16. Letter Home: Travelogue

Saturday 17 April.  Brugge to Saffron Walden.  P & O Ferry Ostend to Dover, 9 pm.  Drive home.

21 April 1992

Dear Mom and Dad (and by copy as noted),

We arrived home Saturday morning at two in the morning from our spring holiday, doing it right this time: home with three days before school starts again. 

The big news since we returned is the story of the young British woman who seemed to have everything going for her and was murdered in New Orleans last week by a lifelong young criminal needing drug money.  In Germany I happened to see something on TV (in German) about schools in the US.  I couldn't understand the language, but the point wasn't hard to miss, as the school children learned to dive under desks to get out of the line of fire of gun carrying kids.  On Sunday, the Independent newspaper had a piece identifying London as the crime capital of Europe.  I don't necessarily doubt the story's truth (London is, after all, a huge city, though I suspect that British statistics are a bit more reliable than French or Italian); but there still seems to be an enormous gap between crime here and crime in the US.  I'm sure there are lots of explanations and reasons, but the thought of the random brutality in the US that seems to walk about so freely is quite depressing.  The worst part of things is that it is American culture which is taking over the world, not the other way around.  (We were in Salzburg, Austria and Munich, Germany on the Sunday Euro Disney opened up.  There seemed to be nothing else on the news that day and the days before and after.)

Well, to travelogue!

On Saturday the 11th, we were off again to Salzburg: a 450 mile drive.  We had tried for five nights in Munich (Munchen), but only managed four, staying the extra night instead at Salzburg, about 100 miles slightly southeast of Munich.  The drive up was absolutely magnificent, as we headed north out of Italy through a beautiful valley lying in a split between the snow covered mountains.  (One could easily imagine the Germanic tribes attacking through this pass fifteen hundred years ago.)  This was around Trent.  The road rose gradually until at last we reached the mountains of Austria, where, at one point, we rode a bridge across a valley almost as if we were in a gondola going up to the summit. 

Innsbruck looked graceful and pleasant, business-like and comfortable in a long valley at the foot of the mountains with the river Inn on its other side.  We crossed into Germany for awhile, before going back into Austria and arriving in Salzburg at 6 p.m. Saturday night.  The town, and it seems to be little more than that, was quiet.  It is absolutely charming, pushed up against a couple of large outcroppings of rock; atop the steeper one is the oldest remaining fortress in Europe (c. 1077) and atop the other are trees and a monastery.  On Sunday, we happened into Palm Sunday 11:30 mass at the cathedral (again looking at the art work while listening to mass in a foreign language); we took the funicular up to the fortress afterwards.  It was our prettiest day of the trip, and Salzburg the most picturesque of our stops, not just because of the city, but the Alps in the background, all rugged and snow covered.  The green countryside could not fail to impress anyone.  Visits to the Mozart museum and Mozart birthplace were obligatory, as were various flavors of pretzel and a hot dog, before we set off to Munich.

Hit Munich Sunday night.  Once again a nice room with TV, but nothing in English.  Monday we did the walking tour of downtown, in the light rain, again stopping at the churches:  the one with Fr. Mayer's grave, (Fr. Mayer being the Jesuit who spoke out against Hitler and who is in the process of being canonized), St. Michael's and St. Peter's.  But we also had bratwurst, sauerkraut and beer, and managed to find in Munich our restaurant of the year: Pizza Hut (to go along with the one in Cambridge, and other places on our journeys). I sampled the local brew, a cloudy, clove tasting beer called Weiss beer.  Cathy and I spent several hours in the Alte Pinakothek, the art museum with the standard treasure trove of works, which here are particularly early German painters and Albert Druer.  We learned that Germany's art history is largely influenced by the country's location between the Renaissance of Italian art and the realism of Dutch art. 

On Wednesday Robert, Cathy and I had the sobering experience of visiting the model Nazi concentration camp (KZ) at Dachau.  It is hard to describe the feeling of walking around there.  It was a cold, windy, wet day.  The museum and grounds have mostly an informative, historical aspect to them (the museum with its description of the rise of Nazis and the reasons, the statistics), but it is, of course, the human suffering which makes the greatest impact.  One picture can do more than all the writing; the gas chambers were not actually used at Dachau, but they are there and one can stand inside them, next to the crematorium.  I like to think it was a good lesson for Robert, but even he might be too young to understand.  What I thought of was the amazing evil of the Nazis: through the use of lies and euphemisms and double talk one can make the most horrific things sound banal and mundane; it is a scary side of law and politics, and a powerful argument for the importance of truth at all costs.

Munich did have its brighter sides: the Hofbrau with its beer only by the liter, the colors of the glockenspiel and town towers, the BMW factory and Olympic park; Thomas and his ongoing study of life.  The town itself even looks relatively new, remembering that much has been rebuilt since 1945.  (Cathy said some of it reminded her of UNLV!)

Thursday we had an early start and did nothing but drive: 550 miles to Brugge in Belgium, along the way passing through a new snowfall in the hills, several traffic jams, the beginnings of the Danube (which flows to the Black Sea!), the Rhine, Luxembourg on a hilltop, and a glimpse of the Atomium off in the distance in Brussels, as we took the ring road around the city proper.  Friday we slept in, but drove into Brugge for lunch, a walk around town and a boat ride on the canals.  Brugge is the "Venice of the north."  Having seen them both, one can appreciate the comparison, but it is hard to compare Venice with anything else.  Of course we bought Belgian chocolates and had a waffle.  On our last stop, we visited the Church of Our Lady in time to see the Michelangelo madonna, while a choir finished off its lovely Good Friday hymn and the candles were all extinguished in the church, in respect, we assumed, of the occasion of the death of Jesus.

We had a smooth crossing back from Ostend at 9 pm, gaining an hour on the four hour crossing as we returned to England.  Nothing eventful on the crossing except for some creaks which sounded funny; one also has a tendency to be a bit concerned with all those seasick bag dispensers at every turn throughout the ship.  (And how does it carry all those busses and trucks?)

Thus our holiday.

There have been so many other goings on, it's hard to remember.  I attended a poetry class in the Lake District (one of the prettiest spots in England with magnificent mountains and lakes) and learned about S. T. Coleridge over a weekend.  Mostly retired people, but all with a love for poetry, and teachers who could rattle off a line of poetry at the drop of a hat.  Lovely setting in an old manor house, and a good class.  Stopped by Wordsworth's houses: what gardens and views!  A few days later Cathy and I attended the black tie Times Literary Dinner in London.  Famous writers, a nice reminiscence by William Trevor as writer of the year, nice conversation at the table (no one famous at our table, just book lovers).  We will do the same, attend a black tie literary debate on May 8th in London, between John Mortimer and P.D. James about whether detective fiction is better than serious fiction.  (I think this is a smaller group, we won a ticket in a lottery.)  All these things seem to be available here, so close, so in reach; that's one of the very nice things about England.  We are an hour away from one of the major cities in the world, and yet live basically out in the country.

We missed the election while we were gone.  The Conservatives (John Major) won again.  They have a great system here, only about a month of real campaigning, but most of the stories were about the polls, all saying Labour would win.  If nothing else, it was good to see the people prove  the opinion polls for nought, a bit like Truman in '48.  I think it really boiled down to a few things: a lot of people didn't like the Labour leader, Kinnock, who is retiring now, having lost three elections; people sort of trust Major (or perhaps, better the devil you know...), though he is a bit boring; plus Labour was going to bump up taxes for a lot of people.  Conservatives seem to be a lot like Republicans, but there are differences, beginning with the premise that there already exists national health, rails, etc.  Conservatives are also "greener" than Bush, though that's not saying much!

Last note:  the roads in France and Germany are terrific, Italy not that bad; all of them better than England, and what fun to drive on the right hand side again, though a guy honked at me in France after I made a left turn and drove for a bit on the left!  Gas here is about 45p per liter, that is about $3 a gallon.  In Italy they seem to have a better idea: instead of taxing the hell out of sin, cigarettes and booze, they tax the gas and roads and keep the sin items cheap.  (That must be why the cars are so small.)  It cost about $35 in tolls between Milan and Rome (tolls are also high in France); gas in Italy is about $4.50 a gallon.  Even the VW seems like a Suburban!

Will see you shortly!

Love,

Michael et al

P.S.  How can I ever forget the scene in St. Peter's, Saturday morning, the day we left.  I walked over at about eight in the morning, and there must have been ten or more masses going at the side altars; most being said by priests all by themselves.  In the arms of the cross, with three altars at the end (a cul de sac of altars), masses going on next to each other.  Some in Latin, some in Italian; old style, new style.  Each priest with an altar boy.  The main altars with several nuns in attendance.  When one mass is over, another begins, priests on their way to altars like airplanes at an airport, each with a slot for take off time.  Some masses concelebrated.  Voices echoing through the grates from mass below.  I finally picked a mass that was just starting and the five of us (perhaps the brother or sister of the priest and spouse, nun, a man and myself) stood at the rail for mass in Italian.  Wow!

Ready to Head Home on the Ferry

16. Dachau; Brugges; Good Friday

Wednesday 15 April.  Munchen.  Notes:

Italy and Germany: where poplar trees were meant to grow.

Germany is weeks behind spring's advance in Italy.  Daffodils just coming up here.  It must be two or three weeks behind even England.

Thomas: "If you break the law I will put you in jail."

Finished reading the Passion narratives Tuesday.

Dachau today.  Munchen in Bavaria (Bayerische), colorful and new. 

Early German art to Dürer yesterday at Alte Pinakothek, history of art from religious objects to art for people, big saints, big people.  Netherlands realism vs. Renaissance in Italy.  Do they meet in Germany?

Hotel room: hundred yards or so from station.  Outside room is neon hotel light across the street, just like the movies.

"Moonlighting" on TV in German, before was "Three Musketeers" and "Odd Couple."

Raymond Mayer, Jesuit who spoke out against Hitler.

210,000 dead at Dachau.  30,000 prisoners liberated.  Robert had a lot of questions!

Thought today: I try to be too much like Christ and not enough like myself.  That's why I'm always trying to pray for everyone, trying to solve the problems of violence in the world, wishing for a global solution.  I can't forgive everyone, I can't pray for everyone, it's not possible.  Christ can.  Perhaps I can work on asking him to pray for me and forgive me.  He knows everyone's needs, I do not.  But try to work on understanding his forgiveness, as well as his power.  (It is his, not mine.)

 German hard to understand, though perhaps I am just used to seeing and hearing French (and romance) so often over the years, never German.

 Love those 20 letter long German words!

 Painful, but constructive financial chat with Cathy last night.  Progress!

 Friday 16 April, Good Friday.  Munchen to Brugge, Belgium.  Hotel: Brugge Zuid Novotel, Chartreuseweg 20.8200, Sint-Michiels, Brugge. 

 Good Friday.  17 April.  10:15 a.m. Novotel, Brugge, Belgium.  Thomas and I are in the room.  Everyone else is eating breakfast downstairs.

 Thought: Jesus says, "Come to me all who are weary and want rest."  I never thought of myself as needing or wanting rest, but I see now, perhaps it is a weariness from mental and spiritual anguish as much as physical.

The idea occurred to me the other day that a lawyer such as myself is engaged in the modern equivalent of the shoe maker or factory worker of prior generations.  I am engaged in an intellectual service industry which is now more of a bureaucracy (commercial) than a champion of justice.  I am a day laborer in the garden, nothing special.  I pay the price not so much in physical hardship.  I have little of that.  I pay instead in time devoted to my work.  All of this is simply by way of saying that, in the late 20th century being a lawyer is nothing special.

But, to the first point, I'm making progress.  I think I can at last see how I do need the peace of Christ.

I was thinking just before I opened this book how tomorrow or Sunday or Monday I'll open all the mail and plug my computer back in, balance the check book and become familiar with my keyboard once again.  I will have grown out of practice; and how, looking at the trees, nature, my relationship with simple nature, is the only thing I keep up day by day (together, I hope, with my relationship with Christ; but that is a more evolving relationship). 

Noted: I think I've come to see how to have a personal relationship with Christ.

16. Munchen; Easter Approaches

Monday 13 April.  Munchen.  We begin our day with a walk down the main pedestrian areas in sometime sprinkles and rain, following one of the suggested tour routes.  We visit the tomb of Father Mayer, an anti-Nazi priest, stop by the Burgher house and St. Michael's.  I am captivated by the smell of sausages being grilled, and we share a table with a couple and their two small children for a lunch of bratwurst and sauerkraut and beer.  Afterwards we walk to the victuals market, St. Peters and the Hoffbrau where I have a few liters of beer and Cathy manages to put a good dent into her tall glass.  We stop in at the Fortunam and Mason of Munich afterwards, and then return to the hotel for a room service meal, where I figure out how to pay the taxes.

Tuesday 14 April.  I'm up early for a walk to the Hauptbanhopf, a few blocks away, for the International Herald Tribune and English novels.  Mara is not feeling well and stays with me, while Cathy takes the boys to the Deutches Museum.  Around noon Mara and I go to the Mowenpick for lunch, including weiss beer.  On our way back, Mara and I shop: beer glasses, an electric razor and perfume for Mara.  Joop is the latest in men's cologne.  In the late afternoon Cathy and I visit the Alte Pinothethek, the city's famed art museum.  We like the Druers and concentrate on Renaissance paintings and Middle Ages icons. 

Monday 13 April.  10 a.m., Drein Löwen Hotel, Munchen.  Breakfast with the children.  They invented a new language last night.  As if Italian, French and German were not enough!  It was, however, two hours of peaceful group effort.  "Train" and "deterbrice" were two words.

Spoke to Brian last night.  Has taxes and $ figured out with borrowing from me and second mortgage on home.  A good solution, and, above all, a solution!  I think that means that we are officially out of money, but for my salary.  We have known for sometime that was the case, we just ignored reality!

Went to Palm Sunday mass at the Salzburg Cathedral yesterday.  Listened to the long gospel in German, making out a few words, "Simon," "Judas," "Jerusalem."  I think there were a few others as well.  We happened in at 11:27 and mass was at 11:30!

Took the funicular up to the Fortress, built in 1077.  Salzburg is a beautiful city, nestled against high rocks, reminded me a little of Edinburgh; but the city is really located in something of a plain.  Not far off in the distance are the Alps; in fact at the Fortress restaurant, having beers and Cokes, looking over to what looks like a ski slope, one had a feeling of being at mid-slope at a ski mountain, spring skiing.  Cathy noted yesterday was our first warm day, quite beautiful.

Tossed and turned last night; too hot.  The bed has no sheets, just a down duvet covered in a sheet and a bottom sheet.  My duvet kept coming off.  I could use just a sheet.

Mara and Jeffrey are telling us what they want for Easter: Jeffrey a fountain pen and Game Boy tapes, Mara a summer dress and pen and pencil, beautiful basket.  Trying to teach Thomas to blow his nose.

The weather today is cloudy and it looks like sprinkles.  Reading St. John's Passion narratives this morning.  There's a lot there!

16. Castellani to Salzburg

Saturday 11 April.  Chianti in Castellani to Salzburg, Austria.  Salzburg City Novotel, Franz Josef Strasse.  We leave at 9:30 in the morning and arrive in Salzburg, a drive of about 450 miles, at about half past 6.  It is a beautiful drive after we pass the flat plains of the Po, and head into a valley with mountains on both sides and vineyards on the slopes.  We pass through Trento and I am reminded of the Council of Trent, so important to my Catholic religion.  I love the roadside cafes with their stand-up full bars.  The scenery is dramatic in Austria, especially coming into to Innsbruck.  After Innsbruck, we come down into the green German countryside before going back into Austria not far from Salzburg.  The money exchanges are getting confusing.  There is a big traffic jam near Salzburg.  The Austrians seem easy going.  We check into the hotel, then take a walk downtown, through a park where the children can run around for awhile.  Dinner is at the hotel, accompanied by, what else, beer.

Out of the Car: At Last!

Salzburg

A Walk in the Park, Salzburg

Sunday 12 April.  Salzburg to Munchen, Germany.  Drei Lowen, Schillerstr.  It is Palm Sunday and we attend mass at the cathedral, then take the funicular up to the Castle on the mountain overlooking all of Salzburg and the surrounding countryside and mountains.  It is the most beautiful day of our trip, clear with snow on the nearby Alps; the countryside is green.  We take a tour of the Castle, built by a bishop long ago, then enjoy the sunshine on the deck, with beers and cokes.  When we come back down, we tour the Mozart house and museum.  We leave Salzburg at about four forty and arrive in Munchen a little less than two hours later, a 95 mile trip.  We have two rooms on the second floor, far apart.  We eat dinner at the hotel and I call Brian around 11:30 p.m. to talk about taxes.

Salzburg Castle

*  *  *  *  *

 Palm Sunday.   10 a.m.  Novotel, Salzburg.  These past few days I have felt waves of depression, anguish.  Sometimes I feel it's attributable to my feelings and thoughts concerning God, sometimes perhaps more regarding my life.  The long journal entry Wednesday or Thursday night was an expression of this.

 My strongest feelings of dread, uncertainty and discomfort were returning home from Firenze on Friday, and yesterday driving out of Italy.  Situations take my mind off of it.  Friday it was the terrific dinner we had at La Toppa in San Donato.  The owner made us feel right at home.  He ordered for us, though it was too much!  Three orders of pasta, then chicken and steak and dessert.  Brought us La Toppa wine and gave us a bottle with a kiss for Cathy when we left.  He pulled up a chair to our table and lit a cigarette.  Thomas gave him an ashtray.  He showed us pictures of his trip to New York (snow in April, end of March).

 The best restaurant owners make you feel at home, as if they were your long lost friend, share everything with you.  (I think I could be a good owner, but too much effort to be happy all the time!)  Anyway, the commotion and the good company dispelled my anxiety.

Yesterday, after a fitful night's sleep dreaming of pasta, the anxiety started to return again as we headed north.  No doubt something of the feeling has to do with spending all this money.  (Yesterday I thought for the first time, "You're too old to be doing this!")  I began to sink deeper into an abyss, wondering if I could keep my mind on driving.  What else could I do?

It occurred to me that here at almost 42, I was undergoing a feeling/process much like what I experienced when I was almost 21, in the spring of 1971.  Anxiety and questions about my life which have no cure in the sense of answers.  The only cure is death, the certainty of it.  Until then we can only guess.  What I was experiencing was almost like nausea in a psychological sense: waves of sickness that come and go for awhile until the bug passes, which it finally did, as the scenery became more and more dramatic in northern Italy.  The pass with grapes and fruits between two high walls of mountains.  Trento.  Then into Austria with a border crossing, remembering to get some schillings, beautiful Innsbruck, pit stops, conversion rates, German border, beautiful green (spring not here yet, compared to Trent where it seemed advanced), beautiful rivers: Adige in N. Italy, the Po, huge and further south, Inn in Austria, the Austrian border again.

Notes: Mara locking herself and Thomas into the bathroom at La Toppa.  Thomas upset, Mara a cool panic.  We finally had the key slipped under the door, the owner helped.  He didn't speak English very well, probably as well as I speak Italian.  Thomas on the dirt road to Villa no. 13: "Ladies and Gentlemen, this is a bumpy ride."  Thomas no longer says, "Jood" (as in good) or "j'morning" for "good morning" nor does he say "yawl" for "all."  He still does say, "e" for "we," as in "e are going."

To pick up my thread again: last night I had a dream in which I tossed and turned, too hot in the room.  I dreamt I lost money and traveller's cheques and my favorite cologne.  I wasn't distraught at the loss, but could not believe that I had lost them.  Where had they gone?  It didn't make any sense that I could have misplaced them.  Finally I found them in Robert's wallet, which had been lost, or perhaps Robert had taken them.  Something like that.  I forget; but I hoped that by finding them I would at last sleep better after I awoke and tossed off some covers.

When I went back to sleep, I was tired and weary and I dreamt I was sort of like St. John, the beloved disciple, and I wanted nothing more that to lay my head on Jesus' bosom and be comforted by Him.  I thought, this is what I have been searching for.  Perhaps a grace of some kind.  Who knows, but it was a peaceful, good feeling, like a child on his mother's breast.

I thought yesterday that perhaps this is a growth stage (Throwing off the old?  Coming into new stages?) one goes through every 20 or 21 years or so.  Next will be 63.  At first I thought this time was the worst.  It felt worse, just because I was in the midst of it, but I know more now.  I can also imagine how at 63 temptations come to induce you to do strange things and feel depressed.  Was it my father a few years ago?  Was he 63 or so, when we all thought he was so depressed at times?

Thinking the other day that Jesus must have had doubts about his mission, his identity, his relationship with God and his death; but, of course, because that is part of being human!  Whether it was only at Gethsemene we can only surmise.

Another idea: all my ramblings are occasioned by nothing deeper that something Stendahl noticed a hundred odd years ago: seeing all the art in Firenze (and to that I add Roma) can occasionally leave one with something akin to a feeling of helplessness and depression.

16. Florence; Sienna; a Memorable Dinner

Thursday 9 April.  All of us visit Florence on a sunny, breezy day.  After my driving experience on Tuesday in the city, this time we park on the top of the hill at the Piazzale Michelangelo and take a taxi to the Belle Academia to see David.  We have lunch down the street, then visit Il Duomo, the Ufuzzi and Santa Croce.  It is a hard day of sightseeing.  Everyone liked David, we were all impressed by the Boticellis and the Fra Lipos at the Uffizi, and, finally, proud to have stumbled upon Michelangelo's tomb.  We are home at dusk.  I love looking at pictures with the children, especially Belle Academia, and explaining them, particularly the biblical scenes (Garden of Eden tapestries).  I pretend I am a teacher and have great fun.

Visiting Florence

Friday 10 April.  It is a windy, gusty day.  Cathy, Thomas and I drive to Florence, this time taking the "Chianti Highway" through Panzano, rather than the S-2.  We park at the Piazzale Michelangelo, with its own David, at the top of the hill, and walk into town after we are unable to get a cab.  We stop first at the Bargelo sculpture gallery, with its Donatellos and Michelangelos.  Afterwards, we walk north following the river, eat lunch in a small restaurant (our vivacious waitress sits down to a small card game afterwards with the men) and stop by the hotel we stayed at in 1981, the Principe.  Following this we stop to buy a print, then stop again for cappuccino and ice cream across the street from the river, as we head back toward the center of town.  As we are seated at our table we see Jim and Mary Kaye Cashman from Las Vegas.  We chat, including politics (Bush, Jim says, is a sure winner of the 1992 election).  We leave Firenze at 6:30 and pick up the rest of the group for dinner in San Donato at La Toppa.  It is a magnificent evening, clear, windy and dry, reminiscent a little of the desert.  We are treated wonderfully by our host, who orders for us; three pastas, chicken, steak, vegetables and dessert.  The meal is 220,000 lire.  Thomas and Mara get locked in the ladies' toilet.  The owner has just been to New York, likes Americans, not British, feels sorry for us that we are going to Austria.  He gives us a bottle of wine for the road and the 10,000 bills change to the children.

Last Night Dinner in Tuscany

* * * * *

Letter home:  We had the opportunity to visit Siena and San Gimignano, both very beautiful and picturesque. (SG is referred to as the Manhattan of the middle ages, because of its many high towers.  The residents built them to outdo each other and also to throw things down on each other!)  We made three day trips to Firenze (Florence), and planned to visit Pisa, but ran out of time.  By this time Cathy and Jeffrey had tonsillitis as well, but we found we were able to buy amoxicillin over the counter, including children's form, and we wrapped up the infections, though Jeffrey did put us through some trying times getting up the nerve to swallow the big pill, which he had to chop up.

 The children saw Michelangelo's David and were suitably impressed; they had specific instructions to remember to compare him to the one at Caesar's Palace when we return.  We also toured the Ufuzzi (Boticelli's Venus and Spring), Santa Croce (Galileo's and Michelangelo's tombs), the Duomo (the cathedral which the Florentines decided should outdo Rome, Venice, Siena, etc. and dwarfs everything in sight), and the sculpture museum with Donatello's David and Love (now that's an interesting sculpture!), and a few other Michelangelo's.  Florence seemed to be much busier and bigger than I remember it from 1981.  Cathy and I did a fair amount of walking in Florence.  This was after driving in one day, cutting off a bus and becoming hopelessly lost in a driving rain storm, even though Florence is not that big a city, and the river helps with directions.  (Milano is the worst.  Roma is bigger with a few direct routes; but I didn't drive until we left, when I proceeded to get lost looking for the Appian Way and the catacombs.)  After my initial fiasco driving in downtown Firenze, we parked on the hill overlooking the city, Piazzale Michelangelo, which has its own David and a wonderful view anyway, and took a taxi in).  (I counted three or four Davids, all told.)  One day we got soaked in a torrential thunderstorm, despite umbrellas.  On Friday the 10th we had our first chance meeting of the trip with people from home: Jim and Mary Kaye Cashman from Las Vegas spotted us while we were having our gelato and cappuccino.

One of the sights that remains with me is the Italian cypresses standing out on the tops of the many hills that start around Bologna and continue to Florence.  It is a sight that seems familiar, it must be from the movies; so unusual to see those singular trees standing in groups at the tops of hills that are almost mountains.  I so tire of Italian cypress at home, but they look so good in Italy!  The towns themselves are never in the valleys, but on the tops of the hills, with their city walls and towers, above the terraced fields.  (My recollection is that cities and towns in the US and England are more likely to be in the valleys.)  There is a lot of stone work, though around Florence there is much stucco as well; everything has tiled roofs.  We speculated that the stone must be the average owner's lot, with the lovely stucco, in shades of beige, reserved for the better off.  A word about the color: the colors that dominate Rome (apart from the old stone churches and buildings) are yellow, brown and rust. Many buildings are painted in one of those shades, though it seems to be more of an earth wash than actual paint.  Tuscany seemed to be more partial to beige.  The colors are equally lovely, and can only be described as genuine earth tones.  It is Venice, however, that has the real color.  I never saw the reds in Roma or Firenze that I saw on the stucco buildings in Venezia.  

Our last night in Tuscany was a night to remember at the local restaurant, with the owner bringing us plate after plate of pasta, then meat dishes and dessert.  Mara and Thomas locked themselves in the bathroom.  Our host acted as if he were our long lost friend (as of course every good restaurant host should), even though his English was as bad as my Italian.  (I did discover that he didn't like the English, at least those in England.  The ones, and there are many, who come to Tuscany seem to be OK.)  We left with an extra bottle of wine and he gave the kids the 30,000 lire change ($30) and Cathy a kiss goodbye.  We walked out into the night, down a narrow cobbled stone street, and out into a parking lot on the top of a hill, with a cold wind blowing that reminded me of the desert in November or December.  We left Italy with a fondness for the people, the attitude, the food, the wine, the sights—just about everything Italian.

16. More Reflections; the British Election

Thursday, 10:15 p.m.  Tuscany.  In light of all Jesus said about the rigors of following Him, it seems odd that one of our customs in mass is to celebrate the sign of Jesus' peace.  Perhaps, however, what Jesus offers is the peace of not worrying about our deaths.  Don't worry, He says, have peace in me.  Thus he does not offer peace in this world, but peace from the existential terror of death.

 It is practically hopeless to think of ever knowing all the information, data, possibilities, etc. in the world.  Yet how much more is God!  So what do I do now?  There is the business of living the life God has given.  Something is to be done with this gift in living out our lives.  Death is the fact, but life is what we are given.  There must be something to do with it!

 Our location reminds me of Flintridge 20 years ago.  The hills, the oaks, the cypress trees, the arroyos.  The resemblance extends to the hilly areas of Florence and the large villas, as is the case in Pasadena, above the arroyo.

 Friday, 7:10 a.m.  Tuscany.  Despite all the polls, Conservatives and John Major, won a surprise victory in Britain!  Does this portend Geo. Bush's re-election?

 Dream: Cousins Barney, Diane and Tommy.  Planning a party for their parents (Walt and Liz).  Corky comes at the last minute, "Oh, hi, Michael.  Sorry.  Come in.  The Angels won.")  Diane holding a baby, Sara.  I forget whose.  I said I thought there was a Sara.  Diane, "No."  Me, "Perhaps I'm just confused with Karen.  She looks like a Johansing."  Diane, "You look like a Johansing."  Me, "I saw someone who looked like Bethy (an ugly Bethy), would have introduced myself and said hello if she spoke, but I heard German, not Italian."   Peter, Barney, Tommy acknowledge this is slow time of year on the farm.  Having a party with 500 people for their parents as they leave. (Leaving Pasadena, but already in Paso Robles).  Barney, "We've been going around in small groups assuring friends that everything will be the same, OK."  (Sounds as if they are treating social friends like business contacts.)  Some secret going on in the family, didn't pry.  Barney definitely the family leader and spokesman.  They're going to move to somewhere in the Sierras.  I said family reunion there not 29 Palms.  Not enthusiastic response.  I'm thinking of asking if I can go to work there with the family. (Perhaps a fleeting thought yesterday.)

 The setting could have been the music room at Flintridge.  Someone else present, not family.  John.  We're close to the street.  Corky big glasses.  We're all sitting around.  I think it was the music room at first, we walked out to the living room.  Friendly dream.  Sara lovely.  Interesting family meeting.  (I thought of the surprise party for Bob and Barbara in 1968.)

 The evening before was windy.  I could hear the wind.  It's still windy this morning.  Some clouds, but white and more high clouds.

 In some ways I feel like a child.  So pleased by the arrival of the day!  What is it that makes it better than night?  Must be the surrendering, at night, of control to unconsciousness, not being willing or happy to surrender to that state where anything can happen.  Does this at all explain my relationship to Jesus?  Perhaps it is difficult to believe that I have completely surrendered to Him; always, instead, holding back, or asking Him to come to me on my terms, not His.  Withholding my trust just a little, asking Him to prove Himself a little more, perhaps not having enough humility to admit to myself that I do not always know or do best?

 I resolve to be better, to be more willing to lose control, though no sooner do I write that, than I do not quite understand what it is I have resolved to do!

 It is something of an oddity that, in all the writing I have done in my life, and especially the summer of 1968, I do not ever remember writing about that surprise party we children had for our parents in September, 1968, on the occasion of their 19th anniversary, though I'm not sure there is much to write about.

 I guess Jan and I were sitting around one night at Altata with mom and dad out and said, why don't we have a party.  One thing led to another and we actually did it.  M. did the invitations and I think Jan had them printed, or perhaps M. wrote them all?  I myself remember a trip or two to Farmer's Market for what?  Food?  Flowers?  We hired my parents bartender.  (Charles?)  I think I paid for a lot, since I was working.  I don't remember doing much in the kitchen.  Perhaps we even hired help, though I seem to remember we all passed around plates.  My mother had been to the beach with the children and returned to a house full of people.  My father walked up then turned and walked out.  It could have been our greatest triumph as children.  We did it all, of course, in light of moving.

 Before we actually did it, moving, leaving our childhood home, was only an idea, not formidable.  In my book I said it seemed we all blithely went along happy and then one day we were out in the desert, wondering what happened.  The Beach Boys sang "Do it Again."  (In truth, we were good travelers and excited by changes, just as I was excited by the prospect of the new freedom offered to me in my old home town.)  It was only in the actual move that the reality of separation sank in.  Talking about moving and visiting Las Vegas all amounted to talk, till the separation occurred.

 9:40 a.m.  Friday 10th (still).  Thinking at last what a marvelous car this is, as I sit at the table in the back seat, outside our villa, in my office or writing room.

 It is quite windy today, which is good for us, I think, get some of the moisture out of the ground and house (the windows are always wet with condensation, leading to, we think, the puddles that now (that it has stopped raining) mysteriously appear on the floor below.

 Just saw a dove flying over a gully next to our promontory, flying with a pigeon; how it stood out in its whiteness!

 Garden here has Italian cypress (how magnificent they look, perched on top of the hills, singular, not a blur of trees as the usual forest appears, but tall identities; boxwood; magnolia; palm; oleander; naval oranges; roses; and, of course, grapes.  Roses at the end of the rows of grapes.

 Yesterday or the day before I found it so easy to think that the Conservatives had really made a mistake by dumping Thatcher in the middle of her reign.  She had led them to victory and for whatever reasons, jealous rivals or serious concerns, her party had dumped her.  Today I find it just as easy to see how much sense it all makes with Major now leading the party.  I am somewhat appalled at my adaptability, almost like a chameleon, a mimic.

 This leads me to the thought I had last night that my problem in life seems to be that I do not have something to die for.  There is nothing in my life that I have adopted so much as my own that I am prepared to risk all for it; not that I have been put to the test, however.

 Cathy told me the other day that she had been impressed at how I was willing to risk all to take this sabbatical, and perhaps that is so.  The first time I ever laid it all on the line, prepared to take the risk.  But the sabbatical is a means to an end, it is not an end, though having a year as a real family, when I have been around to guide, to teach my children, has been a worthwhile end in itself.  I remarked to Cathy the other day that this year has been a good investment.  Others save money to send their children to college, perhaps working so hard that the children are gone to them by the time they are ready to go to college.  Have we taken a superior step by spending our time and money with them now, making an investment in their future rather than a college savings plan?

16. Late Night Journal Entry, Tuscany

Thursday, 12:30 a.m.  (Election in Britain.)  I begin writing this evening from a need to exorcise the devils within me.  They have been with me before Italy.  I find it odd that thoughts of death arise in me this time of year, like spring flowers.  I like to think of myself in harmony with nature, but either there is a harmony I do not perceive or I am completely out of harmony.  Perhaps, indeed, my past allergies in spring have something to do with my thoughts.

More than ever I find myself living in the present, yet, paradoxically, in the past as well.  I ran across a quote by Robert Alter in February Commentary (talking about the Dead Sea Scrolls), which hit home:

[T]he popular fascination with the scrolls that has been sustained over four decades and the inordinate hopes for a grand revelation from these scraps of parchment betoken one of the great modern illusions – that if only we could take within our grasp the material substance of the past, if only we could empty out all the contents of its buried time capsules, we might touch an ultimate secret of origins, understand in a new and illuminating way how we came to be what we are. (p.41)

I drink a lot of red wine in Italy.  We are with ourselves, exclusively, except for happy moments from time to time when Thomas or Mara engages those around us, as in a restaurant or store.  How the Bar owner in Roma and the old ladies do like Thomas, the piccolo!

Last night I dreamt Ross Porter, the Dodger announcer, died.  Suddenly.  There was a funeral at church and I was to sing the "Ave Maria."  They brought him in, not in a coffin, just straight from the hospital, complete with an IV and the remains of an ace bandage still on his arm.  I noted how he looked dead, his eyes still visible slightly under closed eyelids.  I didn't even know the "Ave Maria," and who am I to sing solo?

In England, on the way to pick up the children at school, I listened to a story written in the first person of the last thoughts of a hospital patient who was dying after being run over by a car while riding his bike.  It was eerie, real.  On the way to Roma, I listened to The Shell Seekers.  At the end, the main character dies, and, again, the reader is privy to the dying thoughts of the character.  I felt my eyes cloud over with tears.

I think about death.  Today I thought that it is like jumping into a big black hole and hoping you will be caught by Christ.  Like bungie cord jumping and Christ is your bungie cord.  Perhaps these thoughts arise because I have accomplished my only real dream in life: to go to Europe for a year with my family.  Having completed my mission, perhaps I am becoming consciously aware that I have no new goal, but death, the greatest trip of all.  

I seem to be forever torn by a need to be a saint and the demands of my human existence.  I feel a terrible need to get to know Christ so much better.  It is as if I will be swinging in the trapeze, hoping he's there!  One would hope to know so much better the one upon whom we must depend!  Where do I get to know him?  Through others?  Through the Church?  The poor?  Scripture?  How many times do I wish I were a monk with time to think of nothing but God!  But we are in the world!  How I would miss the knowledge and love of Cathy and our children! 

In Rome on Saturday I awakened at about 5 a.m. and couldn't sleep for awhile, thinking these thoughts (though paying income taxes entered my thoughts as well!).  I said my Hail Marys (Ave Marias!) and as usual felt better, finally drifted back to sleep.  At seven I arose, showered and went to St. Peter's, where I encountered an amazing experience: priests, mostly individually, but sometimes two, at every side altar in St. Peter's (and there are many!) saying masses.  Most had their backs to the congregation (if any).  Each altar had a server.  Priests and altar boys stood in line for the next open spot.  I attended one of the masses.  What a physical demonstration of faith!

Lately I begin to recognize my old demons from college.  Where have they been all these years?  Buried in the work to establish oneself in life?  Why do they reassert themselves now?  Is it a good sign or a bad sign?  I can see in myself what I thought I saw before in my father: boredom with life, keeping busy so as not to wrestle with the devils.  Jesus himself had a difficult time in Gethsemene, asking, first, for the cup to pass.  We all wish for that cup of death, death itself, to pass.  Yet at times I fear what follows death almost more than death, the new life or death of Christian belief.  I looked at myself in the mirror this morning, put my hand over half my face and thought I looked like the doomed man in Michelangelo's Last Judgement.

I tell myself that I must think less and trust more, that I must be like the little children in my relationship with God.  It is hard, but really, do we have any choice?  This Lent I must try to come to the real feeling of how much I depend on Jesus, and, by doing so, convert my life.  Yet everything I do, except for the occasional moments of religious education for the children, seems oriented to this world.  I live in this world and I am unused to believing in something, someone so beautiful, so wonderful as God.   My legal mind offers the assurance that God created this world and all of its fruits and love, therefore they cannot be bad.  I take some comfort in the thought that, as the generations pass, God moves us along another notch in our understanding of Him.  We no longer have Joans of Arc.  I also remember that old expression: the darkness is always the worst before the dawn.

I have recently begun focusing on whether I really believe Jesus when he says, "I forgive you."  Of course, in order to believe that Jesus forgives my sins I must really believe that I am a sinner.  The priest said nice words in confession the other day ("nice humble confession"), which I greatly appreciated, but still hard to believe in my own goodness. 

And so, sometimes I hold Cathy closer in the night.  1:35 a.m.