and catch four different trains to reach Bonassola, our final destination. For us it is somewhat confusing at the train stations, especially with the language barrier and all our luggage. At one point we board. We came into this station from the south. We are heading to Cinque Terre by way of Pisa. The train starts up. Our eyes meet. We are heading south again. We are on the wrong train! “Allora! No you are not.” The young man sitting next to us says he is going to Pisa also.
Ten years ago the five small towns of the Cinque Terra and the trails that link them were declared a UNESCO World Heritage site. The trails were created hundreds of years ago by hardy peasants who trudged from one remote town to another to work the vineyards or trade their wares.No private vehicular traffic is permitted in the Cinque Terra towns.
Mamma Mia, the women here know how to dress. At home those high, warm-looking boots seem to be in style but here it is high, extremely pointed, leather ones. Jeans are big here and so is wearing your underwear on the outside. I am not complaining. M. K. Metzker Boatswains-mate First class Company 540, 1963 remember him? He always looked like he was standing on the flight deck with his white hat glued to his head with his bell bottoms and his neckerchief flying in the wind. Oh! Well he was my Drill instructor in boot camp. Sir, yes Sir. Whoops — sorry I just had a flashback. It’s funny, everyone my age that has been in the service thinks every young man should have to do boot camp. Anyway Metzker once said “Girls .... They are all the same in the dark. Who gives a shit about girls; you should see my gun collection.” Obviously he has never been to Italy.
Our welcoming person at Hotel Belvedere in Bonassola is one of those beautiful women. Rosanna is her name. Being a bit tongue-tied, I mention to her that one of our godchildren’s name is Rosanne. Rosanna asked what do her friends call her? “Rosie,” I reply. She just smiles. Later that week I am in the lobby when Rosanna leaves for the day. “Ciao,” says Rosanna. “Ciao, Rosie!” says the girl on the desk. It’s funny that our Rosie has the olive skin but her brother Alex doesn’t.
While we are at the desk the phone rings and it is another of Marnie’s friends who was on the yoga retreat. Kelly asks if she can join us for a couple of days. She had discussed this with Marnie last week. Sure, why not. Kelly arrives and we head out to hike the trails that link the five towns. They are Manorola, Corniglia, Riomaggiore, Vernazza and Monterosso. We decide to hike from Corniglia (corn-knee-lia) to Vernazza. I have studied the postcards and Vernazza looks the most beautiful. All of the towns are right on the water except Corniglia, which is on a hill overlooking the sea.
Sandy has wanted to do this hike since the last time we were near here, in 1996. Once upon a time we were traveling with the Cerri famiglia and were operating out of Rapallo. One day they all decided to take a day boat trip and go swimming. George Costanza was nowhere to be found and I thought I would stay behind and read. After about three hours I was bored. They had a fabulous fun-filled day and came back late.
Marnie and Leslie stopped here on their trip before catching up with us. At a hotel, Marnie asked if it was okay if she played the piano. The manager gave her an odd look. Piano in Italian is floor.
Kelly, Marnie, Sandy and I climbed up to Corniglia for lunch. Pesto, pasta, German beer and french fries. Now we are ready for the hike to Vernazza. Marnie suggests a meeting place if they get there first, and it was a good thing because it took us two and a half hours to get there. We stopped so many times to take photos.
We walk down into Vernazza. Wow! Marnie is off shopping and Kelly is sunning herself on the rocks in the tiny harbor. All of a sudden Sandy turns to me and says, “The day you stayed back at Rapallo — I cannot believe it — this is where we came.”Marnie has returned and she brought back Wylie and Adrienne from Taos, who were also at the yoga retreat and they join us outside in the sun, right on the harbor overlooking the sea, for dinner. They are staying right in the village. After a wonderful, very chatty dinner, we retire to a bar. Kelly suggests we have a nightcap of the raisin wine, sciacchetra. Wylie and Adrienne escort us to the train and we head back to Bonassola. Coming up on three weeks and it has not rained yet. Another fabulous day.
Dogs in Italy. There are not many. I have a pretty good dog story. I was on the second floor patio in Isla after a very hard day on Playa Norte. You know, “What should I ask Mario for now, a beer or a tequila sunrise?” and Sandy saying, “Bob, you should turn over and let me put some more sunscreen on you, but check out the topless women coming our way first.” “Is the sunset going to be fire red again tonight?” “What will we do if it is hot and sunny for the eleventh day in a row tomorrow?” “Where are we going for dinner tonight — Mexican or pizza or the French restaurant or maybe the new Tapas place?” All of a sudden, I hear a woman talking at the pool and I have to look over the railing and see what she looks like. She has this guy that she doesn’t know cornered and is talking to him face to face, nearly stabbing him with her foot-long filtered cigarette, and she says in a southern accent. “Well, my husband’s name is Buddy, and my husband’s Daddy is named Buddy, and we had a son, and yup, we named him Buddy, and our dawg, our dawg’s name is Buddy.” That is just not right. If you holler, “Hey Buddy, don’t pee on the rose bush,” and it is the husband you are talking to, it confuses the poor dawg. The Sylvesters have a dog and guess what his name is? I mail him Bob’s Mail and the grandkids next door think it is great that Buddy gets mail. So does the mailman. Last week I sent him a book called Dog Stories. You cannot make up stuff like this. Listen to me when I’m talking to you.
Aunt Blanche Lemanski was my mother’s oldest sister. There were five sisters. When they got together, my dad would say that the Pentagon was meeting. When my grandmother, Alexandra, sailed from Gdansk, by herself, on a steamship, Blanche was in her belly. Blanche lived thirty years longer than her sister Nora, my mother. I guess I sort of latched onto Aunt Blanche as a second mom. We received the news of her passing while on Isla. It was not a big surprise, Blanche was in her nineties, and we knew when we saw her the last time that it would be the last time. Later that night at dinner my emotions overcame me and my eyes just started pouring tears. When I look back, I realize what I was doing was weeping. Weird, there was no sobbing, just the flood of tears. So we were not there for the funeral. Because her three sons knew of our special relationship, I received special mention in her obituary. Thank you, Mary Garofano.
Aunt Blanche and Bobby:
David Greely wrote a song from a poem written by a Louisiana Creole slave in the 1800s about the loss of his wife. One of the lines is, “Why do the birds still sing, don’t they know Marie has died?” Blanche loved raspberries. You will never read something like that in an obituary. She married Pelligrino Garofano. He was a snazzy dresser for Adams — or anywhere else for that matter. He wore black silk shirts with white ties. Rumor has it he wore silk underwear, but don’t get the wrong idea, he loved women. He dyed his hair jet black right up till the end. He was a good man. He made the best pizza in town. One of my favorites was pizza frite, fried pieces of pizza dough with butter and Vermont Maid maple syrup. Every year at mushrooming time he would load big Italian wicker baskets into his Nash and go mushroom picking up in Savoy and Florida Mountain.
Attention K-mart shoppers! More talk of death and demise ahead. Sandy and I have decided that we want to cremated. Not today, stupid, after we die. My plan is to have my ashes scattered at my favorite, favorite places. Someone needs to do it. So I have a good sum of money set aside for the trip for the designated ash spreader, probably Abel, and a guest ash spreader of his choice. I have selected somewhere in Yosemite Valley; Arches National Park; the above-ground cemetery at Isla Mujeres; Phantom Ranch at the bottom of the Grand Canyon; Ninigret, Rhode Island; the Cowboy Bar in Meeteetse, Wyoming; Adams, Massachusetts at the foot of Mount Greylock where Mom, Dad, and my brother are buried; and the floor at El Sarape Restaurant in Weymouth Landing, but don’t let Pepe or Rogelio catch you. So what are your wishes?
At lunch on the Pompeii adventure we dined with Lillian and Dudley from Birmingham, England. Last year they had rented a motor home and drove it from San Francisco to Las Vegas to San Diego and over to Yosemite. They said they found the American people very friendly. Good thing they didn’t tour New England. Having dinner our very first night in Italy, we struck up a conversation with our waiter and the owner of that restaurant. They have a plan where they are flying to The City of Angels, then driving by rental car to Cabo San Lucas. They say the U.S. is on sale – 40% off.
I would say that the percentage of visitors to Italy is 40% English, 30% American, 10% French and 20% German. At our hotel in Bonassola it is 90% German. They eat here at the restaurant every night because they are on the plan called Full Board, which means breakfast and dinner are included. They dine at night on sea bass, tripe, boar’s head, octopus salad and small metal trucks, tires and all. Their language is so harsh. Coming in one night I hear a glass smash on the marble floor. The waiter assuming I am German shouts out ACHTUNG! “Attention!” I guess. One of the couples is large enough to play for the Green Bay Packers. The woman being even larger than the man. They have on backpacks and wear those little Swiss yodeling type hats with thick socks and shiny Gestapo boots. The Germans chase the food they eat with bottle after bottle of wine and then guzzle huge glass after huge glass of German beer. Then they go to their rooms and burp and fart and snore through the whole night. One day I overheard them talking, and although I do not speak German, I am almost positive that they were talking about their WWII Panzer tanks that they each have in their garages, oiled and fueled and ready to go at a moment’s notice.
The Americans that we meet are from San Francisco, Sausalito, Seattle, Florida, Minnesota, Pueblo and Fort Smith, Colorado, Chicago, Taos and Weston, Massachusetts. Looking back on my recollection of the good German people, I may have exaggerated a bit and I am truly sorry. I had a nice long conversation with Larry and Susan. Larry grew up in eastern New York and listened to WPTR radio out of Albany and loves Lake George. We had many of these kinds of conversations with people during the trip. Typically we travel with others and the opportunities are less. Richard Harris says, “If you travel alone you have to meet things head on, whereas if you travel with others you are somewhat shielded.”
On our last day here we bump into a couple we had seen and chatted with briefly twice before. He was one of the three people who had seen my Isla Mujeres name tag on my knapsack and commented on it. He said, “I was there in 1961.” All dirt streets then and nowhere to eat or sleep.” We have been going since 1988. February ‘08 will be our 20th year. We don’t go every year, but almost. This time I asked, “Where are you from?”
“California.”
“Where?”
Mrs. replied, “North of Sacramento.”
I know that area pretty well, “Where exactly?”
“Grass Valley.”
“I went out twice to run the Western States 100 mile race.”
“My husband Barry has run it seven times and once he rode it on a horse (originally it was the Tevis Cup Horse Race. It starts in Squaw Valley and ends in Auburn.) Here is Barry. Hey Barry, this guy ran at Western States.”
Barry has run the Boston Marathon eight times; so have I. Barry was there for the 100th. So was I. Barry knew who the doctor was that cut off my race I.D. wristband when I was taken out of the Western States race the first time at the 80-mile mark, the Rucky Chucky River crossing.”
“It is a small world but I wouldn’t want to paint it,” said Steven Wright.
Barry says he probably would not be able to qualify now for Boston. Here in Marshfield, our Ultra Marathon Club is deteriorating also. Our race times are longer, if we even show up. Mostly at our meetings we just complain about our aging bodies and drink beer. We still have a qualifying race of 50 miles that you have had to complete in the cut off time set by that race director. One time a guy showed up because he had run a 50-mile race in 12 hours and 12 minutes. We voted him out because the cut off time for that race was 12 hours. Hey, If you finish Western States in 30 hours and one minute they say, “You were never there.” Even if you qualify for our club, if we don’t like you we will vote you out.
When we first checked into the hotel at Bonassola, Rosanna mentioned a place south of Cinque Terre that we definitely should see. Marnie was still spending time with Kelly, so Sandy and I decided to go. First we explored the town of Riomaggori — you have be moving your hands when you say the name. Hey, Egan Boyz, I saw an In-and-Out Burger tee shirt here. Also I had the best hot chocolate ever. It was so thick that the spoon stood up in it.
Cappuccino and hot chocolate in Riomaggori:
The boat excursion is only a half-hour south. At the entrance to the harbor is a giant Medieval Castle/fort.Wow! Way larger than any we have seen. We do some walking and shopping and exploring, have a delicious lunch. Kelly is on her way to Thailand via Paris and we need to get back to Marnie.
Every time we go away, I purchase a statue. What’s with that? The first one I bought was a bust of Hiawatha, in Vermont, when I was 16. Today it sits near our fireplace and no one ever says anything about it, but I still love it. In our married years I have purchased The Thinker and Don Quixote. Every time we go to a Mayan ruin I get one or two. I have 17 of those. I bought a beautiful Kachina in Flagstaff with a turquoise face. Tom, am I lying? I bought what I thought was a nice one in Canyon de Chelly, years before, made by a Navajo, but the original ones where made by the Hopi and that is why my Flagstaff one looks so much better.
All I am looking for this time is a hat. A ball cap that says simply, “Italy” or something like that. I have not been able to find one that I like. Today with 15 minutes to shop before the boat heads back to Bonassola I find the hat. Nice colors and it says the name of the town where we are today, Porto Venere. Mamma Mia! Across the way is a beautiful stone statue, even Sandy likes it. We buy it. Later in the day I ask a train ticket agent what Porto Venere means. You know Mesa Verde means green, flat mountain top and Portofino means fine port and Isla Mujeres means Island of Women (Cortez found female statues when he discovered the island a few years before I did.) So what does Porto Venere mean? Ya, I know porto is port. At first she says “No capish!” Then her face changes and she starts to make sweeping moves with her hands and says “Shell and Botticelli.” Oh my God it means Port of Venus.” “Venus, goddess of love that you are, surely the things that I ask, can’t be too great a task. Venus, make her fair, I love the girl with sunlight in her hair.” Frankie Avalon singing “Venus.” The song that was playing the first time I saw Sandy in 1960 at a high school dance. Venus strikes again.
So that’s it. We are home.
Sorry we didn’t send you a post card.
Sandy and Bob
By Bob Bacon, October, 2007
Porto Venaria:
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POST SCRIPT • November 3, 2007
Sandy and I have been back from Italy one day shy of three weeks. We had plans for dinner tonight at the Buccheris’ home in Quincy, but three days ago Hospice called from the Island Terrace Nursing Home in Lakeville to tell Sandy that she should get here as soon as possible because her mother is dying. So on a very stormy night we cancel our plans.
Brian, Sandy’s brother, has had the watch all day today, Saturday, and now it is our turn. On the way down, Sandy suggests maybe stopping at Friendly's at the Middleboro rotary on the way back.
Babci is still hanging on. On the way home, I suggest Mamma Mia's in Kingston and she says "That’s what I have been thinking."
The Middleboro Police tail me all the way to Route 58, and it is a very black, windy and rainy ride all the way to Kingston.
At the end of a delicious hot dinner and a few glasses of red wine, the owner comes out to have his end-of-the-evening meal. He is finishing as we are walking out, and I say to Sandy, "Just a minute. I would like to speak to him."
I tell him that I have been coming to his restaurant since the middle 70s. "Do you remember a man named Clyde Brini?"
In 1969, on my very first sales call for Reliable Fence Company, at Snug Harbor Boat Yard in Duxbury, after my pitch on a very large fence job, the potential client asks me if I would like a cup of coffee. At the time I did not drink coffee, but something tells me to say yes. So we just sit and chat for awhile -- and not about the bid. A little while later he asks me if I have a contract. On the way by the Reliable Fence office, on the way to my next appointment in Jamaica Plain, I drop the check and the signed contract off. My sales manager asks me to tell him about the appointment. I explain and I say "What happened. Why did he sign?"
Clyde Brini smiles at me and says "I am not going to tell you. You have to figure it out."
On a rainy day while measuring for a fence bid, Clyde would stay out in the rain longer than he needed to and get wetter than he needed to, in order to get sympathy -- and the sale. And he usually did get both.
So I ask the owner if he remembers Clyde Brini, who took me to lunch here for my first time in the 70s. The owner does remember him and says, "We opened in 1974.”
So it was 1974 when I first came here. 33 years ago. I mention that my wife and I just returned from Italy and he asks "Where?"
His family is from Bucciano and Airola south of Napoli, and he points to the photos on the wall of each town. He tells me of the 200-year-old olive trees and the wine, oh the wine. He is especially proud of the church on the hill that the town just restored. He says everyone should experience Italy. I agree. They go back every year but will not retire there because of the family he has here in the states.
He asks "When were you there?" I said three weeks ago, for three weeks. We were on our 40th wedding anniversary.
He replied, “So were we, and we have been married for 40 years also!”
He gives me the great Italian smile. He shakes my hand tells me his name is Giovanni Viscaviello and asks what is my name?
I answer, “Roberto Baconi.”
The Italian magic just doesn't stop.
