June 22: Roma Turista on the Streets

 

Laura and I disembarked in Roma and I told her what a crazy station it is. Fortunately, she let me use her phone when I couldn't find Miriam at the meeting place. We changed plans, and I joined Laura in the taxi line. This is like the lineup at Southwest Airlines in the 1990's, before the open seating plan came with boarding groups A, B, and C. Italians cut in front of the tourists in line, and when a big taxi van pulled up to me, I gave it to the British family behind me. A few more taxis passed me by, so I stepped in front of the cutters and jumped into a taxi. When in Rome...

The nice taxi driver spoke a little English after I greeted him in Italian, and he asked me if I liked Roma. When I told him the energy was crazy, he told me that's because too many crazy Americans lived there. We laughed and I felt less like a tourist.

Trastavere at noon is a very hot place. Miriam's pied a terre is on a narrow street and the delightful lofted townhouse is completely remodeled and air conditioned! We dropped off my stuff and went for a quick bite at a walkup around the corner. Small Roman artichokes dipped in clarified butter, with a fresh loaf of bread, made a perfect meal. I washed it down with a small glass of beer, and we were off on a quick site-seeing tour. Looking at an ancient town with an art professor has to be one of the most pleasurable experiences I have ever had. My love of architecture and her knowledge of the history of the buildings made for non-stop conversation. We have such similar tastes, which is why we call ourselves Sisters of the World. While our bio-parentage may differ, we must share some cultural DNA.

Here we are in front of the Santa Maria of Trastavere Church. I'm sweating buckets and she's fresh as a daisy. Inside, another expert view of the gorgeous art of the 12th century. The earliest church at this site dates from about 221-227 CE, during the time of Pope Callixtus I. What we saw was completed between 1140-1143, but the mosaics by Pietro Cavallini date from the late 13th century. So young.

The sheep are so interesting, and the fact Mary is on the same level as Jesus is an interesting comment on the hierarchy of the early church. Here's a closer look.

The thick old walls of the church hid the fact the temperature outside was above 95, with similar humidity. We walked back to the apartment and planned to meet at 5:30. Boy was I thankful for a siesta!

When I woke up at 5:00, the downstairs floor was covered with moisture. I found a mop, thinking it was just a small streak, when I realized it was throughout the entire apartment. What had I done?

Miriam's knock at the door made me panic a bit.  When I saw she wore a beautiful golden jumpsuit with spectacular jewelry, I knew I had to change out of my Columbia stretch shirtdress. It took her a bit of time, but Miriam figured out the cleaners had reset the AC and accidentally turned on the humidifier, instead of the dehumidifer. So when the temperature inside went up, so did the humidity.  When I returned later that evening, everything was fine.

I changed into my new green silk ensemble, and had a first experience. At my age, that's saying something! I've never been in Rome with a knockout blonde, and about every other block men would brush up against her, stop her and say something, or generally make sure she noticed them. After nearly a month of not wanting to be known as a solo travel who didn't speak the local language, it was pretty hysterical to be accosted on every corner. The two of us must have made a study in contrasts: curvy Miriam with long blonde hair and high heels and sporty Spice Girl me, with an athletic walk and Skechers sandals. In a short period of time, we saw everything. Back and forth over the Tiber River we found churches and bars and gelato and views.

After Miriam's lecture on dating, we stopped by this store. Notice the hearts. I made a wish.

We decided to walk across Trastavere to find the St. Cecilia Church and again, a piece of marble struck me dumb. Fortunately Miriam explained it all.

The carved canopy above the altar was quite the work of art, too.

The sculptor honored Cecilia with this perfectly rendered homage. Her neck is at the same odd angle as when she was found murdered. In fact, the body and arm placement are identical. Taken together, it's quite horrific to think about what happened to her.

We wandered back towards the center of Trastavere and found this unique art boutique whose owner was working inside.

Below the sign in English, we found a few little bistro tables set out for patrons to look over the catalogue.

The least expensive piece of glass-blown art was 10,000 euros. She was a charming hostess for a tour around her gallery.

Miriam wanted to stop by an old hospital and show me the inner architecture. The security guard wasn't helpful, even to her. He told us we could enter in 30 minutes. So, we stood outside his guard station and he finally realized we were serious, even though we were dressed up. And in half an hour, we were inside.

The hospital is actually an old monastery, completed in 1069. It fell into disrepair in the 1400's, and was later rehabilitated into a hospital. Inside these gardens, you can sit amongst urns from the 6th century.

Hiding behind the arches so the security guard wouldn't kick us out, we sneaked back to the guard post and waved to the man who'd let us in.  Time to cross the river again, and find dinner in the Jewish Ghetto.

June 22. Up with the birds at 5:00 a.m.

Wow. I didn't expect to become so emotional when I said good-bye to Cynthia at 5:45 a.m. She had to take a taxi to the airport because her plane was earlier in the day.  Tonight, she'd be at her son's engagment party in LA. What a wonderful world.

After they left, I played ball with Danielo's dog, accidentally hitting a tree with the ball, which careened it down the hill. This loyal little mutt chased it down the hill and dragged it and himself back up. Covered in burrs, he let me pick them out one by one.

The others grabbed breakfast to go and Luciano loaded their bags into the Mercedes van for one last trip. I snapped a pic of Luciano and we exchanged European cheek kisses. What a kind gentlemen he is. They were off at 7:00 a.m.

Davide, Stacey, Laura and I will take a taxi to the train station at 10:00. I managed to fit everything back into my bag and backpack before the large group left, so all I have left to do is visit the rock patio where I stretched and did yoga most days. The smell of the olive trees was a pleasant reminder of the savory flavors we ate on a daily basis.

The others were relaxing under the Scopa Cabana. Edmund and Allesandro seemed lost without program planning to do. I remember what it was like at the end of each session of Stanford Sierra Camp. Families left on Saturday afternoon and the new group came in on Sunday afternoon. We'd have 24 hours to have the place and the lake to ourselves, usually talking about the fun people and the obnoxious brats. What would they say about us? We had to be one of the most fun groups ever, even with the drama of a visit to the ER and a case of COVID. I'm sure they won't forget us. I won't forget this place, either.

I need one last visit to the formal patio where I watched a sunflower grow a foot in two weeks. From this fountain bench I watched the full moon rise and wondered what I'd be feeling like for the next full moon. I'd be sitting in my own backyard, waiting for the orb to rise above the wall of azalea bushes. Instead of feeling homesick for this, I simply didn't want to leave this magical place. But, the thought of an air conditioned free apartment in the middle of Rome? If only I could stay there longer.

Good-byes at 10:00, and we crammed into the taxi. We're at the train station 30 minutes before the train to Rome leaves, and we see it's a regional train with no first class seating. It's only an hour and I realize it would be possible to commute from Terni to Rome. Most of our fellow car dwellers are younger, and probably heading to Rome for a day of pleasure instead of work. We grab a snack and head to the platform, where the train is waiting 15 minutes ahead of schedule. We find an empty car, schlep our bags into the seating area as there's no baggage racks, and sit down with a sigh.  Good-bye, Terni.

June 21 - Poetry Reading in the La Romita Chapel

 I'm feeling guilty for having so much fun tonight. Maybe it was being in a former Catholic Capuchin Monastery, drinking Prosecco, and hearing terrific poetry? Here are a few shots of the gang before the reading. First, Edmund is performing necessary quality control.

I can't help thinking how, at the time I shot this photo, I thought he looked like he was playing a trumpet to call us to the table. Boy, does he know his wine and Prosecco.

Kim and I modeled our outfits from L'aura. It was the first time I can remember somebody loving an outfit I bought so much that she wanted to go to the store. She bought her ensemble off of the same rack, by the same designer. I can't decide if I love her blues or my greens more.

Here's Edmund  & Flower, our other instructor. Kim, Edmund, & Flower have worked together before, and their comaraderie and friendship flowed over to everyone. In the 90+ degree heat at 7:00 p.m., we all started hugging each other's sweaty bodies.

I don't drink much champagne, sparkling wine, or Prosecco any more, but these wines were terrific. I saved a glass for after my reading, as I didn't want to slur any words. Right before we began, someone took this photo with my camera. Only I can see the tension in my forehead, but I'd just do my best and try not to compare myself with anyone else.

I chose to take parts of my Paris Poem, my Zermatt Poem, and a few others that also had pink in them as a through-line. Nobody fell asleep, the last line landed really well, but as I was reading I realized I'd left out too many details that would have made the "sense" of the poem more effective.  The "sound" of the lines? Yes, that was working. 

And my surprise second poem?

Danny C. was interested in playing back-up guitar as I recited "The Suburban College-Educated Female Blues" and found the right beat and key as we sat in the small room behind the chapel. Instantly. The guy is a genius. My daughter emailed a copy of the song to me, I picked the three still-pertinent stanzas, and acted like I sang/chanted with a famous blues guitarist all of the time. SO FUN. Everyone laughed a lot at the end.

And so, the reading continued and I had a glass of Prosecco as my anxiety diminished. We'd bring the wine to the Scopa Table and the rest of our snacks for one last time. Many people wanted to leave so that they could finish packing, but nobody left. We lingered on, talking and laughing and singing along with Danny and Kim, whose harmonica playing amazed us all. 

I never thought I'd like traveling in a group, or being part of a tour, but this trip is changing my mind. It's so fun when you're with people who love poetry, words, and conversation. I'm realizing the adjustment back to the real world in San Ramon is going to be really, really difficult. 

Here, somebody was up in the morning when I went to make a cup of coffee. Many one on one or two on one conversations about everything imaginable occurred without advanced planning. I learned who needed to grab a cup and return to their room, a good reminder that not everyone is as fired up in the morning as I am. When I had that kind of energy, I'd just find Danielo's dog and play catch. His little tail never stopped wagging. 

I do like planning my own tour and selecting exactly what I want, but there's something to be said for letting another hold the reins. To sit back in a Mercedes van/bus and let Luciano drive was just about as luxurious as could be. I'll get up early tomorrow morning with the others and make sure I can thank him for his excellent driving and tutoring in Italian via pronouncing road signs. I think I have a decent accent now, but boy do these Italians speak quickly. 

June 21 - Hot and Hungover

7:00 a.m. Where are my fellow early-morning coffee drinkers?

8:00 a.m.  James arrives and blames me for all of the sleepyheads. I remember our laughter and smile.

9:00 a.m.  Folks start trickling in, heading straight to the new Lavazza espresso maker. Hopefully we won't break this one, too. I perform my usual ritual of emptying the used coffee capsules into the trash.

Today, I'm having 100 % caffeinated coffee.

10:00 a.m. Most of us are sitting in the dining room, fanning ourselves. I stand next to the air conditioner, letting it fluff under my skirt. We're reliving the previous evening of shenanigans, and I think our low energy is caused as much by our sadness at leaving tomorrow as by the amount of wine consumed. We had about a bottle/person last night, if the empty bottles and carafes are an accurate measure. 

If only I had bought a second bottle of that Trebbiano! We could have that to look forward to this evening. Instead, our fearless director Edmund is hosting a Prosecco tasting before and during our reading in the chapel. I love that space, and would have written there if it had been cooler. It should be a lovely backdrop this evening.

11:00 a.m. We talk about not having any more workshops, and about our published books. I remember most of my cohort are published poets. I think my work has improved, but it isn't as consistently excellent as their work.  I'll have a lot of revision to do when I get home next week. Yet, I am inundated with rich material, happy memories, new friendships, and hope to have a writing breakthrough by the end of the year.

In the meantime, I need to do some laundry. 

When I arrived, I was embarrassed by handwashing my underwear and hanging them out to dry on the community clothesline. I wish I'd had Victoria's Secret lacy things, but sadly, no. I did have a drying rack in my room, where my underwear stayed. But, I'll hang up the dresses I'm going to wear to Rome and Paris after I rinse them again. Everybody else has the same idea, so the clothesline is crowded.

I'm going to give up trying to change my flight from Paris to home.  It would be so much easier to leave from Rome, and I could have a longer visit with Miriam. But, it's going to be in the high 90's, and without a cell phone I have to borrow others' phones and be on hold with British Airlines. Three people have generously offered to do this. One on Tuesday, one on Wednesday, one yesterday. Great group of people here, but I need to stop borrowing phones. British Airlines is not particularly helpful, either. On Wednesday, they said I could change it for free, but I was cut off during the payment of the $5.00 transaction fee. On Thursday, the price was $500.00 to change, so I didn't. Yesterday, they wouldn't let me keep my ideal seat on the Heathrow to SFO leg, and wanted another $1800 dollars to leave from Rome! Incredible.

So, it's Friday afternoon. Tomorrow morning everyone will load on the bus by 6:30 a.m. I'll catch the 10:30 a.m. train to Rome with three new friends. They'll go their way, and I'll meet Miriam and stay at her condo in Trastavere. Saturday night we'll go out to dinner in a gorgeous restaurant, if her past generosity is any indication. Sunday morning, I'll walk around Rome, then catch my Easy Jet flight to Paris at 3:30 p.m.  I can't Uber without a cell phone, but online I saw a taxi stand about four blocks away. Standard rates to Fiumincino Airport are about 40 euros, but I won't have to worry about train strikes.

Right now, I have no place to stay in Paris and I'm pouting I can't hang around Rome until Tuesday. I still haven't seen the Trevi fountain, where I wanted to throw three coins. I guess I'll come back to toss the coins, ensuring I'll return to Rome again.  I don't think there's any doubt about that.

There's lots of availability for two nights in Paris. I think about airbnb again, then think about a really nice private bathroom and air conditioning. A refrigerator, coffee maker, and grocery store nearby would be ideal. Why didn't I think of this before? The dreaded Roquefort Dressing Metro stop has a number of places surrounding it. I'm under budget, so a three-star hotel with a room facing the inner courtyard can be mine for less than 199/night. Now I'm excited. I'm going to sprawl all over that queen-sized bed, buy a bottle of French wine, French berries, French cheese and a baguette at the Monoprix around the corner, and camp out. The Montparnasse Cemetery is across the street, and I'll do a little research for the mystery book I outlined when I was in Paris two weeks ago. One click on the Expedia button, and I'm set. I can take the RER-Blue line from Orly Airport to noble Denfert-Rochereau, walk half a block, and drop my stuff off at a hotel with an elevator.

Now I'm almost too excited to take a nap, but sleep I must. Except, OMG, I don't know what I'm going to read tonight. A quick scan of nine drafts written here indicates nothing is worthy. What if I try an old poetry lesson I used to teach my APE Lit. students? Take lines from all the poems and make one really intense poem? Mine will end up being a narrative, but a "greatest hits" idea really appeals, especially since I have about three hours to finish something before the Prosecco tasting begins at 6:00. Ugh. I could read something else, something more polished, but that doesn't feel right. For our final reading, I need to read something I wrote here. Why do I always need a deadline to get anything done?!

June 20 - La Penultima Beach and the Tarot Gardens

The bus ride to the beach was lively. Nobody could believe I'd made it to the tombs and back and I told them my ghost story. We were excited to go to the beach, and I couldn't wait to jump in the Mediterranean.

Cynthia and I sat down for lunch, but I couldn't eat. I went to the changing rooms (free), put on my suit and said "Anybody up for a swim?" Edmund had reserved several beach umbrellas and lounge chairs, so I put my stuff down there and swam out in the water to another classmate. Floating away the sweat from the tombs and letting the current take me out for a bit was so relaxing. 

For the first time in a year, I could do the crawl stroke without my neck and shoulder hurting. Soon more folks joined us in the water and my sense of mischief gave me an idea. When James wasn't looking, I dove underwater and swam the five yards to his ankles, and sharked him. I came up for air to see his shocked face and started laughing. Even though I gulped some of the salty water, it was worth it. I sharked Flower as well, and most of us were enjoying the water by that time. I stayed in until it was time to leave as the humidity was so thick it completely covered the sun. For half a euro, I had a 90 second rinse in the public shower, but decided to keep wearing my coverup. I thought I should look like a hippie if I were going to have my cards read.

On to the Tarot Garden. Flower had told us it was one of her favorite places in the world. I was curious - would people read my fortunes in a cave? Instead, I learned it is the life's work of one of Gaudi's proteges, Niki de Saint Phalle, a French-American. She bought the land in 1979, and began building the 22 monumental sculptures based on the esoteric Tarot. Here's a look with James. After sharking him, I had to beg him to stand next to me for a pic.

Some of the sculptures were gorgeous, others creepy.

I kept my bathing suit coverup/nightgown/tablecloth on and the pattern fit right into the garden.

I caught Cynthia writing underneath the bride and dragon. Many of the sculptures allowed you to walk in and through them. So trippy, especially in 95 degree heat.

We all snoozed during the 2 hour drive back to Terni from the beach. But I had work to do when we

returned. I had invited everyone to a wine tasting of wines from Umbria, and I needed to set up the cool room inside the chapel. We'd taste after dinner. 

Fortunately Flower forgave me for sharking her in the ocean, and she helped set up a few things.

We tasted three whites and three reds, following Edmund's recommendations of the best Umbrian wines. My favorite was from Spoleto, and was a Trebbiano blend.

The Montepulciano was great as well, but when it's this hot, cold white wines are best. We had a nice time and cooled off in the little room next to the chapel.

Here's Kim in the front, with her partner Danny in the crazy pants, inspired by the Tarot Garden. After the tasting, we went to the Cabana for a lightning round of poetry, and a singalong with Danny. Kim joined him with her harmonica, and I couldn't believe our summer camp was coming to a close in two days.

After this shot, the Scopa games began and the noise continued until past midnight. We finished all of the bottles reserved for the tasting, and several more. La Romita's table wine held up to these more expensive ones, especially the Montepulciano. So delicious. I hope it tastes the same back in Califonia, but what Italy exports never seems to match what you can drink within the country.

Tomorrow night, our formal reading in the chapel. I look forward to wearing my new green silk ensemble for the reading, if only I can decide what to read. Nothing is finished, let alone polished. C'est la vie? Que sera sera.

June 20 - Tombs in Tarquinia

This was the best day yet at La Romita School of Art. Yes, it was very hot, but we had so much fun! I'm going to include more pictures than usual here, in part to give some names to faces but also to share the joy of community.

We began our day in the small town of Tarquinia. For the first time, Edmund was coming with us as he had volunteered to drive our mate who had come down with Covid. He told us he doesn't miss a day at the beach.

Cynthia and I wandered up the main street, lickety-split, and stopped by a wonderful sculpture. This allowed a lovely boutique across the street to catch our eyes. While she tried on multiple, beautiful bespoke items, I bought a lacy bathing suit coverup for my youngest in white linen. (It fits me perfectly, so I might just keep it...) C. kept trying on clothes, so I told her I was going to see if I could find the famous Etruscan Tombs on the other side of town.

My hike took me to the top of the town, and the little hill offered outstanding ocean views. I started thinking, maybe this is the place to retire, especially if there were any old houses on sale for a dollar. I found the church of San Francesco, and felt I had to go inside a church named for San Francisco's patron saint. The church and convent were built at the end of the 13th and beginning of the 14th century, after a St. Francis miracle. Rebuilt in  the 1650's, it was a great example of Roman architecture. But I needed to move on, even though the church had natural air conditioning with its thick walls.

The map to the tombs suggested a ten minute walk, but 25 minutes later I nearly turned around. I had to be back at the bus in under an hour. With no restaurants or water fountains in this residential neighborhood, I decided the site of the tombs was the best bet for water and a bathroom. I was rewarded by the drop-dead gorgeous archeologist, who greeted me at the entrance and spoke perfect English. He gave me a map, a free bottle of water and asked why I had come. Curious, I said. He told me not to miss the Tomb of the Hunters and Fishers.

Each necropoli had a blue plaque with information in English and Italian on the outside, a small building erected on the top, and steep staircases down to the tomb.

This first one was a lovely tomb with a painted ceiling. I entered another one, and it was pretty cool as well. I walked down several stairs and pressed a red button in the dark. The tomb became illuminated with light and I could hear a fan. I wondered how much it cost to dehumidify a 7000-year old Etruscan tomb.

The third and most publicized tomb had two chambers, I discovered. After walking down the steeper stairs, I pressed the red button and nothing happened. When I pressed it again, the front chamber lit up but the back appeared to be in a blue light. I could see the painted swallows on the back wall. Then a hum much deeper than the air fan vibrated through my chest cavity. The hairs stood up on my spine and would have on my head but I was instantly covered in sweat. I thought I might be having a heart attack, so I practiced deep, slow breathing. The vibrations increased, and I took a quick picture, said "I mean no harm to your home" and sprinted up the 34 steps. Well, as quickly as someone on the wrong side of 55 could move. At the top, I looked back and a swallow swooped over my head from the inside, nearly missing me with poop. This has to become a poem!

I had 20 minutes to walk back to the bus. I'd sweat through my pink shirt and my white jeans were so heavy. According to the map, there was a shortcut. I found a wonderful, narrow street next to the town's medieval defensive walls, and stayed on the shady side. I ended up at the viewing park, but the gate to go down the stairs to the plaza meeting place was locked. Two workmen helped me find another path, one taking me by the elbow, saying, "careful" or something in Italian. I made it back in time for a quick visit to the gelato store where I ordered my favorite combo:  pistachio and strachiatella, or vanilla with chocolate chips.

Next: the BEACH!!!

June 19 Writing Day and Last Workshop

 I look forward to these unplanned days, but it's hot at 8:00 a.m. 

Managing the heat in an un-airconditioned monastery takes some planning. If you open your windows at night while you're reading in bed, the bats may come in. That's a scary experience. This bug came in last night, and the picture does not do his 4" wingspan justice. I tried to swipe him back outside with a towel, nearly knocked the painting off of the wall, and succeeded in injuring him. I was able to scoop him up with a piece of paper and throw him out the window. The crispy buzzing sound of his wings assured me he was looking for another place to rest.

Once it's 80 outside, which it is already, you have to lean out of your window to shut the outer shutters with an ancient latch, then shut the window, then shut the inner wood shutters. This seals up the window pretty well, but it's still hot. So, you plug in the funny old-fashioned white fan, turn it on rotate, and let it revolve the air around. Moving air feels cooler than still air, but it's still hot.

The coolest place in the monastery is the little room adjacent to the chapel. Several folks already hang out there due to the strong internet connection, and the chairs are lawn, not office, chairs. Since I don't have a desk in my room, this seems like a good idea. I try it for awhile, and make ice in the freezer with four ice cube trays. Every hour I dump the cubes into a bowl, and fill up the trays again. I steal about half of the ice as my monopoly fee.

On a reconnaissance trip to the dining hall, I see one of the kitchen staff bending over something in the corner. An air conditioner!  Voila! Ecco! I stand next to it until the sweat stops running down my legs. I go back to my room, change into my one sundress, and let the AC Marilyn Monroe the skirt. Nobody sees me, but since everyone already knows me as a lovable dork, it would be fine to busted.

"Elvis in Orvieto" was not a hit the other night. One bit of critique occurs often when I workshop poems. "We need to see a struggle here." In fiction and plays, yes, our heroine must overcome the odds. But why is this necessary in a poem? What's wrong with expressing a joyful encounter that may not reveal the true meaning of life but still presents lines, images, thoughts, and emotions (thanks to Brenda Hillman's LITE acronym)? I know I'm not contemporary. I never have been "with it" but I was happy in the moment. Why not share that? I mean, my name means "bringer of joy" so I do feel a sense of obligation at times.

I'm thinking of a poem that talks about wearing coastal grandma clothes in order to be a solo traveller who can move invisibly, but the audience for that would be even smaller than the audience for happy poems.

***

It's evening now. Almost time for our last workshop. How could I draft five very different poems in a day? Maybe being a bit upset that my poems don't connect with many people fueled my creative energy. Or, maybe there was nothing else to do but write, eat, worry about workshop, and write.  Mostly, it's the incredible inspiration we have here, with our field trips and kind cohort. So many interesting and fun people. 

I have six wines to share for tomorrow's wine tasting. I can't wait to see what people like, and to learn whether the wine shop owner in Orvieto steered me in the right direction.

If only I could stop sweating. I don't think anybody's found my cache of ice cubes. Time to go to the chapel for the last workshop. There, I'll tell them we have enough ice for everyone.

June 18 Cascata de Marmore and more Terni shopping

Back in Terni, I was on the hunt for a deck of Scopa cards, the Italian card game we played every night in the cabana of La Romita.  You go into a Tabac store and ask the man behind the counter for them. Around the corner from this interesting winking pope graffiti, I found two different versions, the Napolitano and the Piacetine, in a spotless Tabac. I bought them both, with James, who was super excited. Then we were free to wander down the lanes, and I showed James where we could stand under the music school's practice rooms, in the same lane as the L'aura shop, and listen to the musicians. A singer practiced arias as a bassist jammed to a jazz rhythm. Young people walked in and out with backpack guitar carriers and all kinds of velcroed cases. I vowed to pick up my flute (in its old-fashioned hard case) when I returned home.

Here's the main building of Terni, constructed after the town was flattened in WW2. It's an interesting manufacturing town of over 100K people, with old and new apartments outside of this large piazza. But, today we were off to visit the famous Cascata de Marmore, immortalized in Byron's "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage."

Hot. Hot. We were beyond hot once we found a place to park and walked to the entrance of the popular falls, the highest manmade waterfall in Europe. The Romans had a different way to "drain the swamp" back in 271 BCE, and Manius Curious Dentatus redirected waters that flooded annually to create this waterfall. I changed into my bathing suit and put on my coverup/nightgown/tablecloth dress. Not a great look with red-laced hiking boots, but I really wanted to get into the water. Edmund had flat-out said "No!" when I asked him about it, but I figured I would find a safe place for a dunk. Nope. Once I saw the force of the falls, water that's released for a certain amount of time daily, I headed up the path. Dawn and I wanted to go all the way to the top, but the stairs were creaky. We went to the first "Lovers' Lookout" and it was closed to a private party. The second lookout was lovely, but we heard there was no place to get into the water at the top. So, we went down a different way, saw some cool old caves carved by the water, and went to the true soaking area, a ledge where the mists and cascades of water drenched us. Incredibly cold water refreshed us, dotted our phones, frizzed our hair, yet we still managed to enjoy ourselves. 

Tonight, another workshop. I think I'll share "Elvis in Orvieto," a poem with potential.
 

June 17 Rome and My Beloved: Keats

Today Luciano arrived in our favorite Mercedes mini-bus, complete with air conditioning vents in the ceiling. Even though we had a long drive to town, I was really excited to return to Rome. Two years ago, I visited for the first time and forget to throw three coins in the fountain so I'd return some day. Lucky I'm not superstitious.

Visiting that Trevi Fountain was on our list, but a walk down the Via del Condotti and its incredibly expensive designer stores made me think twice about that walk. Already 90 degrees, we waited outside the Keats-Shelley House next to the Spanish Steps until our appointment at 11:00 a.m. I wanted to replicate the famous Audrey Hepburn shot with Gregory Peck from Roman Holiday, but we were told it is illegal to sit on the steps. An ice cream cone would disintegrate before we could snap the shot, but I thought I'd try after the visit to Keats' last home and the room where he died.

The home's air conditioning was turned up full blast, and I climbed numerous stairs to reach the library rooms. Gorgeous. I read every label, every original note and letter, every book title. I stared at the ceiling above the replica twin bed in his actual room, and wondered what Keats thought about for his last few days. Surely his beloved Fanny and "Bright Star" must have crossed his mind.  Did his life end in a series of horrible gasps, or did he sink into oblivion?  I was surprised at how emotional I felt, and how much I missed my beloved Romantics. Two years studying contemporary poetry at SMC didn't really change my taste for sound effects, rhyme, and meter. Out of fashion, yes, but beloved all the same. "When I have fears that I may cease to be" returned to my mind. I hadn't thought about that sonnet for at least ten years, but I remembered most of it inside Keats' bedroom.

The museum had a Byron exhibit as well and I discovered several small drawings of him I hadn't seen before. My high school English teacher had told me Byron had a receding hairline that he liked to cover up, and here was direct evidence. Some of his early handwritten drafts were on display in a glass case, and several items were touchable. No alarms went off, no docent came running and I enjoyed the texture of the paper. I saw a copy of Shelley's "Ozymandias" and remembered how much my APE Lit. students loved it.

An hour flew by, leaving no time for shopping or the Trevi Fountain or wandering. I didn't care. Now I knew how Keats felt when he wrote "On First Looking into Chapman's Homer." I couldn't leave this space. I took a photo of the Spanish Steps from a small, connected terrace, imagining Keats sitting there with his morning coffee, composing a line or two before the inevitable coughing fits took over. Nobody else from our poetry group remained inside, and I bought a t-shirt and made a donation. 

As I walked past the Spanish Steps, I noticed they were empty. Desperate for a photo, despite the fact I was wearing my red-laced hiking boots with a dress, I found James, who snapped this shot for me.

"I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the Heart's affections and the truth of Imagination"

-John Keats

June 16 Perugia

Once again, Edmund challenged us "wandering walkers" before our trip to Perugia, home of Baci chocolate and a famous chocolateria called Sandri. Cynthia and I thought we could make it to the far end of town to see Edmund's strange 12-sided Roman-era church. We arrived before noon, but it was really, really hot. Due to the heat wave, we're going to Rome tomorrow instead of on Wednesday, when it's supposed to be over 98. 90 degrees in Italy is a humid convection oven, the hot breezes cooking us thoroughly. Today, we had two maps, one with a clear orientation and the other cut and pasted from a travel magazine. One had more detail in terms of the streets and the other had the landmarks clearly depicted. This is to say we got lost, multiple times. We went in a circle around the Fortebraccio, later learning the namesake called a dinner with his rivals and slit their throats, ending the rivalry before the dessert course.

Being proactive, we asked for directions. The first shopkeeper sent us in the loop that returned us to Fortebraccio. Then a cyclist told us to go down a hill, but we knew the church was on top of the hill, so we went in the opposite direction. C's GPS didn't work in the narrow streets with ancient buildings. We were having fun with the mysterious alleyways, for rent signs, and alley cats, until finally I saw the sun. "We need to go this way," I pleaded. After some convincing, we took a "short cut" up a long stairway under construction. I thanked my orthopedic surgeon for shooting up my knees, and we made it to the top, only to face a city wall. Cars zoomed by to the left, and the way was uphill, so we figured we were close. We followed the wall and came to a music school that was on one of the maps. We were offered a tour of the tower for ten euros, and it had a great view, but we wanted to find this old church. Finally, we did.

The moment when you realize your wild goose chase has brought you to a place with no stained glass, no relics of renown, the smell of the mold you're allergic to, and a service about to start for nobody but us, who didn't have time to attend - well, we had that moment. Still, the nun who was preparing the altar had the same Birkenstock's as Cynthia, just in a darker color. That was interesting. There were eight ribbed vaults in the ceiling, 16 different walls, and as I walked around the center altar I entered a bit of a trance. Like a theater in the round, I couldn't find the door where we entered.  Once we were in, could we get out?  I walked the circumference twice before I became reoriented.  

And, what about the math problem? We were in search of a 12-sided church and we found a church that either had 8 or 16 sides. Like the wrong well in Orvieto, were we in the wrong church in Perugia? I started thinking about chocolate, and hoping it wouldn't be too hot to eat it when we went back down the hill.

We thanked the nun, dutifully dropped a few euros into the tin offering box, and their clanking noise elicited a smile from the young woman. In front, we saw a different configuration of walls and since we couldn't go all of the way around, we wondered if there were 12. 

Later, I learned the 12-sided church was actually a tower that we saw but didn't connect to our quest. Yet, the round Sant' Angelo church has an interesting history. Built in the 5th century (AD, CE, EC), the church utilizes columns from an earlier pagan temple. And, the pentagram I saw in the middle was indeed from the Knight's Templar. Hmm. Commonly called the Church of Archangel St. Michael, it was restored in 1948. The grounds are well-kept, and we liked the approach to the front door. Of course, we had not used that when we discovered the round church. 

It is the abbey church of San Pietro's tower that has 12 sides. It replaced a 4th century pagan church in the 10th century, and the abbey grew after that. We walked around it in the city center without counting the sides.

After leaving Sant' Angelo, we followed the temple road down the hill and merged on to the Corso Garibaldi, the street we couldn't find on the way up. At every corner, clearly marked signs pointed to the Sant' Angelo church. If only we'd seen these, we could have had a lunch of chocolate. Once we arrived at the main square, we saw our error. Following the medieval musicians to a small square to hear their concert put us off by a block. And that made the difference. We made it back to the square in 20 minutes, 2/3 less time than the way up. Yes, we were able to see some interesting places in the town, but the stairs...

The air conditioning in Sandri and the free chocolate samples refreshed us before our 1.5 hour drive back to Terni. I almost stopped by another Etruscan well, just because Sam's Irish Bar of Perugia was located inside. If that's not the label of a tourist trap... Actually, I felt trapped in Sant' Angelo, so perhaps I should shut off the judgments. I liked Perugia's plaza, cathedral and walks, but felt like I wasted too much time trying to find the church nobody else was interested in. 7 miles today. I wanted to get in my steps. 

We arrived to the meeting point in time to visit the Etruscan site under the main square. The Rocca Paolina was the main way into ancient Perugia, with folks having to pass under a classic Roman arch. I found some beautiful scarves in a shop in this underground city. People lived there until 1848, when papal forces destroyed part of it before Perugia became part of Italy. There's an annual jazz festival there, with different bands taking over different homes as venues. That's on my new bucket list.

June 15 Finally a Writing Day

I've taken so many notes in my little Italian leather notebook (bought as a three-pack from T.J. Maxx before I left Cali). We had an informal yoga class this morning, on this little patio next to the olive orchard. I swept it and it needs a good powerwashing, but I don't want to step on the toes of the groundskeeper Danielo. Cynthia is a certified yoga instructor, and I added some writer's stretches for our upper backs, necks, and wrists.

After this, I stayed on the patio and wrote a new version of a poem about La Pieta. I'm calling it "Witness Testimony", but the more I research, the more my poem doesn't work. Or, it's not factually accurate. Maybe first impressions are best impressions, as I don't like the new versions. 

An interesting note: in Europe, they've stopped using B.C. and A.D.  Unlike our B.C.E. and C.E. (Before Common Era, etc.), they refer to ancient times as PEC, or pre-era common. Not too difficult to translate that.

I looked through my notes and found a few lines about this strange fellow in Rouen. That town seems so far away right now, and the cool temperatures so appealing. The working title is "Doorway Drifter," and it's about this strange man who planted himself below the Gros Horlage Clock in the old town. His dog was so beautiful, and his clothes so clean that I decided to create a different story for him than that of an unhoused person. Then, I began to believe my story.

The third draft was from a Flower C. prompt and I have a good line: "So many promises I've made to myself." We'll see where that one goes.

I kept writing. 4th poem draft of the day begins, "That it is impossible to tickle yourself is a rumor that's simply not true." Yeah, it sounds more like the beginning of a rhetorical speech, but has anybody examined the science of tickling lately? Is it a poem? A commentary? A cartoon caption? Well, it's a draft and damn funny. At least to me.

The fifth draft is from another Flower prompt about self-spells. Now, I'm all about self-help and try really hard not to impose my psychotherapy needs on anyone else via my poetry, but sometimes it can be a good thing. I had the letter "D" in a dictionary page and wrote, "I'm the dust collector of myself." Don't ask me what it means, but the spell, if it works, will have a marvelous outcome. Something I've wanted a long, long time. Yes, well.

At tonight's workshop, I shared a compilation poem from some of these drafts called "Letter from Normandy." As usual, the expert in the room, Kim A., suggested I start in the middle. All of the interesting details that warmed up the topic weren't necesssary, she thought. Others said I'm a keen observer but see too much. "If we have to read it multiple times, maybe you should think about the value of each line." Oh, dagger to my heart. Each line I shared I thought was worthwhile, but not to anyone outside of my mercury brain. So many topics, so many ideas. "Just pick one worry," a cohort member said. Yeah, I wish.

I'm learning just as much from hearing the work of others as from receiving feedback of my own attempts. Hearing the lines aloud is really helpful, even though it's very stressful to share new work with accomplished poets. Since it is brand new, I think I can get away with being less polished. The good news is nobody has been bored when I've read my new work. 

Wow. A lot of writing and reading in one day. What if I could do this every day? Five drafts, and a workshop?  I don't think it's possible, to be honest, but to think I could write fifty poems in a month is a happy thought. Especially if the inspiration for the poetry is an examination of historical places and ideas. Italy is full of both.