Category: Uncategorized

Wednesday, July 21

I have no notes of my first full day in a hospital bed. I’m sure there were terrors about having to be there for at least ten more days, but those blended with the rest. I do remember realizing in the morning that I was without any of my props; documents, cellphone, clothes, not even a memorized number of a friend. Roman came in the evening like a saving angel with all that I needed. He was the first of many angels.

I learned something about prayer during my stay. The lessons took many forms, and what I mean by prayer would not necessarily qualify to someone who is religious (I prayed to my own deities in my own words), but something new was lodged into my experience of life that looks a lot like trust or surrender. It’s not easy to hold on to but it feels to be a very good thing.

Thursday, July 22

Early in the day, I began to have a distinct out of body experience. It was preceded by a “flight” over a gigantic pool that was bordered by beautiful rock formations and plants. The experience was crystal clear, and what I was flying over evolved and developed as I grew nearer, but unlike in a dream, it never altered is overall shape or character. My flight ended over a small area to one side that was like a terrace, and I was drawn to rest there. There was a pad of white light that I rested on, then my “body” floated above this flower-like pad of white light, always drifting down but never really moving. It all began just after I woke, and persisted through the morning’s prods and pokes, the doctors’ mass visit (there were four doctors that day) and through the afternoon and evening. After noon it was a bit less consistently clear, but remained there to tune into when I needed it. It was so wonderful that it totally obliterated any worries, discomforts or concerns. Whenever anyone asked how I was, my answer was “right now I feel wonderful”. Most were surprised by this response. I was, myself.

Friday, July 23

The white light phenomenon continued. On this day it was preceded by a flight over a beautiful city such as I have never seen. It stretched like an enormous Italian village over hills and through green valleys. The rooflines echoed domes and the hulls of ships, the decoration was rich and varied, the colors blended with the natural colors around it. Then after quite a long time flying over this landscape, I again found the flower-like pad of white light where I floated on my back, always with the sensation of sliding upwards. This lasted most of the day and into the night. It felt welcoming and healing, and I was convinced that the broken ribs were being given an extra shot at a quicker than normal recovery.

Saturday, July 24

Early in the day the white light pad made itself available again, but I didn’t have the energy to allow myself to enter, or had forgotten how, I’m not sure which. But I had a very real X-ray, and word filtered back from somewhere that the healing was remarkably strong. I smiled a secret smile.

Sunday, July 25 – Thursday, July 29

The voice notes I made for this period are incomprehensible, but there were themes and stand-out events that I remember.

Imagine Movement

An integral part of Recovery is to imagine how it feels to move/walk well; a way of retraining the brain to send the right signals in the right way. The hospital stay afforded a great atmosphere for this training, and I was surprised at how exuberant and filled with color and light the imaginings were. Now that I’m home and walking again (after a fashion), I’m curious to know how they play out. I have also been having more difficulty imagining being home.

Night Terrors

I asked for a sleep aid sometime this week and was given a full dose of something wicked. Understand that I had to remain on my back 24/7, so the first thing the drug made me want to do is to turn on my side, and in the rather paranoid state the drugs induced, every other impulse it inspired seemed deliberately subversive, like someone had designed this medication to destroy your life. I got through the first night without screaming fits, so I requested a half dose the next night. The drug started in the same way, but quickly progressed to scenes that could have come from the movie Clockwork Orange. The isolation was profound. The dream ended with me in a building, white and empty, in a prison that resembled my fenced-in bed. There was an unseen presence pushing me to accept a soulless existence that was somehow being promulgated by corporate culture. I screamed for help, but was frightened by my utter aloneness. Desperate to prevail, I turned to begging forgiveness from my Mother; who was more than my physical mother, but also the Earth Mother and Feminine Principle. The persistent pushing stopped and left me in an exhausted heap. It was a long time before I awoke.

I declined the sedative from then on, but they lingered in my system long enough to cause another psycho-terror nightmare two days on. I don’t remember the details, but it left me wondering if I’d become paranoid schizophrenic for several hours after I woke. No fun.

Day of Doubt

I spent one day doubting every decision I’ve made, or so it seemed. 

Day of Gratitude

There was also a day of revelation, when every detail of my life, pleasant or no, fit perfectly into a puzzle of wonderful complexity.

A balloon, a piano, a grandfather clock, and a blonde.

One of my dad’s regular customers was a gentleman confusingly named Gain John. He and his family lived in the neighboring city of Palo Alto. Every now and then the Johns would invite us to dinner. Theirs was a large kitchen so we supped informally. I don’t recall if they had a dining room, or if we were in the kitchen by virtue of a perceived level of comfort with each other’s company. Mrs. John, whose first name I forget, had a nice collection of Revere Ware pans hanging on the wall, all their copper bottoms gleaming without stain or spot. My mother never failed to mention them on the way home; to her they represented an impossible dream.

At that point the Johns had only one child, a girl of maybe four or five, blond and sweet. I was a wisened ten years by then, and being an only child, took to her as I would a little sister. One I adored and wanted to nourish.

The street they lived on was narrow and woodsy, there was a grey picket fence, a long winding walk through a tree-filled garden to a kind of external hall that led into an irregularly shaped office to the right, and to an impressively Julia Morganesque front door. The living room was large. To the left was a sunroom packed with plants. Straight ahead, a baby grand piano. Next to the fireplace to the right, an elaborate grandfather clock with what seemed like a dozen dials that colorfully measured various astronomical events. The floor was covered with a thick Persian rug. Their home was as unlike anything in our family as I could imagine.

So, into the aftermath of one of those kitchen dinners appeared a balloon. And before long, four adults and two children were standing on that beautiful carpet and batting the balloon in a circle. I made a special effort to send it at little girl height so she would be a part of our sport. The adults did the same for me. It was like a dream. When we played games in our family, there were rules, or horseshoes, or fake roulette wheels, and there was lots of vocalizing; shouts of surprise, victory cheering, bad luck groaning. That night at the Johns’ there was the pong of a passed balloon and an occasional murmur. And we were all one society, ages four, ten, forty-something, and fifty-something. I held onto that memory like a precious gemstone.

One evening in 2005 when I was on loan from Scranton, my mother and I, bored with what broadcast media had to offer, began to randomly reminisce. The Night of the Bouncing Balloon came up. Well, to be sure, she had no recollection of it at all, but she remembered Gain John, and how she was always reversing his name in my father’s ledger book when she recorded bills and payments. I described their house. She remembered that, too, though not quite as vividly as I did. She also remembered the Revere Ware, but denied any emotional crisis around its immaculate display.

“Where was that house, exactly?” I asked.

“I have the address somewhere,” as she pushed herself out of her rocker and shuffled to the breakfast room-made office. In a deep drawer she had every address book she’d kept for sixty years.

“That would have been 1960?”

And so it was found.

“Let’s go look them up,” my mother enthused.

“Well, we could drive past, see if the house is still there.”

“And if it is, we’ll stop in and say hello.”

“What if they sold the place? They probably have. I doubt anyone we know is still living there. And what if they don’t remember us? And why should they.”

“We’ll go tomorrow morning.”

And so we did. I drove her Toyota to the discovered address. The house was on a corner, as I remembered it, and obscured by trees, but it lay only a dozen feet off the widened highway, and there was a semi-circular driveway that went from side street to main road. 

“Turn here.”

“Why?”

“So we can see it better.”

I did.

“Now go into the driveway.”

“I can’t do that!”

“Why not? We’ve come this far, we can just drive past.”

“We’ll drive in and look.”

We did.

“That’s the place alright. I remember that little hall that led to the front door. And inside was a sunroom, and a piano, and a grandfather clock. Well, we’ve had our look, better get out before they call the cops.”

I started to pull slowly away, and Mom had her door open and was ready at 94 to leap out of a moving vehicle rather than to have her curiosity curtailed.

“Okay, we’ll go in…” but my suggestion came late as she was already halfway to the front door.

I sprinted ahead, knocked, and grimaced.

A woman, blond, about six years younger than I, opened the door.

“We were just driving by and thought it would be nice to say hello. I’m Ann Zarko, and this is my son David.”

I stammered apologetically and waved.

“Oh, yes,” said the woman, “Mr. Zarko was Dad’s mechanic.”

We were invited in. The sunroom was there, but no plants. The piano was there, too, and in about the same position. The grandfather clock had been moved, and the Persian replaced with something from the 1970’s.

“Are you here for the memorial?”

We responded blankly.

“Oh, today was Dad’s memorial. He died three weeks ago. We’re just back from a celebration of his life. It was lovely.”

“We just showed up,” and I told her why and how. We stayed an hour.

Photo: This may actually be the house, which would be a hugely lucky search.

In response to a proposal on Facebook to share photos of our fathers, I found one I love. A twenty-five year old Pete Zarko is leaning on his tennis racket, posed with one foot up on the running board of what I believe to be his Hudson motorcar. Whatever it was, it was a classy vehicle, a luxury sedan, probably fitted out with some pretty nice accessories, too. Not a bad purchase for a young man starting out as an auto mechanic who, with his brother, tended the family orchards on weekends. The photo is dated – accurately I’m sure, by my mother whose archival talents were considerable – 1933, the depths of the Great Depression.

How’d you do it, Dad? 

Let me be clear, I do not with that question mean to cast aspersions. My father was as honest as they came. If he discovered a 12-cent error on a customer’s bill, and the bill had already been paid, he’d spend ten cents reimbursing the overcharge. That was honorable, it’s what you did in business. Furthermore, the casting of aspersion has become sickeningly popular of late, and I tend to buck trends rather than follow them. So, nothing implied.

I’m just saying. Serious question. How’d you do it?

Once in his thirties, the tennis racket was put in a closet (and later in a basement), and the Hudson was replaced by a Ford pickup. The fancy clothes I never saw, they went away somewhere well before I was born. For a short period in the late fifties, I think, he and his brother bought a 30’s era Hudson (a beautiful thing, cream-colored with a tan canvas top) that they relished for awhile and sold for a profit. But during my childhood he left me with the distinct impression that he was embarrassed by the stylish tendencies exhibited in his youth. He had one sports coat, a herring bone tweed, that he wore for special occasions for the entire time I knew him.

When I was seventeen, I wondered furiously what happened to the camel hair top coat and the cashmere sweaters. I was way too skinny to have made good use of them, but cool was cool, and I would have loved to try them on, regardless of how baggy they might have been. The bowler hat I discovered in the basement, still in its oval box, and would take it out from time to time and wonder at its stiffness and generous size.

Some photos show my father with a pipe, another accessory I never witnessed his use of. I do, however, have a vivid memory of him saying in the car one night – provoked by what, I do not recall – that if any child of his were to become a smoker, he would beat the living daylights out of such child and for his own good, too. I was an only child, so I got that message loud and clear. Those words, by the way, so singular in their violence, were as close to a beating as he ever administered. As for the tobacco habit, my cousin, Pero, in Croatia was quite a smoker, and to be polite, I accepted cigarettes from him. I pretended to puff, and managed to drop them into whatever body of water was close to hand after a minute or so. I’ve never understood the appeal of nicotine.

How my father managed to have such style in the era of block-long lines for soup kitchens, aside from his being in California, may have been that he was always scrupulous with money. Once established with house and business, he placed paying his debts ahead of taking vacations or buying a popular new appliance. I agitated for the travel, my mother for the blender. Since Mom kept the books, the blender eventually fell into budget. Road trips were more complicated, but my travel urge was oft rewarded by careful research as to what favored destinations boasted antique autos.

Vintage and antique cars got us to Hearst Castle, to Harrah’s collections in Reno, to various spots in the Gold Country where unusual vehicles could be found, and to state parks and beaches to frolic with collectors who gathered to show off their prizes. I loved those cars, too; the majestic, the absurd, the odd, the extravagant. The Simplex-Crane built in the shape of a boat by a shipping magnate in San Francisco (the names alone were enough to warrant fascination – International Autobuggy, Hispano-Suiza, Mighty Michigan). The Stanley Steamer that used a specially heated splash-pan to build up a head of steam on demand, the deficit of steam cars being the long wait before you could go anywhere. The embroidered electric cars with drivers’ seats that could be reversed to facilitate conversation with rear-seated passengers (presumably once parked). The perfect Tucker that broke so much automotive ground that the big car companies felt compelled to litigate it out of existence, which once done allowed them to steal all the best patents.

My father owned seven or eight antique cars in various states of decrepitude, and two antique motorcycles. But he couldn’t say no to his buddies. He restored several of their cars during his retirement, but only finished one of his own. That was the Hispano-Suiza, which once complete was a beauty. It turned out, however, that the original body had been substituted by one from a contemporaneous Cadillac, and that severely reduced its value. He sold it to a doctor in South Dakota who drove it all around the country, despite a gas tank that emptied into its straight six engine with alarming speed.

I’d give anything to have a photo of Dad in his well-greased overalls, foot up on the Hispano’s running board, no tennis racket. Just for symmetry. 

In planning this trip, I ended up exhausted by the amount of research required, and convinced that I had made a dozen serious errors. On Sunday, my first full day here, the apartment seemed to be awkwardly located off to one side of a Business Center that had a number of restaurants offering lunch on weekdays, and nothing much of anything else. While the walk to the clinic seemed doable, I couldn’t grasp traipsing it every day. There didn’t seem to be anything local by way of normal services – at all. Of course, five days later I’ve discovered a lot. In fact, apartment, location, services, are – for my current purposes – all perfect. And the apartment I found in Vienna for next weekend, which I somehow thought was 10 kilometers from the center, is 5 minutes by subway. It is also easily reached from places in Bratislava I already know, so next Friday’s “move” won’t be difficult either.

All that is colored by one overriding factor, of course; that Ivanna’s assessment of how things will progress is accurate.

You may have noticed that I have been in search of a metaphor for this process. Metaphors are useful in that they can provide a familiar context for something totally unfamiliar. But they are not predictors. I can’t choose a model and expect it to apply next time I look. Ivanna said, un-metaphorically, that during the first 5 to 8 days, symptoms may vacillate between more pronounced and almost gone, and with a higher contrast between extremes even than those usually exhibited by PD. I have to embrace that, and all observations need to be nested in that reality.

So, for example, my right arm was not trembling yesterday except when I lay on my right side. It swung liberally and in tune to my gait while walking. Today, after Nap One, it trembled in a number of positions, except when I lay on my right side, and was looser in general but the lovely near-strut of yesterday was absent. Since lunch it has been quiet again.

This morning, all of the muscle-clenching symptoms were essentially gone. This afternoon they are back, albeit at a less clenched level.

However. I got out of bed today without have to strategize how to accomplish it, and it occurred so naturally that I was halfway to the bathroom before I realized what had happened. And. A bit later I was able to get up from this sofa – as low and as soft as a good love song – without the effort turning into a circus act. I was likewise in the kitchen before it hit me how easy it had been.

On the other hand, I’ve felt what I call “goofy” all day. It has been the case for months that between breakfast and my morning walk, I feel the goofiest, but this morning’s goof was the most pronounced I remember it ever being, and the walk did not fully resolve it.

So, the pattern is?

Years ago I saw an aerial photo in Life Magazine of a five-point Boson intersection during rush hour. The picture was cropped so we could not see where the cars were coming from or going to, but among the 100 or so pictured, no two of them were pointed in the same direction. In one of these posts, I suggested a Boston rush hour as a possible metaphor. If I decide to choose one, I think that will be it.

I told Ivanna about the gettings up this morning. She was thrilled.

– That you’re having such a good sign, so early, even if it doesn’t repeat for a few days, it is wonderful.

– And yesterday that dark sample wiped me out.

– It what?

– Laid me flat. Smacked me down.

– I’m sorry?

– Made me very, very tired.

– Also a good sign. Your body is being receptive to this, is working hard. Be good to it, rest.

A couple of weeks ago, Janette advised me by email not to plan touristic things during treatments. Perhaps what she meant to say was – it will be impossible to do anything but eat, sleep, and bathe, so don’t even think about it.

I asked Ivanna this morning how samples are chosen each day. Well, it’s simple. The clinic they order from sends packages. So for instance, a ten-implant package for nervous system disorders, a five-day package for digestive problems, etc. She just opens the next one in line, and by patient report has formed theories, such as noticing that the very dark samples tend to engender stronger responses. Yesterday’s was cioccolato molto fondente. Today, the well-used leather of a man’s belt. Yesterday’s knocked me out. Today; so far pretty powerful, too. I’ve napped for a total of three hours since noon, and it’s only five o’clock.

The weekend is off. I’m hoping to get into Old Town, and hoping I feel up to it. If I do, I’ll tell you all about it. If not, I’ll tell you about “My Bratislava”. Not quite as exciting, but just in case you never make it here, yourself.

* * *

TRAPIANTO CINQUE (di dieci) – La metafora

Nel pianificare questo viaggio, alla fine ero stancatissimo dalla quantità di ricerche e convinto di aver commesso una dozzina di errori gravi. Domenica, il mio primo giorno intero qui, l’appartamento sembrava essere situato in una posizione scomoda a fianco di un Business Center che aveva alcuni ristoranti che offrivano il pranzo nei giorni feriali e nient’altro. Mentre la passeggiata per la clinica sembrava fattibile, non potevo afferrarla ogni giorno. Sembrava che non ci fosse nulla di locale a livello di negozi normali – affatto. Ma, cinque giorni dopo ho scoperto molto. In effetti, appartamento, posizione, negozi, sono – per i miei scopi attuali – tutto perfetto. E l’appartamento che ho trovato a Vienna per il prossimo fine settimana, che in qualche modo pensavo fosse a 10 chilometri dal centro, è a 5 minuti di metropolitana. È anche facilmente raggiungibile da luoghi a Bratislava che già conosco, quindi anche la traslocazione di venerdì prossimo non sarà difficile.

Tutto ciò che è colorato da un fattore prevalente, ovviamente; che la valutazione di Ivanna su come andranno il percorso dei trattamenti è accurata.

Potresti aver notato che sono stato alla ricerca di una metafora per questo processo. Le metafore sono utili in quanto possono fornire un contesto familiare a qualcosa di totalmente sconosciuto. Ma non sono profetiche. Non riesco a scegliere un modello e mi aspetto che venga applicato la prossima volta che guardo. Ivanna ha detto, non metaforicamente, che durante i primi 5-8 giorni, i sintomi possono vacillare tra più notevoli e quasi scomparsi, e con un contrasto più elevato tra gli estremi anche di quanto sia normalmente mostrato dal PD. Devo abbracciarlo e tutte le osservazioni devono essere bassati in quella realtà.

Quindi, per esempio, ieri il mio braccio destro non tremava, tranne quando mi stendevo sulla destra. Oscillava liberamente e in sintonia con la mia andatura mentre camminavo. Oggi, dopo Pisolino Uno, ha tremato in diverse posizioni, tranne quando mi sono sdraiato sulla mia destra, ed è stato più libero in generale, ma il bel puntone di ieri era assente nella camminata di oggi. Da pranzo è stato di nuovo tranquillo.

Questa mattina, tutti i sintomi di contrazione dei muscoli erano praticamente spariti. Oggi pomeriggio sono tornati, anche se ad un livello meno stretto.

Però. Oggi mi sono alzato dal letto senza dover pianificare le strategie per realizzarlo, ed è accaduto così naturalmente che ero a metà strada del bagno prima di rendermi conto di quello che era successo. E. Poco dopo sono stato in grado di alzarmi da questo divano – basso e morbido come una buona canzone d’amore – senza lo sforzo di trasformarmi in un atto circense. Ero anche in cucina prima che mi colpisse quanto fosse stato facile.

D’altra parte, ho sentito quello che chiamo “goffo ” tutto il giorno. È stato per mesi il caso che tra la colazione e la mia passeggiata mattutina mi senta il più goffo, ma il goffo di questa mattina è stato il più pronunciato che io abbia mai ricordato, e la camminata non l’ha risolto del tutto.

Quindi, lo schema è?

Anni fa ho visto una foto aero in Life Magazine di un incrocio delle cinque strade durante l’ora di punta a Boston. L’immagine è stata ritagliata in modo da non poter vedere da dove venissero o arrivassero le macchine, ma tra le circa 100 nella foto, nessuna di esse era puntata nella stessa direzione. In uno di questi post ho citato l’ora di punta di Boston come possibile metafora. Se decido di accontentarmene, penso che sarà così.

Ho detto a Ivanna come sono alzarmi stamattina. Era elettrizzata.

– Che tu abbia un buon segno, così presto, anche se non si ripete per alcuni giorni, è meraviglioso.

– E ieri quel campione oscuro mi ha spazzato via.

– E cosa?

– Mi ha lasciato piatto. Mi ha colpito.

– Mi dispiace?

– Mi ha fatto molto, molto stanco.

– Anche un buon segno. Il tuo organismo è ricettivo a questo, sta lavorando sodo. Sii buono, riposa.

Un paio di settimane fa, Janette mi ha avvisato via e-mail di non pianificare cose turistiche durante i trattamenti. Forse quello che intendeva dire era : sarà impossibile fare altro che mangiare, dormire e fare il bagno, quindi non ci pensare nemmeno.

Stamattina ho chiesto a Ivanna come vengono scelti i campioni ogni giorno. Bene, è semplice. La clinica da cui ordinano invia pacchi. Quindi, ad esempio, un pacchetto di dieci impianti per disturbi del sistema nervoso, un pacchetto di cinque giorni per problemi digestivi, ecc. Apre solo il successivo nella coda e, secondo la relazione del paziente, ha formulato teorie, come notare che i campioni molto scuri tendono a generare risposte più forti. Ieri è stato cioccolato molto fondente. Oggi, la pelle ben usata della cintura di un uomo. Ieri mi ha messo fuori combattimento. Oggi, finora, anche abbastanza potente. Ho riposato per un totale di tre ore da mezzogiorno, e sono solo le cinque.

Al fine settimana sono libero. Spero di entrare nel centro storico e spero di sentirmi all’altezza. Se lo faccio, ti racconterò tutto. In caso contrario, ti parlerò di “My Bratislava”. Non altrettanto entusiasmante, ma nel caso in cui non lo fai mai qui, tu stesso.

Barbara Cook died recently. And she’s been on my mind.

When the film version of The Music Man came out in 1962, I joined by mother, my aunt, and grandma Lucas – who was my cousins’ grandmother, not mine, but you can never have too many grandmothers – on a rare trip to San Jose’s Fox Theater. It was a glorious old place that with its décor kept audiences at least as entertained before and after anything was projected on its screen, as during. We went to a matinee, and the house was packed.

I was already a Shirley Jones fan, and her portrayal of Marian the librarian convinced me that it was for good reason, too. And as an extra bonus, thanks to her appearance in the movie, I became a Hermione Gingold fan. She was – as this twelve-year-old film critic declared immediately afterwards to his relatives who had no idea what he was talking about – the best character actress of our time.

Me, my aunt, and my mom all loved the show. Grandma Lucas’ take was somewhat different.

“Oh, the music is nice and it was pleasant to look at, and the acting is good, but the story is just awful.” When pressed as to why she had thought this, she explained, “A con man comes to town, the girl he’s courting knows he’s a con man, and she takes his side anyway. Then as soon as there is good evidence against him that he’s not at all who he claims to be, he cons them all again. I just don’t think it’s a good story.”

This caused an instant and insuperable conflict in my pre-adolescent mind, already plagued by a horrible suspicion that I may hold within me an ability to fake my way through anything.

We left the theatre in relative silence. Once she was behind the wheel of her Ford Galaxy, grandma Lucas next to her in the front passenger seat, my aunt decided to address her mother’s misgivings. “Well, you know, we didn’t see a transformation, or at least we were treated to very little of his change, but at the end he does change.”

“Oh, he seems to change, but that’s just because he wants the girl,” her mother countered.

“Well, maybe, but I don’t know. He has the children play Beethoven, and they’re not very good, but they do pretty well for beginners. He’s brought music into their lives. Maybe he came to town as a scam artist, but the town and its librarian altered him. At the end, he’s finding his way into the community as a music teacher, qualified or not, and that is going to make him a better man. He’s settling down, he’s in love, he’s finally bringing joy and life to those around him.”

My aunt, by the way, was an art teacher at a pubic elementary school, beloved by her students. And her name was Marian.

“Well,” countered grandma Lucas, “that may be so, but once a con man, always a con man.” I wondered what had formed her world view – even if not in so many words.

The next four dollars I managed to earn or bluff from my parents went towards the purchase of the original cast album. I was disappointed not to be able to find the sound track, but I guess the wheels of commerce were not as well-greased as they are today, at least not in Sunnyvale, so the Broadway version was all I could find.

However, on my first listen I was shocked to discover that Barbara Cook was better than Shirley Jones. In fact, she was so good that I grew a little angry on her behalf that she hadn’t been cast in the film. It became a minor subject to blow steam about throughout my teenage years.

When I heard this week that Ms. Cook had died, in the odd way a mind can work, I began to wonder if on her death bed she had replayed the last words of My White Knight – her thirty-five year old self singing “My white knight, let me walk with him where others ride by / Walk and love him till I die, till I die.” It’s a morbid speculation on my part, I know, and strange, but it wouldn’t go away. I sang what little I could remember of the song over and over to myself. Frustrated that the lyrics hadn’t all survived fifty years of memory, I looked them up, and croaked my way through bits of the melody I could recall (it’s pretty sophisticated) until I got to the last phrase. Then I repeated it. Several times. A scratchy but heartfelt memorial to the lady with the elegant voice who first sang it.

Death is the only thing we can really depend on in life. How we regard it, defines who we are. It puts a healthy limitation on our egos, spurs our aspirations, forces us to savor our fellow creatures, and causes us to balance the urgency of making a contribution with a relaxed enjoyment of life. On the other hand, if you spend your life denying life’s one sure thing, you can end up a Con. You con yourself first, then try to con others into seeing things as you do.

Today I put together yet another tomato, onion, and fresh mozzarella (di bufala) salad. I sat down still humming My White Knight and thinking about The Music Man. My humming migrated to Seventy-Six Trombones about four bites into the salad. Suddenly, I heard the song as describing a whole town’s being told for the first time that its children could be collectively wonderful beyond any previous imagining. And I cried all over the salad.

At that moment, I was ignoring the part of the story where Harold Hill tells the town their kids are going to hell in a hand basket thanks to the presence of a pool hall, and that only paying him top dollar for a brass band could save them. Emotion is often a form of selective excitement.

To one degree or another, I’ve chased after excitement all my life. Making theatre is to be always creating some new thing, especially making theatre at the level that I’ve worked in. I marvel at Broadway performers who can craft and then deliver a fresh show, day after day, night after night, four hundred performances, or more. I never worked on Broadway or toured. For thirty-five years every month or two brought with it a new project. Novelty fed excitement, and excitement fed me.

Then the novelty/excitement continuum began to lose its charm. I decided to move to Orvieto. At first, I told myself I would test the waters here by limiting my stay to seven months; merely an exploration to be reversed should it not go well. Predictably, those months were filled with excitement, discovery, and novelty. This was a new culture, a fabulous adventure, and hugely educational. So, I determined to rent a smallish house with a garden in the center of town to see if I could make a home. I borrowed an image from Hindu tradition – where the last third of life is a retreat from what has propelled you during the first two-thirds – and called it my hut in the forest. My next ten months in town were a somewhat more relaxed version of the first seven.

By now, I know the streets, I’ve planted my garden and furnished my house. Excitement has become less important, novelty has seeped its way into small corners and cracks. The ease is welcome, but it also brings to the surface old conflicts, long-hidden, like the childhood fear that my better angels could be easily overtaken by a talent for being able to fake my way through almost anything.

I hope I have never been a true fake on the long term, but I have lately noticed lazy habits of thought and action that suggest fakery still come into play from time to time. For example, in learning Italian I’ve noticed a tendency to believe that I can bluff Italians into thinking I speak well. That is manifestly impossible, but part of me is surprised when it doesn’t work. I’ve often wondered if by giving my talents as an actor short shrift among my other career choices was a mistake. I wonder if my quasi faith in fakery stems from having failed to provide it a healthy and proper outlet.

Whatever. I’m writing plays, and can imagine some day I might rejoin a theatrical effort. But sometimes the playwrighting seems – aside from the joy it brings – to be primarily an exercise in avoiding despair. What are the chances that these scripts I lavish so much time on will ever be appreciated by another human being? From time to time, a friend may read one of them, but who is actually going to spend money to put one on stage? And will any of my plays ever be good enough to cause anyone to want to try? When faced with those doubts, I turn to the Con.

But is refusing to face the possible futility of artistic effort any different from refusing to acknowledge the end of life? And doesn’t the same set of options follow? Admit that my time spent may be for nothing and write anyway, or con myself into imagining greatness, then spend more time coning others into agreement than I give to the act of creation itself? These two years in Orvieto, learning to embrace its wonderful and complex community, have engendered in me a healthy mistrust of the Con.

Gradually, the conflict grandma Lucas’ review of The Music Man created in me fifty-five years ago unravels. Will loving and cherishing a community make Harold Hill a more genuine person? Regards my personal Con, I think I’m with aunt Marian on the answer to that question; yes.  Regards Cons in general, current events seem to have proven grandma Lucas right; once a Con, always a Con.

Somewhere, I have pictures of me when I was a baby being held by the lady next door. She was Italian by birth, had immigrated some thirty years prior, and I grew up on the sacks of fruits and vegetables she brought to us from her huge garden. Because her husband spoke only Italian, and most of her closest friends where Italian as well, her English never much improved past what she had learned in her late twenties. But everyone who knew her loved and respected her. Living in Orvieto reminds me of my Italian neighbor, not because she was Italian, rather because she was our neighbor. And our friend.

My first series of essays on this blog was titled Postmark, Orvieto, and at some point I subtitled it, an outsider’s view from the inside. When last September rolled along and it felt time to begin posting again, I titled the current series of posts; Alla Rupe – Making a Home in Orvieto. Looking back, those titles are spot on accurate. My first seven months were viewed from a distance; I was amazed, bemused, and astonished to be here at all. These last ten months have indeed been about making a home here, both physical and emotional.

This afternoon, I went to the supermercato and Aldo’s natural foods emporium. I said something to the young man with the world’s warmest smile at the former that caused him mild bewilderment. I said something to Aldo that made him laugh. I’d no intention of causing either shock or mirth, but am learning to be gracious and accept whatever response I get.

I heard an interview a week or so ago. The man speaking related how he asks God for one thing only; a daily humiliation. His prayer is always rewarded, and with great speed. He used the word “humiliation” with conscious exaggeration. “An opportunity for learning humility” may have been closer to his intention, but I still prefer the way he said it, and personally relate to both the need, and the usually rapid delivery – though for me one humiliation a day would be a kind of drought.

After buying a few things at Aldo’s I walked towards my house. Romina (as in Antonny and Romina of Blue Bar) was pushing their son Leonardo in a stroller. Antonny’s mom was recently diagnosed with cancer. It’s everywhere, including her liver. She’s not very old. Romina and Antonny’s friends have been urging him to visit her in Brittany since he let her condition be known, and he finally went last week. Today, I was told she had died, so offered Romina my condolences. “She’s not dead.” Oh. I’m so glad to hear that! How is she, then? “The same. It’s very serious, and I’m glad Antonny was able to see her, talk with her, be with her. It was good for both of them.” We agreed.

As I turned the corner onto Via delle Pertiche, I noticed that the weeds growing between the paving stones seemed fewer, somehow. It had been on my mind to pull them, or scald them, for weeks, but I always put it off to City maintenance. I glanced up the street. Two of my neighbors were going into their apartment. We exchanged greetings. As they went in, they revealed Renzo (my second floor neighbor) pouring gas into his weed whacker. I wondered who did that, I told him. But of course, Renzo!  Who else?  He laughed and invited me to lunch tomorrow – if he gets off early from work.

As I turned back towards my house, Mariana (my first floor neighbor) was coming towards me with her black Lab, Polgo, who began pulling on his leash as soon as he saw me. He jumped and twisted and played while I petted and scratched his head and chin. He’s beautiful, I said. “Thanks. I think so, too.” And very friendly. “Yeah, maybe a little too friendly.” We all laughed, Polgo included. Polghissimo! We all laughed again.

My Italian is pretty rough. And as my spoken language skills are unpredictable, even in English, I’m fairly positive that I sound like a dolt at least half the time. But I’m not trying to make a home in this town anymore; it is home. I live here. I brought Renzo and Patrizia a bag full of fresh lettuce from my garden, yesterday.

Her name was Annie Musso. She had marvelous stories of how she left Italy when she was in her early twenties. My mother often told me I had to write about her one day. So shortly after I arrived here a year and a half ago, I started a play inspired by her memory. All the writing of it has been done here, in Italy, in Orvieto. She was from near Torino, so the circle isn’t as neat as it would be were this a novel, but it’s neat enough. The last part of the play is about her young friend encouraging her to return to Italy to visit her sister before she dies, and to go despite age and obstacles. In real life she did go. Then, forty years later, so did I.

Alla prossima!

I had an appointment with my dentist, Giuseppe, this afternoon. He needed to try the new crown he’s been working on, see how it fits so adjustments could be made before the grand installation next week. I adore Giuseppe, it always surprises me how much. We communicate, even though we barely speak. Today, without my verbally requesting it, communication resulted in his uncovering his mouth while he spoke. Taking down his hygienic mask turned out to be enormously helpful, a major breakthrough.

Giuseppe apologized for his English; “I’m studying French and it makes my mouth go in all the wrong directions.” I apologized for my Italian; “Your English suffers from your study of French, my Italian just suffers, no study necessary.” He smiled, understood it was a joke but I’m not sure the point and fabric of it actually landed.

When the day’s work was almost done, his little boy and wife came in. His wife speaks beautiful English, but after we exchanged a few words, she allowed my attempts at Italian to prevail. His boy and I demonstrated much the same relationship I have with Giuseppe. We smiled a lot, and tried to communicate in ways not available to us.

At one point earlier I did manage to tell Giuseppe that as he may have an Orvieto accent, I may have difficulty understanding him. He asked if I meant his English or Italian. I told him both. He laughed suddenly and grinned for a long time after. Interestingly enough, almost everything he said from then on was readily comprehensible to me. After Lisa, his wife, and I spoke for a few minutes, Giuseppe told her about our exchange, and I understood every word of that, too.

When I arrived home, my neighbor Marianna was on her balcony with her black Labrador puppy, Polgo. Polgo is, to me, the canine equivalent of Giuseppe; I adore him but rarely see him on the street. I yearn to scratch Polgo on the head and snout, tussle his ears, chuck him beneath the chin. He wags and wiggles and sticks his nose through the railings, and although I can be at his level while standing on my stairs, there is no way I can scratch his head from two meters away. So, today, I pulled out a little chair that resides under the balcony, stood on it, and stretching to my fullest ability, was able to touch his nose. He licked, I patted – it was something.

I made a purchase at the ferramenta day before yesterday. I was in a dazed frame of mind all afternoon, I don’t know why. Raffaele added up my tally on a piece of paper. Most shop keepers do that, not because they don’t have a cash register or aren’t going to issue a receipt, but so they can do what Raffaele did next. “Forty!” he exclaimed as he discarded the scrap that had figures adding up to forty-five. I thanked him and, as he had delivered everything already except the four screws held in my hand, I joked that the screws must be gold. No, he said earnestly, the screws are free.

His wife walked in with their new baby boy, in carriage. I said hello to her but neglected the baby, bid my farewells and scurried out. Raffaele was cheerful and gracious as ever, but he also seemed a bit disappointed. I like that family too much to let it stand, so today I went back for a couple of small items. I was able to thank Raffaele again for his advice, the delivery, and the discount, and huzzah! his wife and il bimbo nuovo were there, too. Reparations were made with joy and celebration.

Another source of huge, inexplicable affection are the people who work at the supermercato, Metà. I adore everyone there. I adore the energy they create, the camaraderie between them. I yearn to be able to joke with them the way they do with each other and with their friends. As it is, I’m lucky if I can comprehensibly ask where the ginger is hiding out.

But something occurred to me a few days ago when I went for provisions: when I focus on the friendship I wish we could have, I miss the one we have. The one we have is heart to heart, needs no particular language, clowning around, or cultural gestures to function. When a couple of the guys go past in their red Ape on a delivery, they honk and wave. My heart explodes, and – as honks are not available to me – I content myself with a wave.

And that last, I hope you know, is a metaphor for the tenor of life in this, my adopted town.

Italy had a kind of open house this past weekend. Nationally, over one thousand historic sites normally closed to the public, were, ostensibly, open for view courtesy of Fondo Ambiente Italiano, or FAI. Fourteen of those were in Orvieto.

“FAI” can be translated as “do it!” I chose to obey.

After a puzzling hour trying to navigate FAI’s vast, complicated, and beautiful website, I downloaded their app.  A few of the historic sites I found listed there stood out; prime among them, Palazzo Simoncelli-Caravajal on Via Malabranca.

One evening in October, 2000 (my first time studying in Orvieto) I strolled in the rain towards Piazza San Giovenale to take in the panorama. I had passed Simoncelli-Caravajal many times. In daylight, through closed windows, you can just barely make out bits of a frescoed ceiling on the piano nobile (in American, the second floor). However, on that night, lights were on, and the view from the street revealed a ceiling riotous with color; beautifully preserved trompe-l’oeil. The windows were open, and someone was playing ragtime on a very good piano.

I stood under my umbrella; rainfall in the medieval quarter, glances of a baroque ceiling, and the loping, heart-beating rhythms of Scott Joplin. The pianist moved from one theme to another as twenty or thirty minutes melted into an instant. When there was finally a pause, I couldn’t help but applaud. Ragtime ceased. For the rest of my stay, the windows remained closed, the lights extinguished, the music absent. I blamed myself, of course, and regretted my impulsiveness.

All these years later, I still hope for ragtime when I pass the palazzo at night.

My friend Kathy lives a few steps from Simoncelli-Caravajal, so I asked if she wanted to join me on a tour. In front of the palazzo, a table with literature was set up alongside banners and knot of people. We were briefed on the building’s historical and architectural heritage. The palazzo – along with all the structures on FAI Orvieto’s weekend list – is the architectural product of the notably proficient Ipolito Scalza. It was stitched together from several medieval structures, ornamented with stone pediments and frames, and unified with plaster and paint. The guide for the pre-tour talk was a young woman, probably a high school student. She spoke with authority, ease, and clarity, then passed us on to the tutelage of another young woman of similar qualities.

We threaded our way upstairs and into a small drawing room. The room contained only one item; a baby grand piano. Could that have been the “very good” piano upon which the anonymous musician had inadvertently serenaded me those sixteen years ago? I like to think so. I gazed at it achingly.  I wished I could play ragtime.

From there, we followed our guide into the grand salon. With the exception of a small patch that had suffered water damage sometime during the last four hundred years, the frescoes are as brilliant and pristine as I imagine they were at their unveiling. The architectural detail is all paint, but is so skillfully applied that even knowing the walls are flat, it’s difficult to believe that nothing is three-dimensional.

The pavement is covered, wall to wall, with a dance floor. That loping music I heard was for dance classes! Perfect.

Kathy and I visited other buildings, but none of them were open. Instead, each had several high-school age guides congregated in front, ready to offer history and analysis. They were relaxed, friendly, and prepared. None of the information they relayed seemed memorized, they showed genuine enthusiasm for their appointed facade, garden, or doorway, and were good-humored, and engaging. The excitement of moving on to the next site became about who we would meet to guide us.

Our final palazzo on Saturday was on Corso Cavour. We had just been given a thorough analysis of the facade of Palazzo Gualterio; how the grand entrance door had been moved from Palazzo Buzzi across town, and re-installed here. And how the deprived Buzzi then purchased another door to be moved from a third palazzo to install in its place. The guide pointed out all the ways the archway doesn’t fit into Scalza’s facade: the flanking windows are too close to the door frame, the cornice work on the facade breaks stride as it crosses the balcony, its height interferes with the second order of window frames, and so on. Then, because we asked where the palazzo on Cavour was located, she offered to walk us there.

We were greeted by another articulate and poised young woman who sported a variety of piercings. She guided us through an examination of the facade of Palazzo Guidoni, specifically noting its maritime imagery; shells, ropes, starfish, waves. The palazzo was supposed to have been open, she told us, but the contessa who lives there was not feeling well.

At that point, our guide turned us over to a young man in a yellow leather jacket who continued her story in English.  He announced that in lieu of a tour with a healthy contessa, he had photographs. The grand ballroom we could not enter is surmounted by an actual dome of which there is no evidence from the exterior, and his photos showed it magnificently decorated with frescoes in pristine condition.

On Sunday, the only accessible interior we hadn’t seen was in Palazzo Monaldeschi. Until recently, the palazzo served as the Liceo Artistico, High School of the Arts. I’d passed the building many times, and on all sides, but had never understood that the various entrances all lead into the same interior.

To the south of the building, there is a large, fenced yard. At its head is a much-maligned, two-story arcade.  That is flanked by architectural motley and distressed remnants of other arcades that offer little evidence of having been built according to a coherent plan. Opening directly onto the street to the west is an elegant and compact facade typical of Scalza. That design is carried off towards the east along another street.

The street entrance opens onto a large, decaying, interior courtyard, which, in its pre-high school days, may have been a cloister garden. The modern improvements are in worse shape than the bits of original structure that still show. We climbed stairs, followed a series of corridors, and were suddenly confronted by a grand salon with magnificent frescoes, which, to the right, surround an enormous fireplace. From there we moved into a pair of smaller rooms with coffered wood ceilings, a painted frieze below them, and below that the ugliest florescent light fixtures in history, now defunct.

It is filled with such interesting contrasts, this town, once the seat of popes and of wealth and power. It lives among its relics, converting them as needed to sustain their usefulness, never quite restoring them, but neither are they allowed to fall into ruin.

Guiding us through these shadows of former epochs, were beautiful, kind, articulate, poised, and stylishly dressed children of a time unimaginably different from the one they described. The highest thrill of those two afternoons of facades and ballrooms was not the masterworks of other ages, but the ease with which our young guides stepped across the chasm that separates them from their cultural past. They represent a treasure as wondrous as anything under the ailing contessa’s painted dome.

He passed me on Via Filippeschi, a few steps from the hardware store he owns with Frangelico, his brother. Hey, Raffaele! “Oh, ciao, I didn’t see you.” It’s been awhile. Are you working?

Raffaele also owns a business, called Multiservice, that specializes in restorations and improvements. He bought the hardware almost on impulse a little more than a year ago, and with his brother’s help, runs both. He bursts with energy and enthusiasm, and frequently employs the linguistic device of repeating a word three times for emphasis. That, coupled with his earnestness, causes me to giggle. I like Raffaele.

He answered my question about work; “Sempre, sempre, sempre!” I giggled. “You know that shoe store opening up on Corso?” You mean the one sort of across from La Torre where there was a shoe store before? It was his turn to giggle, “Si, si, si, that’s the one. My work.” Right, I noticed there was something going on in there. For, how long? Maybe the last couple of weeks? “No, no, no, the last couple of months! The paper just now came off the windows, and they open tomorrow. Take a look when you pass!” And he was off to join his brother, excited as a child.

I decided to walk home on Corso, glance at the new shoe store, and since I was in the neighborhood, have a gelato. The store came first, but only geographically. The Liberty style doors are refinished and clean, a rich, deeply colored wood gracefully frames glass panels. Beyond them, the store is crisp and fresh and white. I congratulated Raffaele in my mind, and imagined his “grazie, grazie, grazie”. I giggled, bought my gelato, took a place on one of the Michelangeli benches, and savored the nutty flavors.

On my way home down Corso, my attention sharpened by having viewed Raffaele’s latest project, I counted three empty shop fronts I’d not noticed before. All are being renovated, these in addition to the rather large project that has been underway for several months next to the supermercato. The activity feels good. The people involved seem happy.

At the end of my street, during the cold months, a construction team added a second story to a little house of no particular significance. The building now stands immaculate and modestly magnificent, between its somewhat shabby neighbors. That one team did everything from beams to plaster. I wanted to ask about their work, but my house-parts vocabulary lacks nuance, and I was fairly certain that instead of expressing collegial interest, I would present myself as an annoying dilettante; so I contented myself with the occasional nod.

A month or so ago, a scaffold went up on Hotel Virgilio in Piazza del Duomo. It came down a week later to reveal fresh plaster and paint. A few days after that, the building to the left was covered, and days later, another restored facade was in evidence. On San Giuseppe Day, I stood with friends in the square and wondered aloud if the building to the right was next, and sure enough, early this week scaffolding went up there, too.

Orvieto has been struggling economically since the turn of the century when the national government closed the caserme, huge fascist-era barracks, that had housed the two thousand people stationed here for their 18 month national service stint. Local businesses were affected instantly. Not only were they deprived of custom from the residents of those barracks, but also that of visiting family and friends. Shortly after, the provincial government began to move official services and functions to other cities, activities that had been centered in Orvieto for centuries. The full-time population of centro storico in 1998 was about 16,000. By 2006, it was 4,000. That rapid shrinkage is visibly expressed in the abandoned houses and palazzos in all parts of town. People are now beginning to move in and move back, but the town took a serious economic hit and recovery has been gradual.

Still, shops open, restorations are in progress, facades are upgraded. Even though (as I am told) many of its young people feel stuck here, and standard services are in danger, neglected, or less frequent as the city government scrambles to stay afloat, Orvieto displays a peculiar confidence and vitality.

Recently, Bloomberg Global Health Index declared Italy the healthiest country in the world, this despite a sagging economy in which as many as 40% of its youth remain without a means of earning a living, or at least without a reportable job. National Health can take a good deal of credit for this first-place ranking. I’m only beginning to understand how that system works (it’s a variant of what is called single-payer in the States) but the security of knowing that the cost of healthcare is unlikely to trigger bankruptcy allows Italians to relax, take chances, and be creative in ways most Americans would envy.

One must also give credit to a fluid attitude, responsive communities, and an informal support system that ties families together and to one another. A strong economy is a wonderful thing, but what is it worth if its members have no time leisurely to walk dogs and push babies in strollers? Or to pet the wandering cats (who are the the real lords and masters of this town). Or to stop in the middle of a street to trade information on what cultural events are coming up, exchange tips on the best cheese available this week and at which markets, or to solicit (and offer) decorating advice for a favorite bar?

The day after seeing Raffaele in Via Filippeschi, I deliberately re-routed my passeggiata to pass the new shoe store he had helped bring to life. It was celebrating its opening. The proprietress was elegantly dressed, and beamed as she welcomed fellow townspeople into her new-born creation. Her smile sparkled, the store sparkled, the air around her sparkled. There is a kind of magic to those first moments of creative sharing, and watching that little corner of town bask in its glow was heartwarming.

Several months ago, I went into Frangelico and Raffaele’s hardware for yet another item demanded by my new home and garden. Frangelico was on his cellphone, texting. He winked as I entered and raised a finger to hold conversation at bay until he had finished. The phone lay flat on the counter, so I could see that he was responding to a message from his brother. He touched “send”. The reply from Raffaele was “Te amo.” Frangelico returned the same two words to his brother and looked up at me, refreshed and eager to advise, provide, or crack jokes — whatever my situation required.