Nightfall in Verona - A Lyrical Memoir

Chapter One- Nightfall in Verona, Jenne' R. Andrews

2011-04-14T12:18:00.000-07:00

(Here goes..comments welcome at post's end-- Ch 2 up tomorrow.)

Chapter I - The Poet Gives Herself to Destiny...

“Sempre libera degg´io

folleggiare di gioia in gioia,

vo´che scorra il viver mio

pei sentieri del piacer....

Free and aimless I frolic

From joy to joy,

Flowing along the surface

of life's path as I please.

Violetta di Valery - "Sempre Libera", Act I, La Traviata, Guiseppe Verdi

My best friend and fellow poet Caroline and her sister Julia had been to Europe before and they were world-traveler savvy. I was not.

So it was that in early June of 1973, I borrowed a huge Army Surplus duffel bag into which I packed the following:

An extra pair of low-waist, bell-bottom jeans. A few knit tops. A cream wool poncho from New Mexico given to me by my mother. A blue-striped rayon mini-dress I had made. Bikini underwear times four. An extra front-loading bra.

In case we encountered a blizzard somewhere, a long flannel nightgown, and a pair of long woolen socks. A brush for the long hair it had taken me years to grow.

And, down at the bottom of the duffel bag, where I thought they would remain undisturbed until I needed them, my journal, my manuscript of poetry, tampons, my diaphragm, and a huge tube of contraceptive jelly. I kept my passport and money in my jacket pocket for easy access.

But at the Customs Desk at O'Hare, the graying and weary agent opened and closed my diaphragm case, raising one eyebrow, nodding, as if to say:

“Good idea...”

He jotted everything down on a yellow form.

My companions, who had flown out before me, had state of the art backpacks with various handy compartments so that they could be perpetually organized: no packing, repacking, frantic searching needed. They took one change of clothes a piece, and cash to be converted country to country with which to buy couture bikinis and other clothes along the way.

They brought enough underwear so that they only had to rinse it out every ten days or so, hang it from the low branches of a tree in a campground, breeze-dry it fast, and put it away. They were each on the “pill,” later finding it hilarious that I would bring my diaphragm to Europe.

“If one of those European men gets pinched by that thing, he'll just pull it out and throw it out the window,” one of them had laughed.

My friends wouldn't have been caught dead in flannel nightgowns; they brought long t-shirts, counting on their new sleeping bags to stay warm. I had carried my bedroll separately: an old thing loaned to me by an ex-boyfriend, a cotton batting-filled “mummy bag” smelling of Minnesota fishing trips and campfires.

I had thrown myself into a hurried leavetaking, finding it most difficult to abandon my home of the moment. My apartment was in a turn of the century brownstone that gave itself to a writing life, and my neighbors were writers and thinkers. I felt safe there in a time when it was hard for me to feel safe anywhere; in many respects, having lost a whole childhood to filling an ill mother's shoes, I had not yet fully come to terms with being out on my own. Yet, I needed to take wing.

I forced myself past my anxiety, praying that I was making the right decision. Like a rueful catbird vacating a nest, I consolidated my shabby-chique belongings, stored them in a friend's basement and bid farewell to my little studio with its French double doors opening out onto a tin roof from which I could actually see the Mississippi River over the treetops, the barges steaming upriver.

I could always come back, I reassured myself; St. Paul with its mythical Fitzgeraldian twilight, its dissipated raconteurs and plethora of poets who congregated at day's end at the Commodore Hotel bar around the corner from my apartment, would be waiting.

It was a crisp, blue and prescient morning when I lugged my duffled and now baffling life to the curb in front of my apartment. My heart pounding, I caught a taxi to Minneapolis-St. Paul International. Several hours later, having withstood the first lap of my adventure, we deplaned in Chicago, where I boarded an older jet for Frankfurt. It was packed with German tourists who were already boisterous without the help of any beer.

I sat down next to an American woman reading a magazine. As we introduced ourselves to each other and began to talk, I learned that she was on her way to Switzerland to spend the summer in a cabin and write a book about her great-grandmother, a suffragette. I immediately envied her savoir faire and independence. Traveling alone to the Alps to a cabin seemed no big deal to her. The implacability with which she returned to her reading, seemingly disinterested in the fact that we were en route to Europe, reassured me as we taxied down the runway toward the unknown.

We took off, up, and into an infinite dusk. The Germans, with an innate sense that to be comfortable suspended over the ocean you drank, ordered brimming, yeasty steins of beer, and toasted to a safe journey. I took one look at Lake Michigan under the rising plane, and ordered a gin and tonic.

I'll just have one of these, I thought.

Suddenly, we were over an endless expanse of darkness. The pilot came on the overhead speaker.

“Welcome to World Airlines Flight 122. We're doing just fine, heading up to 14,000 feet; if you look out your window, you'll see the Atlantic. We'll be over the ocean for about ten hours; Frankfurt ETA 7 a.m."

I wasn’t ready to look out the window at the ocean; instead I settled back, sipping my drink. I pondered the events that had brought me to this problematic moment. I had bravely assented to Caroline's invitation to take this trip. She was worried about me; I'd been enmeshed in an affair with the volatile and hard-drinking crime reporter for the local daily newspaper. He had been popping in and out of my life like a besotted cuckoo, manically cycling between me and his wife-- the first woman prosecuting attorney in St. Paul.

I counted this glass ceiling-breaker among one of the last people to cross; she was damn mad that I'd fallen for her tom cat husband when we both worked for the paper, and often cruised past my apartment at night in The Good Ship Affluence-- her new Cutlass Supreme.

I didn't blame her for being furious, and I had repeatedly tried to get him to go back for good. But he would show up at my apartment with his shirts and ties on hangers, a libido fueled by anxiety and obsession, so that I couldn't slam the door of my heart shut and keep it that way.

The whole thing seemed to have no resolution and had been good for about a forty pound weight loss and a lot of tears.

Caroline was a writer and her sister Julia, a sculptor and painter. Caroline had made it through the worst of a divorce; she was free, beginning a new chapter, and she wanted to share it. She had proposed the trip over a glass of wine in my apartment on a late spring day.

"Julia and I are already booked. I checked and I can get you a cheap seat on a tourist flight and we'll meet you in Frankfurt. I'll cover it. A trip always makes you feel better. You'll get a new lease on life, I promise you."

I knew this chance would never come again. And, I was a poet: despite being worn down from the affair not to remember and a bad case of agoraphobia that had arisen from a panic attack I had a year earlier on the freeway between Albert Lea, Minnesota and Des Moines, it was my nature to take risks, to seize the day with all the élan I could muster.

Moreover, my first collection of poetry had just been accepted by the Minnesota Writers' Publishing House, a collective press started by the infamous poet Robert Bly. I had a sense of destiny about myself and I thought a trip to Europe would mean a windfall of fresh drafts.

Now, unbelievably, I was in the air and not only in the air, but sitting in an aluminum tube with wings that presumably, via the mysteries of aerodynamics, could and would remain aloft across open water for a number of hours. This was overwhelming and in those days, there was but one solution. After my third gin and tonic, finally accepting that I was suspended in time over the Atlantic, I relaxed. I dozed, my dreams punctuated by German drinking songs.

In time the journey itself became a dream, laced with murmuring voices and the steady hum of the jet's engines. If I woke, I lulled myself back to sleep; if we fell out of the air, I wanted to be asleep and to have no awareness whatsoever of my own plunge into the sea.

Hours passed. Then, amid loud cheers from the Germans, we landed, taxiing to a terminal where as I de-planed, I could see my two friends at the gate.

My reverie over the Atlantic abruptly gave way to pell-mell activity. Suddenly we were all on a train, whooshing into Frankfurt, Julia having lugged my knapsack into the packed car where it needed a seat of its own.

"Why on earth did you bring this?" they had laughed.

Numb with jet lag, I blurted: "Oh...I borrowed it. It has everything in it that I'll need." They laughed again, as if they knew something I didn't.

"What now," I asked.

"We've decided that we should buy a bus or a van and camp wherever we go," Julia said. "It's cheap and a great way to see Europe. You meet great people. Lots of great guys too."

Our train slid along its rails like a silver fish into Frankfurt on the Main. My anxiety hadn’t abated; I didn’t feel up to a camping trip. We had talked about getting Eurail passes and I was disappointed. In my selfish fantasies I had envisioned gingerbread Alpine hostels and hotel courtyards with small rose-trellised rooms, little writing tables in the windows where I could position myself as a semi-tragic figure looking out at a piazza at twilight. I was ill-equipped to rough it, I thought-- I needed a real bed.

We meandered through a terminal choked with people from all over the world. Following my friends, lugging my knapsack, I was terrified. Swarthy and sinister-looking men followed us with hungry eyes. We were bombarded by multiple languages echoing from the loudspeakers announcing the arrival and departure of trains to everywhere.

Caroline stopped at a tourist's kiosk and was directed to a used car dealership near the army base.

That such a thing existed was a revelation to me; I had anticipated all things quaintly and quintessentially European, a cornucopia for the senses and not a tiny slice of Americana in the middle of Frankfurt-on-the-Main.

But we took a taxi to the used car lot, and here was a young ruddy-faced young man from state-side, greeting us, taking us up and down rows of cars and vans.

"Look at this," Caroline called, having gone off on her own to ponder the sea of vehicles.

We found her standing in front of a two-tone green VW bus with tangerine and cream-striped curtains.

"You should get this," the American, an ex-GI named Bob, said. "It's perfect. It was outfitted for a safari; look."

We stepped in.

There were custom shelves and cabinets, and the curtains pulled all around for privacy. It could sleep six, which meant that there was plenty of room to make up our beds at night and for each of us to have room to stretch out and rest.

The bus was adorably conspicuous, and Caroline put down 250 in German marks for it. We had it tuned up, a tire replaced, and stayed in Bob's place that night in our bedrolls, on the floor.

On this, my first night in Europe, I couldn't sleep. I couldn't gear down at all. I was suddenly at my friends’ mercy, necessarily abiding by their whims, their guest. “Just relax and get some sleep,” I said to myself. But I tossed and turned until at daybreak, life filled the cobbled streets. A market was set up under our window. German women appeared on their balconies, shaking out feather bedding, watering their geraniums. Everywhere the sound of German, sweet, salty, guttural.

My friends, rising like goddesses from their down bags, were shortly fresh-faced, their hair combed. I was preoccupied with the fact that I hadn't had a chance to bathe, and made do in a bathroom where there was not only a toilet but something then unrecognizable to me that would have solved my issues: a small porcelain bidet. I gave myself a sponge-bath, combed my hair and tied it back, and rubbed a little lipstick on my cheeks.

We went out into the day and got a ride to our bus. We stowed our belongings and our basics, which consisted of yogurt for the cooler, a huge globe of white wine and cans of hearts of palm-- the guilty pleasure du jour for all of us, somewhat compensating for the fact that we weren’t going to booking rooms at a five-star hotel. We would stop and get fresh fruit along the way.

We headed down the Autobahn to Nuremberg, Julia at the wheel. Caroline had the map.

“Where are we going,” I asked more than once, as we sped along, reaching for my journal and jotting down a few things on one of the counter tops in the lurching bus.

“We don't know. That's how it is in Europe. You just head out, you just travel around.”

Seriously? This I couldn't believe, that we would recklessly wind our way along thousands of miles from home, letting fate dictate the journey.

Nightfall in Verona Chapters 1 through 22 as published on this blog is the exclusive intellectual property of Jenne' R. Andrews. You may e-mail me at jenneandrews2010@gmail.com with permission to repost or reprint requests..

Chapter Two-- Nightfall in Verona, Jenne' R. Andrews

2011-04-14T12:13:00.001-07:00

Scroll down for preceding chapters-- best read in order....x

Chapter II, Wherein the Poet Drinks-In Europe and Finds Relief in the Grass...

Nel mezzo del cammino della nostra "vita"nell'Universo, mi ritrovai sulla Terra, questa"selva oscura" che aveva smarrito la via dell'Amore. L’Inferno, Canto I, Dante

In the middle of the road of our “lives” in the Universe, I found myself on Earth, that dark forest that has obscured the way to Love. Trans. Jra.

As night fell, Caroline, Julia and I pulled into Nuremberg in our reconditioned VW bus. We drove along the great square where bells tolled from a Renaissance cathedral.

Germans in dark clothing walked quickly along the sidewalks, seeming disconnected from each other and unfriendly, their heads down, eye contact verboten. Pigeons wheeled over the plaza but no intimacy of small cafes invited our interest, even amid the great stillness of antiquity and the dark history of Nazi rallies emanating from tall, spare, neatly arranged stone buildings around the square.

Perhaps the city was still subdued by the shadows cast by the war years, so that the echo of turmoil, of oppression, not to say the infamy of Nuremberg itself, infiltrated daily life. There was neither the ambience nor the clamor of another language I yearned for.

It was thus easy to feel lonely and fearful there; I took comfort in the intimacy of the bus, and that my friends and I were on the road together. We were free to plunder the moment of its intimations and distractions, or not.

After the big push to get ourselves on the road, we seemed to find ourselves a little reticent and tired. But this was Europe—there was no mistaking it! We were all there together, still riding high on our own bravado, our day to day uninspiring routines at our backs, very, very far away.

I poured three brimming cups of white wine from the bottle in our cooler, passing two of them up up to the front seat.

“Salud,” I said, raising my cup.

Julia looked at me in the rear view mirror. She laughed. “Salud.” She balanced the steering wheel in her left hand and took a gulp.

We wound our way down a side street, buying bread, cheese and wine at a stand, and then Julia turned the bus around, heading back the way we came.

“Now what,” I asked.

“Now, we pull in somewhere and rest, she said, turning onto a dirt road and driving along slowly, looking for a cut-in in the trees. Our headlights could only probe so far into the thick copse. Caroline looked out the window for an opportunity.

I was terrified. I was sure we were headed up someone's driveway.

“This is somebody else's country. We can't just camp here. We don't even know where we are.”

She turned to me, tossing her shoulder-length hair impatiently, her dark brows knitted.

“Jen. We know what we are doing. Relax. You've got to relax, so we can all relax. Drink some more wine. Write in your journal.”

Subdued, I complied. Julia pulled off the road and switched off the engine. I lit a candle and opened my journal, and got out a pen. They unpacked t-shirts and rolled out their sleeping bags, making the front seat into a wide bed and locking the doors.

We had all gone out and peed in the grass by the watery light of the moon, marking our presence for days to come. My friends had mastered the art of rolling up their bell bottoms and squatting perfectly; I had not.

After they fell asleep, I quietly poured a little water into a dish and rinsed out the cuff of my jeans. I took off my panties and rinsed those too, wringing them out and hanging them over the curtains at the rear of the bus. I reached into my duffel bag and took out my flannel nightgown and put it on. Slipping out of my tennis shoes, I pulled on my long woolen socks. I was buttoned up to the gills, and I felt less vulnerable.

I set aside my clothing for the morning so that I could find it in a hurry if anything happened. I took long gulps of wine; the warmth of the alcohol permeated and sedated me. I settled back against the seat, pillow-less, lost, again amazed; I was in Germany, in a forest, in the middle of the night.

I woke abruptly at dawn, my bladder bursting. Without opening the curtains, I slid the door open, and promptly slipped out of the listing bus in my socks, sitting down hard with my nightgown around my thighs, coming to a stop at the very edge of a paved bike path.

At that moment, around the bend came a horde of bicycling Germans in tweed suit coats and caps, briefcases strapped to the back of their bikes.

Off in the distance, the bells of Nuremberg tolled seven times. The German men glanced at me, and at the bus in disgust, turning their faces away, disappearing around the copse of trees.

“Get up,” I said, hiking myself back up into the bus. “We're in the way. This is a commuter path.”

My beautiful tousled friends laughed at me. I stood there in my flannel nightgown, my socks extending a good six inches from my toes, like rabbit's feet.

“You think this is funny?” I was fuming.

They laughed again.

I pulled up my socks and stumbled into the trees, squatting in the loam. I came back to the bus and climbed in and furtively dressed beneath my nightgown like an old maid. My friends seemed unconcerned about staying daisy-fresh; I furtively sprinkled a little talc into my underwear, and under my arms, reclaiming my dignity.

“When do we get to take a shower,” I asked, while we sat in the sun sipping coffee made on our camp stove.

“Probably in Salzburg. Be forewarned,” Caroline said. “Showers in Europe are cold. They're out in the open just like the toilets.”

“No surprise there,” I muttered.

I had already discovered in a brief walk through Frankfurt the day before that the toilets were literal gratings in the street with perfunctory barriers to scrutiny. When we pulled in for gas, we found the inevitable partition with its latticed cover set into pavement. No toilet paper within miles; I quickly learned to stuff anything that passed for Kleenex into the pocket of my jeans.

Clearly I would need, sooner rather than later, to abandon my need for running hot water and master the art of a quick, discreet pause that required balance, flexibility and no self-consciousness whatsoever.

We repacked, and swerved back up onto the Autobahn. Caroline opened up the map.

“I think we should go ahead and get to Salzburg,” she said, looking at Julia for affirmation.

“Great idea. Salzburg it is.”

“How far is Salzburg,” I asked.

“Just a few hours, “Caroline yawned, as if we were merely sitting in her living room back in the U.S. “ We'll stop and get a salad.”

I was ravenous. Wine, yogurt, hearts of palm: these things were all well and good, but what about real food? I broke into the bread and cheese.

I feared a battle ahead; Caroline and Julia would stay slim on the trip: I already wanted to eat my way through Europe, to try everything. I also feared what would become of me if I couldn't eat a little meat now and then. Meat was expensive, but I couldn't envision living on fruit and vegetables, as healthy and delicious as these were.

In capitulation, Caroline had bought a few little pots of goose liver pate with rust-stains on them in Frankfurt I was sure had been tinned sometime in the previous century.

“Make these last,” she had said. “We'll have one feast every few days. We want to save our money for the discos, and clothes.”

I spread some of this dubious treat on a chunk of bread, choking it down. Across the morning we drove and drove. We pulled over for a brief lunch of hearts of palm, apples and Gouda, pouring our chilled white wine into our tin camping cups, toasting each other.

After a few glasses of wine, my cheeks burning, I told stories, in particular about the time my family went to Albuquerque to get a piano and left behind our rabbit, Ozma, in the garage in her hutch. We had paid one of the neighbor boys to come and feed her.

He had come twice a day to refill her dish with pellets and give her water, and when we came back she had tripled in size, her front and back legs extending out of the cage: mounded under her cage an enormous pile of droppings.

In fact, my forte' when in my cups, was story-telling; I had been much the entertainer in Minnesota, sitting at my friends’ kitchen table well into early morning. Never let the truth get in the way of a good story, I believed before the trip, now happily embellishing my escapades as a dilettante writer to my captive audience. We chatted about our receding lives, our parties of poets and other ne’er do-wells I held on the tin roof of my apartment.

Then, heading for Salzburg, looking out at the sea of green meadows boundaried by ever taller mountains on either side of us, heading for Salzburg, birthplace of Mozart, I found myself pining for home.

I opened my journal to write a few self-admonitions:

“You are in Europe. Open your heart and mind to what this is.” I then described Nuremberg at nightfall, tand made notes about sliding out of the bus onto the commuter path. I listed what I could discern from the window.

This activity quelled my anxiety. We nosed into the mountains, up a winding highway, crossing the border into Austria, presenting our passports, paying at the toll booth.

As we pressed on, I began to see the tips of mountains infinitely more stunning than the peaks of Colorado that made up the “Front Range” where my parents and brother lived.

We climbed higher, rounding a curve, and suddenly, there was a valley ahead and we were surrounded by the Alps. Now, breathing in ether, stunned by the shimmering, towering, sapphire beauty around us, we came down into Salzburg, parking the bus and making our way to the terrazzo terrace of a small cafe.

Julia and Caroline ordered “gemischte salats”, operating in German phrases extracted from one of our Berlitz foreign language guides. A little salad.

Caroline looked at me.

“I think we should eat in town tonight,” she said. “And go to a concert.”

I was overjoyed-- this was more like it.

After sight-seeing in the afternoon along narrow streets with the throng of other tourists, we went back to the bus, changed into dresses, and found our way to the Mozart cafe, where I ordered a golden mushroom omelet that melted in my mouth. Mozart poured through the air. There was Mozart on the jukebox in the cafe'. The unparalleled composer lived on here with a vengeance, despite having been dead for over a century and a half.

We emerged into the dusk, and walked to a concert hall, sitting in the back, where a pianist's hands flew over the keys, the great arched ceilings of the hall filling with a waterfall of sound.

Rapt, I didn't care what piece it was, only that we were there in Mozart’s birthplace, enfolded in music. I doubted that there could be too much of his music, or anywhere more beautiful than Salzburg and I thought it would be nice to stay put.

I began to relax. That night I wrote again by candlelight, not as worried about keeping clean underwear cycling through my duffel bag to my little tub of water to hang in the rear window.

I had only known how to live by trying to keep all things under control. The indifference of my friends to any kind of itinerary or destination was still troubling to me, but it had occurred to me that they were operating on the instincts of true adventurers and that perhaps I should trust them. This trip was meant to liberate us, take our minds off all things painful and serious.

At my back, the ever-oozing wound of my unresolved relationship, the demands of my career, trying to cover rent and groceries with gigs as a poet in the schools, and always, the “shoulds” and overwhelming responsibilities of being the eldest child of parents who were struggling that sent me from Minnesota to Colorado again and again to clean the house and prop them up like Raggedy Ann and Raggedy Andy. My arrangements never stayed put, and I had yet to understand that I could not save them from themselves.

In the morning, having found a campground on the outskirts of Salzburg, we had coffee at a cafe near the highway that would take us through the Alps, up and over the Brenner Pass, to Italy.

Now there was a bit of planning, Caroline getting out her map, and a pad and pen.

“We should drive straight through,” she said. “It snows on the pass, and we want to make it over between storms.”

Mythologies of travelers lost in this manner had reached the U.S. and somewhere I had read about them.

I froze with terror. We, three young women in a VW bus outfitted for the flat, i.e., a safari, that chugged along like a freight train, were going to drive up above timberline into a cleft in the Alps where people skidded off the highway into oblivion, not to be found until the following spring.

“When were you last on the Brenner pass?”

They could see that the plan wasn't sitting well with me, my persona as the resident nervous wreck re-emerging.

“I went over by train,” Caroline admitted. “It was beautiful. About five years ago.”

“Who's driving?”

I thought about Colorado, New Mexico, Arizona-- the years of trips with my father, driving up San Francisco Peak outside Flagstaff, where, as we crept in first gear along a narrow road that dropped off on both sides, he would stick his head out the window and crane his neck to scrutinize the trees. He was searching for clusters of dwarf mistletoe, one of his specialties. But he was an inveterate mountain driver.

"You're going to drive," Caroline said. "You're the experienced one in this kind of country; you'll get us there."

I was not at all sure I was equal to the task. I tossed back more wine.

Fortified, we set out again, up the alpine highway, climbing until our ears rang. We wouldn't make the switch until we stopped briefly in the town of Zirl, far up into the cleft where the highway had been traveled for many years, and a fabled destiny must surely await us.

Chapter III will go up tomorrow-- enjoy-- feel free to comment. There is a drop down archive box to locate preceding chapters in the text box below the posts. xJenne'

copyright Jenne' R. Andrews 2011 - All rights reserved. jenneandrews2010@gmail.com .

Chapter Three - Nightfall in Verona-- Jenne' R. Andrews

2011-04-14T12:13:00.000-07:00

Chapter III, Wherein the Sojourners Linger in Austria

...At the same time, always, overhead, there

is the eternal, negative radiance of the snows.

Beneath is life, the hot jet of the blood playing

elaborately. But above is the radiance of

changeless not-being. And life passes away

into this changeless radiance. Summer and

the prolific blue-and-white flowering of the

earth goes by, with the labour and the ecstasy

of man, disappears, and is gone into brilliance

that hovers overhead, the radiant cold which

waits to receive back again all that which has

passed for the moment into being.

D.H. Lawrence, Twilight in Italy.

It is said of the "old" Brenner Pass over the Alps into Italy that the route inspired the great German poet Goethe to write Iphigenie, viewing all from in his carriage on the way to Verona or in detouring to Lake Garda in Tuscany.

“How much I wished to have my friends for a moment near me in order that they might rejoice over the view which lies before me...” he wrote in Italian Journey in 1786.

The route ascended shortly after Zirl, Austria, and one climbed by way of a narrow mountain highway up into the clouds. By day, at the summit, before later improvements that cut at lower elevation through the Alps, one could look back at Austria and Germany and in the other direction, to beautiful Tuscany spread out below. The descent, I read from the brochure we picked up, involved a series of heart-stopping switchbacks that would require a veteran mountain driver; hence the old route, at the time of our trip, was typically only used by locals.

As we left Salzburg where we had been steeped in Mozart and the crisp, cold white wine of Europe, I had been designated to take us over the pass and we had determined we would see more breathtaking scenery on the old road.

Caroline had been reading our brochures.

“I think we should go ahead and stop at Zirl,” she said. “They say the cathedral is not to be missed.”

I had been bracing myself to take over as we agreed; I was eager to follow Goethe's route. But I was relieved when, after about an hour, we cut off to the road into Zirl. We followed directions to the Cathedral of St. James and pulled in to the visitors' parking lot.

We put on sweatshirts; Julia loaded her camera with a new roll of film, and I tucked a notepad and pen into my pocket. Caroline took our picnic basket out of the compartment at the front of the bus. We had picked up more white wine heading out of Salzburg; we saw a picnic table under the trees, near the cathedral cemetery.

We spread our tablecloth under the trees and ate bread, fruit and cheese, washing it down with wine. We were surrounded by mountains cast in ethereal blueness, their steep, faceted faces ascending to snow-crowned summits.

Against this backdrop, the spires of the cathedral reached far into the sky.

The cathedral's facade, an admixture of Baroque and Renaissance convention, was resplendent with gilded angels, rococo embellishments. We stood in awe, when, suddenly there was a great peal of sound. The majestic, unmistakably precise and exuberant sound of Bach reverberated off the peaks; someone was playing a fugue, his hands traveling quickly over the keys of the cathedral organ, his feet dancing on its pedals.

“Let's go in. I want to see him play,” I said.

“I want to photograph the inside,” Julia said, checking the camera on the cord around her neck.

We entered the cavernous cathedral. I looked up into the loft, where I could see someone sitting, half-obscured by a pillar.

Now the piece came to a crescendo, filling the nave and crashing to a close with a ritardando, a fading away of sound.

"Bravo, bravo," I cried, clapping.

Caroline looked askance at me, grabbing my arm. "Shhhh."

Out of the gloom, near the altar, a group of nuns came by, each with an implacable face, hands prayerfully folded.

Julia took photographs of the towering stained glass windows, each telling a story of Annunciation, Incarnation, Crucifixion, and Resurrection. Exquisite marble statuary stood in alcoves throughout the nave. Candles flickered at triptychs of the Blessed Virgin.

I imagined a High Mass in this exquisite setting, and had the impulse to walk up and kneel at the altar. I held myself back, unsure of visitor etiquette.

Finally we went out into the church graveyard, where we walked among the graves in air so pure it took our breath away. There were exquisite marble carvings and bas reliefs at the head of each, so time-worn that the names and dates on them were indecipherable.

I passed such a relief of a grieving woman set at the head of one of the graves, and turned back: the subtlety of the pain etched in stone on her face shocked me. Unlike the other sculpture, she was turned away, looking out at eternity with a delicate, down-turned mouth, unflinching eyes. A wave of recognition passed through me; this was sorrow recast in art.

In addition to my necessary items in my faded army duffel bag, I had brought with me a host of endings, good-byes and impossibilities. I had written them down to get them out of me, and spread them out like cards on a table in therapy. In reality my fading affair was the tip of the iceberg.

As I looked at the statue old losses rose like phantoms out of my knapsack to stand with me in the tangled foliage and wild rose bushes of the graveyard. What would it take to banish them-- I was abruptly afflicted with pain that leached out into the present.

My friends called to me that it was time to leave.

“I'll be there in a minute,” I said, as they walked back toward the bus.

I picked a small pink wild rose and laid it at the foot of the statue.

I spoke a short prayer in Latin from a requiem I had sung. No lingering at the feet of grief incarnate. I left the marble woman there, asking her to mourn on in my place.

On our way back to the bus, Caroline turned to us mischievously.

“I bet there's a disco in town,” she said. At that time there were discos all over Europe.

“I thought you wanted to keep on and get over the Brenner tonight,” I said.

“I did. But let's live it up, go out to dinner and then go dancing.”

I was in immediate agreement. We found a campground on the map and pulled in, each of us going off with a towel and a small bar of soap to one of the inevitably cold showers. I unbound my hair and soaped up, sluicing down, rushing to get clean, dry and back to the bus.

At dusk we set out on foot to downtown Zirl; Caroline had seen a small inn on the way in and we walked in that direction.

“Look at that place.”

“Must have been built in the Middle Ages,” I muttered, not especially excited about our plans. I was worried about having the stamina to get us over the mountains.

“You are such a wet blanket. Always a wet blanket.”

I knew that wasn't true; I was tired. I had been tired before I got on the plane. I was tired on the way over the Atlantic, tired in Germany, tired in Austria, and tired now. But there was nothing to be done; as in other moments when my lingering depression tugged at me and I caught myself brooding, I cheered myself back up: we were in Europe! The drama of my former life was far away. I forced myself out of my gloom, stopping briefly at a bistro, tossing down a shot of espresso, while my friends window-shopped.

Then we stepped into a lamplit tavern where there were dark simple tables scattered on a grey stone floor.

We were seated in a corner; across the way sat a group of burly Austrians, drinking beer.

These revelers took one look at us and promptly moved their chairs over to our table, turning them around and straddling them. They were ruddy and bearded, with twinkling eyes.

Thankfully, Julia knew a smattering of German and one of them knew a bit of English.

“American girls!” one of them boomed, delighted, lifting his stein.

Another one leaned toward Julia.

“How about eine kleine nachtmusik,” he said.

She blushed.

“Nein, danke.”

They tried to foist beer on us, but we weren't beer drinkers; we didn't want to look like them.

“Vin. Wine. Vino,” I said.

“Ah. Vino.” One of them got up and began a foot dance, shuffling in a circle while the others laughed and clapped.

“Vino prego, ancor vino.”

We laughed. We drank with the Germans, picking at the bratwurst and sauerkraut brought to us on steaming platters.

“Where you go,” one said, during a lull.

“Dancing. We want to go dancing.”

They looked at each other.

“Disco?”

“Yes, Caroline brightened. “Is there a disco in Zirl?”

“Yavol,” one said.

“Bye-bye American girls. We hate discotech. We dance the old way.”

They got up again from the table. One walked over to the jukebox and dropped in money; a tinkly polka ensued. The men began to waltz together across the floor.

“Run for it,” Caroline whispered to me.

We bolted out the door in hysterics. We looked down the street, where we could see people walking in promenade at dusk.

I stopped.

“Do you hear that?”

“What?”

From the depths of the dusk, seeming to come from a small doorway into a building without windows, came a familiar song:

“I want to hold your HAND.... I want to hold your H-A-A-A-A-N-D...”

“Wow,” Julia said. “The Beatles.”

“Yes,” Caroline said, grabbing my hand. “Hurry. This has got to be it.”

We walked swiftly through the redolent Tyrolean nightfall to the door of what appeared to be an old inn, now a nightclub. We each gave the man at the door a few marks, and went in.

To our delight, there were couples already out on the floor, gyrating, swiveling their hips.

I had thought we had heard a jukebox. But lo and behold, there was a band of wild-haired young men on a stage in the corner. Somehow they had mastered a medley of rock and roll classics in English. They were wrapping up the Beatles song when we stepped in.

Then there was a dramatic pause and everybody looked expectantly at the lead singer whose carrot-red curly and frizzed hair all but obscured his face.

He began tapping his feet; the drummer picked up a riff.

He whispered into the microphone, in a thick Austrian accent,

“Ah Can't Get No....” and put his hand to his ear to invite a response.

“Vee Can't Get Nein,” shouted the crowd.

Out of the tavern shadows came a young man in lederhosen and a white long-sleeved shirt. He grabbed Caroline by the hand and took her out on the dance floor.

Another such man came and grabbed Julia.

I shrank back in the shadows. I wanted to observe for awhile.

“Ah can't git no.... satisfaction.... Ah can't git no girlie action…”

The Rolling Stones classic reverberated from the rafters. The band wasn't half-bad-- or perhaps it was that we were so juiced up. We had been living on white wine and little else for a week, seeing all things through a dream-like scrim of intoxication.

A tall young man came up to me.

“Dance you mit me, ya?”

“Sure,” I said.

He led me out onto the floor. I had worn my striped mini-dress and slip-off shoes. I shook my booty; he shook his, tossing his mane of long hair, grinning at me.

He took a step toward me and gave me a biting kiss on the neck, sliding one hand into my dress, under my bra.

“Whoa.” I stepped back and pushed his hand away.

I shook my head. “Dancing. Dancing,” I said, my voice utterly drowned out by the music.

“Yavol. Dancing. Dancing.”

He backed up a step and waved his arms, gyrating his hips. I looked over at Caroline; she and her epiphanous Tyrolean were in a clinch.

The song wound down and I went back to the table, waving off my partner. Julia was already seated.

“Look at her,” she said.

“I see.”

“Well, she's been pining for something like this since her divorce.”

We watched them. Things got steamier. Suddenly, they disappeared.

I was stunned.

“Where did they go.”

Julia smiled.

“They might be doing it standing up out in back,” she said. Or, maybe he's taken her off to his cabin up in the forest, like the big bad wolf.”

“He didn't look like a wolf. He looked like an extra from The Sound of Music.”

I pondered this turn of events.

“Oh God. What are we going do.”

“We don't have a choice. We have to wait.”

Julia and I left the tavern and walked back to the bus. The street lamps of Zirl were lit; people strolled arm in arm past bistros still open.

I was restless, fuming.

“Listen, Jen. We'll find things to do. We'll go back to the cathedral. You can write; I'll draw. She'll be back.”

“What if she doesn't come back? We'll have to call your parents, or contact Interpol or something.”

“She'll be back,” Julia said. “I know my sister.”

xx

Chapter Four will go up tomorrow. Please scroll down or click on the archive drop-down menu at the end of this post for preceding chapters. Comments via the comment link are always welcome.

Copyright Jenne' R. Andrews 2011

Chapter Four - Nightfall in Verona - Jenne' R. Andrews

2011-04-14T12:12:00.000-07:00

Chapter Four – Wherein the Poet Takes the Wheel

He who will establish himself on a certain height must yield according to circumstances, like the weather-cock on a church-spire, which, though it be made of iron, would soon be broken by the storm-wind if it remained obstinately immovable, and did not understand the noble art of turning to every wind. Heinrich Heine, English Fragments (1828), Ch. 11: The Emancipation

For two days we had been hanging out in Zirl, one of the most picturesque and history-laden towns in Austria, high in the Tyrol.

One of us had gone missing, Caroline-- and we could only wait, and hope that she was all right and hadn't been sold into slavery.

At thirty, Caroline was a beautiful woman, with long dark hair and brown eyes, a wide smile. She had lost weight, and planned to keep it off. She tucked her shirt in and belted her slim waist.

Julia and I were twenty-five and she looked like a Baroque angel. She too had long hair, a lighter brown, a small heart-shaped face; she was slim and pretty. She was besieged by men wherever we went.

I had long dark hair, blue eyes. I always thought I was fatter than I really was. I would look in the mirror and see a fat girl, turning sideways to suck in my stomach. As there were few mirrors available to us, at least traveling as we did from campground to campground, I would steal looks at myself in store windows, glancing over at myself as we walked and walked, taking in the touted attractions and veering off on our own, down tiny cobbled streets to small bistros in rose gardens.

I needed to constantly affirm to myself that I was pretty, or perhaps, given that I had permitted myself to be plucked right out of my life, that I was still there.

Regarding the sorrows that had arisen in the St. James churchyard, I continued in moments to worry about not only the wounded lion of my lover and how he was, but back in Colorado, the parents who bobbed all day in the water of dishabille filling up our house.

After years in and out of psychiatric hospitals, subjected to many shock treatments and battling to get on her feet, my mother had succumbed to drug and alcohol addiction. She was incontinent at 60, spending her days in an armchair in our study, helped to the bathroom by my father periodically to change her clothes.

My father had been diagnosed with emphysema in 1968 and was running out of air. He refused to use his oxygen; he had begun to shrivel up and he fought for every breath. He was utterly devoted to my mother, although I thought he should have parked her in a mental hospital and left her there to save us from the awfulness of seeing both of them decline.

My father was not the sort of man to leave his wife, no matter what happened. This was not the modus operandi of his generation.

I had written of the pain of their deterioration and my inability to rescue them for a very long time. I had moved to Minnesota with a boyfriend in 1970 to get away, staying after he moved on.

Now, I had come to Europe in large measure, I had begun to realize by the time we reached the Alps, for relief from the past via an immersion in antiquity, which at times in turn re-illuminated the problematic thread in the fabric of my life as had happened to me in the churchyard at Zirl. It was useless to deny that I had brought my parents with me in my heart. I could not jettison myself from them into some new life; I could not abandon them. I had written numerous postcards to them, feeling guilty every time I wired for a little extra money.

Julia and I settled into our bus. It rained and the town shut down and we dozed. I wrote and worked on my manuscript; In Pursuit of the Family, my small first collection of poetry, had Robert Bly's scribbles all over it. I wanted my work to be very good. I drafted small short-lined poems about our trip, reining myself in, subscribing to the lyrical-but-abbreviated imperative of contemporary poetics. Julia drew beautiful whimsical characters and creatures, and painted them with watercolors.

By the time Caroline returned, emerging from the mist with a big smile on her face, her lover in tow, Julia had an entire new portfolio of sketches and I had several new poems.

Caroline led her amour du jour up to the bus.

“Julia, Jen, this is Beni.”

“Beni”. I thought to myself. “Wow.”

She turned to him and kissed him.

He grinned at us.

“He doesn't speak any English at all,” she said. “But look.” She nodded at him.

He stepped back and braced his legs widely apart and opened his mouth. He emitted a long, ear-splitting yodel that bounced off the peaks.

“High on a hill lived a lonely goatherd....” went through my mind like a ticker in Times Square.

“Bravo.” We didn't know what else to say. We clapped.

Caroline turned to Beni and kissed him again.

“Thank you. Danke.”

He bowed to her, and pretended to wipe a tear from his eye.

“Danke schein..for...da..yavol, gut focking... “

He walked away.

“Ready?” Julia asked, hugging Caroline.

“Yes,” she said. “Sorry I was gone so long. Is Jen going to drive?”

It was dusk, but it was past time for us to be on our way. I looked out and up at the tops of the peaks, trying not to see that the road appeared to climb nearly vertically up into amassing cumulus clouds.

“I'll drive,” I said. “But first let's have a little wine.”

We sat in our idling bus and I downed three or four tin cups of vino bianco.

Then I got behind the wheel. Now Caroline and Julia sat in the back like sightseers-- I was alone, in the front seat, charged with the solemn duty of somehow getting us over the Alps.

“So how was he,” I asked Caroline.

She laughed. “Most excellent pitch and woo,” she said.

“Nothing like red meat and mountain air,” I thought, hiding my anxiety.

I drove up higher and higher, nosing into the dusk. At least the road was dry. There wasn't much traffic. What concerned me was whether the bus had the horsepower to do this sort of thing. I had driven up Pike's Peak with my father in a V-6 US Department of Agriculture Chevy, a sturdy thing with a three-on-the-post you could gear down with for traction. We had also, years later, driven over the Continental Divide in our old Nash Rambler, a V-6 as well.

The bus was a sardine can, ironically enough made by Germans, whose history indisputably involved the making of solid things such as the Berlin Wall. It would and did tip over in high winds. I laughed when I thought of driving it in Wyoming, where immense tractor-trailers would fall over like Tonka Toys in 90 mph gusts.

I wondered about our tires, if we could count on them on the descent. I hoped that the combined weight of our bodies and belongings would keep the wheels on the road even if, as I had begun to anticipate, we would encounter mountain weather.

“Give me some more wine, please,” I said. They passed me the tin chalice we had begun to share.

I looked in the rear view mirror. They were curled up with each other, under a blanket, their heads touching.

“Great. Now it's all up to me,” I thought.

It never occurred to me to say to my friends: It's not safe to go over the Alps at night, on any night. We are endangering each other. We should wait until morning.

I was not to become that self-concerned and self-protective until much later, and certainly not on this trip.

As it was, a certain amount of wine can make you feel immortal and immune to danger. So it was that I had one voice saying: “Stop. Turn around now," a subterranean alarm going off in the recesses of my brain where there was a tiny bit of sober matter. The other voice was like its own wild horse, euphoric, elated, self-destructive; it said, like the soprano in La Gioconda, pushing her lover away, “Va!” Go.

I drove up the mountain road out of Zirl, gripping the wheel. It wasn't long before the route narrowed, and not long before I had to turn on the headlights. A flash of light on rock warned me of traffic coming from the other direction, the only virtue to night driving under these conditions that I could fathom.

“What time is it?”

No one said a word. My friends were out cold. This in a way was my chance to vindicate myself-- I had been the one who needed reassurance, scared to death to be away from where I felt safe.

“How safe were we now?” We were not, but I imagined that we were so that I could keep going.

I drove on through the night-- there had been small lights from chalets on either side of the road; they disappeared. I could feel the altitude; my ears popped. As they popped at about 10,000 feet in Colorado, I figured we were nearing the summit.

A deer flashed across the road and was gone. My heart flew into my mouth. That was Strike One, I thought.

I steered around a widened curve, encountering a steeper ascent than before. I pressed on.

Suddenly, we were on the flat. I could see a widened shoulder on both sides. I could also tell from the abrupt lines of those shoulders that there was nothing but a plunge down the mountain on both sides.

I pulled over, got out, squatted in the gravel, stretching my legs.

“Ladies. Wake up.”

Not a peep.

I got back in and settled myself resolutely behind the wheel. I took another gulp of wine, replenishing it from the globe Caroline had handed me and that I had braced on the floor board on the passenger side. It was beside the point now that I was half-drunk.

Something flew across the windshield. Startled, I looked out, starting up the engine. Snow. Enormous snowflakes, coming at us like shooting stars.

I turned on my brights. That made it worse; refracted, they doubled in size, making the storm look worse than it was.

I thought about my father's tricks in such situations, when we had been caught by the weather unawares in our trips together.

I didn't want to do this, but it was the only way. I turned off the headlights, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the air filled with light thrown off by the storm. Then I put on the emergency brake, and eased into first gear.

I let the low gear help us, foot lightly on the brake, around one switchback, and then another. Whenever I could see a patch of shoulder, I would pull off to collect myself and close and open my eyes. Now I wasn't interested in any more wine.

I pulled back onto the pass, and repeated the procedure, barely seeing a few feet ahead of the bus in the driving snow. I felt our back wheels skid; I corrected the skid.

Suddenly, Caroline and Julia woke up. They popped up in the back seat like Punch and Judy.

“Oh my God. Oh my God.”

“Quiet,” I said. “You need to be quiet. And you might try praying.”

We were descending at a good rate. As long as I could see a few feet ahead, I could keep us adhered to the road, rather than soaring off into oblivion ass over teakettle.

The road widened again; it felt to me that we were almost down. Through the curtain of snow I could see farther.

Suddenly, we were on the flat, and out of the storm. The road had widened. There was no other traffic.

Caroline leaned forward. “Good job, Jen,” she said.

I pulled over, sagging with exhaustion.

They both looked at me with new respect.

“Did it snow the whole time?”

“Pretty much,” I said. “Would you drive now?”

Julia got out; I climbed out on the passenger side and went to the back of the bus. I could scarcely stand. I reached into my duffel bag for my nightgown.

Caroline laughed softly. “Get some rest.”

“I am going to. I need a few hours, but I don't want to miss crossing into

Italy

.”

“Jen.” Caroline's voice pierced my fading consciousness.

“Did you take a detour? We have to cut over to the highway for Florence now, and we're not on the road I marked on the map.”

Oh, God. I leaned forward. “It was snowing. I couldn't see. Forever more in my imagination I will have brought us over the right road because it got us here.”

I couldn't believe I had gotten us into

Italy

. I began to comprehend that perhaps someone strong, competent, more than capable of rising to the occasion-- whose acquaintance I had not fully made-- lived within me.

Please scroll down or use the drop-down archive box at the end of the blog for preceding chapters. Comments may be left by clicking on the comment link or elsewhere. I can be reached at jenneandrews2010@gmail.com.

Chapter Five - Nightfall in Verona - Jenne' Andrews

2011-04-14T12:10:00.000-07:00

Chapter Five Wherein the Poet Comes Back to Life...

Caro Nome

Caro nome che il mio cor
festi primo palpitar,
le delizie dell'amor
mi dêi sempre rammentar!
Col pensiero il mio desir
a te ognora volerà,
e pur l' ultimo sospir,
caro nome, tuo sarà.

Rigoletto- Giuseppe Verdi

Sweet name, you who made my heart
throb for the first time,
you must always remind me
the pleasures of love!
My desire will fly to you
on the wings of thought
and my last breath
will be yours, my beloved.

Translation by Guia K. Monti

I came to after a short rest in the back of the bus. I dragged a brush through my hair, and pulled a lipstick out of my pocket, rubbing a little color into my cheeks. In my resourcefulness I kept a small tube of toothpaste in my pocket, and put a little on my tongue. I couldn't remember when I had last brushed my teeth.

“Where are we?”

“Coming up to the border,” Julia said.

I looked out the window where a dawn-tinged landscape flew by. I could see the outlines of clustered towns in the distance, across carefully laid out fields. There were tall, oval trees flanking the small, jewel-like towns. Suddenly I caught a glimpse of an expanse of water.

“What is that. Is that the ocean?”

“It's probably Lake Garda. We're too far inland, “ Julia said, pulling over to let someone in a Ferrari roar past, generating a tail wind that shook the bus.

“You'll have to talk to them,” Caroline said. “You know Spanish-- that's close to Italian-- “ She handed me the Berlitz Guide to Traveling In and Dining Out in Italy.

I paged through the book, where useful phrases such as “Where is the train station?” were set forth in Italian. The language was half-familiar to me, from art songs taught to me by a voice teacher in high school, arias that I loved and imagined I could one day sing, from being in a few local operas back in Colorado. Still, the lyricism, the fusion and blurring of words inherent to a line of spoken Italian, what has often been referred to as its own messy Latin, was daunting.

“We're going to stop in Florence, and then we'll go on to Verona,” Julia said. “You'll love these places, Jen.”

I knew I would. I pulled the curtains, spread a towel on the seat, sat down and took a sponge bath in the back. I tamped myself dry, rubbing a talcum powder underneath my arms, putting on a fresh top and jeans.

“Are we going to do laundry soon? I'm running out of underwear again.”

They laughed.

“I'm sure we'll find a campground at some point, Caroline said. “We're out of wine and hearts of palm too.”

I poured water into our small dishpan and briefly submerged a bar of soap in it. Then I took three of my pairs of bikini panties that I had tucked into my duffel bag and rinsed them out, and hung them to dry on the cord that held the curtains we pulled across the rear window of the bus. They swayed there like pastel flags as we chugged down the Autostrada.

“Get ready,” Julia said. “Get out your passports.”

We pulled up to a toll booth, where several men in border patrol uniforms were waiting.

One came up to us as Julia rolled down the window.

He was gorgeous and when his face broke into a grin, he was even more gorgeous.

“Ah, regazzi Americani,” he exclaimed, motioning to his friends.

His cohorts came over to the bus.

American girls! They peered into the bus. One of them saw my panties hanging from their makeshift clothesline. He nudged his friend. They all laughed.

We handed them our passports. They pretended to frown over them, as if there was a problem.

I was frantically paging through my booklet.

“Dov 'e... dov 'e Verona?”

“Ah. Verona. Va Bene. Il piu bel citta nel mondo.”

“What's he saying,” Caroline asked.

“I think he said Verona is the best city in the world,” Julia replied.

“No, I think he said it's the most beautiful one. Piu bel,” I said, assuming the authority of the would-be linguist. “Bel. Bel canto. Beautiful singing. Mondo. World.”

“Ha buon viagge,” our new friend smiled. Buon viagge, American girls.

“Wow,” I said, as we pulled away. “He was edible.”

“Certainly was,” Julia said, keeping her eyes on the road.

In twenty miles, we came to a sign that read,“Firenze....Pisa... 100 km.”

Now Caroline was rapt.

“I want to see the David again. And Jen, you've got to see the Medici palace.”

We zoomed up the Autostrada, turning off to the road to Florence. Firenze. Va bene. Firenze, Verona. I liked the sound and heft and inference of these words. I took out my journal.

“I got us over the Alps,” I wrote. “I have no idea how, but we're in Italy now, just came across the border... they're going to drag me into some museums....va bene. That's good.”

We pulled into Florence at noon and parked near the Duomo, the great domed cathedral built by the Medicis, towers glittering with gold inlay rising up against indigo sky. Pigeons wheeled in the air from their perches under the rococo tile roofs. We found a cafe and sank gratefully into small chairs with striped damask cushions.

We ordered white wine-- un biquieri di vino bianco, I had practiced.

Julia and Caroline ordered small salads with shaved carrots and radiccio.

I ordered a loaf of bread and some cheap brie.

Caroline looked at me askance.

“I came to Europe to eat,” I said.

We set out with a map of Florence, and found our way to a museum. I was wearing a cream wool poncho from New Mexico my mother had given me one Christmas. It had kept me warm in Austria as we walked in the Zirl graveyard, and on cold walks while we waited for Caroline to come back from her Tyrolean tryst.

It was warm in the museum and in my eagerness to view the paintings, I threw my poncho over a bench.

We wondered through the galleries and even in my consummate exhaustion, I was spellbound.

At one point, we stood before Raphael's The Madonna of the Goldfinch. I tried to imagine the hand that had painted this masterpiece of the Renaissance: a marrying of a living, natural being-- a small, fine-boned bird, with a sensual spirituality. Everywhere, there were feasts for the eye-- Botticelli, Michelangelo.

Someone had once said to me that I had a Botticellian body; looking at the paintings I was ambivalent. In the end, the great painter had captured the quiescent, erotic spell cast by the flesh while not masking its imperfections, bringing to the fore the inviting bread of the womanly body, its fullness exaggerated.

People were walking quietly through as if they were in church, in the great cathedral of art, on sacred ground.

I turned around and instantly saw that my poncho was gone.

I grabbed Caroline's hand and took her off in a corner.

“Someone stole my poncho.”

“It'll turn up. They'll realize their mistake and turn it in; we'll check in the lost and found.”

I knew I would never see it again. Everything I had brought with me was still a source of security for me in this new, uncharted, terrifying and exhilarating journey. I needed my poncho. I needed to feel its softness against my cheek, to curl up against it.

We went out into the courtyard where the Michelangelo David stood, magnificently burnished by sunlight, a paean to virility against a courtyard boundaried by walls trellised with pale pink wild roses.

I found myself at eye level with the best part of the David.

Punch-drunk on exhaustion I led Julia over. “Look. Right here in the open air,” I teased.

“It's art, Jen. This is a work of art.”

Indeed it was, but I was tired and longed for the safety and security of our bus.

“We should have left you in Salzburg,” Caroline said.

We sauntered in the sun through throngs of tourists and Italians back to the bus, and pulled out onto the Autostrada again. It was mid-afternoon.

“Next stop Pisa,” Julia called.

I groaned.

“Don't you want to see the Leaning Tower?”

“Sure,” I said, swaying in the back, spilling wine into my lap. “Absolutely. Wouldn't miss it.”

My travel-hungry companions switched places; Caroline at the wheel, we sped toward fading light, where the lights of a small town glittered in the gathering shadows of afternoon.

We drove up to the Leaning Tower of Pisa to see, to our complete astonishment, lights on in the base of the tower.

More astounding was that there was a sign jutting out above the door. The sign read, “Disco.”

Oh, God help us, I thought.

“Yay, look. A disco, in the Leaning Tower,” Julia exclaimed.

“It's too early to go dancing,” I said.

“In Europe it's never too early to go dancing,” Caroline said. “You can stay in the bus and sleep and we'll check on you, or you can come in and sit in a corner; I'll just keep buying you wine.”

Now we were at odds, and I felt badly.

“I'm sorry.”

“It's o.k. Keep our purpose in mind; to have fun, fun fun. Think adventure.”

I was thinking exhaustion, of my bed back in St. Paul, of snowstorms, wondering about my parents, with fleeting thoughts of how my problematic lover was bearing up.

I brightened. “Is there a shop? I'll buy some postcards. My mother has probably been beside herself since the day I left.”

We went in to the Pisa discotheque; this time there was a jukebox, Italian pop songs pouring from it. Young, plaintive voices were singing the hit du jour: “Il mio piccolo grande amore....” against soughing over-orchestration: “My little big love.”

“That's me,” I said, sinking into a booth at the edge of the tiled dance-floor. “I'm your little big love”.

Now our ritual had taken shape.

The waiter came. “Ah. Regazzi Americani. Buongiorno. “

“Buongiono,” we said. To me we didn't look unlike some of the other girls in the disco. How could they tell we were American?

“Mi piace biquieri di vino bianco, prego, grazie,” I said, in my first complete utterance of Italian.

The waiter was surprised.

“Parla Italiano? Brava.”

Brava. This was illuminating. Brava. How nice that there was a feminine version of “Bravo”.

Suddenly I was alone at the table; two Italian men had emerged from the shadows and taken my friends out onto the dance floor.

I sat and watched, trying to fathom yet again that we were here in the midst of antiquity with a slice of America embedded in it.

Abruptly, I was taken by the hand. A diminutive Italian with a mustache half-bowed to me, leading me out into the middle of the parquet.

Someone turned on a makeshift strobe light over head, a little ball with rectangular mirrors glued to it; the ball spun in the low lamplight from old sconces on the white walls.

My partner was wearing very tight white pants against which he bulged, and when he turned, swiveling, that revealed the outline of bikini underwear.

Finally I too became caught up in the dancing. More 45 rpm records of Italian pop songs dropped down on the spindle of the jukebox; we danced on, gyrating, laughing, swinging our heads, unbinding our hair.

We took a pass and returned to our booth, toasting each other.

“See,” Caroline said. “You joined in and had fun.”

“I've been having fun,” I said.

We went back out into the night and drove the bus to a campground.

I made up my bed in the back of the bus and put new batteries into my small flashlight, and opened my journal.

Caroline and Julia put on their t-shirts and unrolled their sleeping bags, pulling down the seat.

“Why are you writing,” Caroline asked. “I thought you were tired. We're all tired. We have to rest. Tomorrow we'll drive the rest of the way across Tuscany to Verona.”

At last.

I'm just making a quick note.... I never want to forget that there was a disco in the Leaning Tower of Pisa.”

Please scroll down to preceding chapters! Comments may be left at the end of each posted chapter.

Chapter Six - Nightfall in Verona - Jenne' R. Andrews

2011-04-14T12:09:00.002-07:00

Chapter 6 – Wherein Natural Laws Take Effect

“This is the soul of the Italian since the Renaissance. In the sunshine he basks asleep, gathering up a vintage into his veins which in the night-time he will distil into ecstatic sensual delight, the intense, white-cold ecstasy of darkness and moonlight, the raucous, cat-like, destructive enjoyment, the senses conscious and crying out in their consciousness in the pangs of the enjoyment, which has consumed the southern nation, perhaps all the Latin races, since the Renaissance..”.

– from Twilight in Italy, D.H. Lawrence

We woke in the campground on the outskirts of Pisa to a soft golden light breaking over clustered cypress trees. At the height of summer tourists from every corner of Europe and stateside crowded the campground. There was a multilingual river of language like the buzzing of honey bees. The line to the low-to-the-ground partitioned toilets, and to the shower appeared everlastingly long.

Rested, we patiently stood with our caches of shampoo and soap, running in to duck under freezing water; there was a tarnished button you pressed and water jutted out in a thin stream. As it was timed water with others waiting, we had to act fast, soaping upward from our ankles and twisting, turning, bending in every direction to rinse.

Then we stepped out into a curtained area and toweled off fast, pulling on our clothes.

We sat in a tangle of trees and sunlight, combing out our hair. We made a small pot of coffee on our camp stove, and ate fruit, bread and cheese we had picked up and kept in our cooler on the way through Pisa.

Caroline got out our map.

“It's about a day's drive to Verona,” she said. “We should be there by dusk.”

“I'll drive for awhile,” I said, rinsing down a piece of bread with the coffee.

We were going to Verona before we found our way to Rome, we thought. Our guidebooks touted the Arena di Verona and it was opera season. There were sidewalk cafes and museums, a conservatory, and a central piazza where there was a sculpture of Dante. This was a poet's city.

Again, I longed to rent, just for one night, a little pensione, a little room, in one of the time-faded villas that seemed so exquisite; they reminded me of the pueblos where I had played as a little girl and imagined having my own clean and spare room, looking out over the desert, solitude and private space, yet with others close by.

I had begun to fall in love with the music of the Italian streets and the community of people walking arm in arm at all hours of the day. I longed to somehow penetrate Italian culture, merge with it, abandoning my worn identity as someone in pain, a flower torn asunder in a break up.

In this state of mind I gratefully took the wheel of the VW bus I now regarded as trustworthy. It had gotten us through the blizzard high in the Tyrol. It had become our home on wheels.

I lost track of the hours, measuring time by the hues of the sky I could see as we flew along the Autostrada. On the flat I pushed our bus to the limit. Still, we were passed by Alfa Romeos and Ferraris shooting past like silverfish bugs, barely catching glimpses of someone in sunglasses hunched over the steering wheel.

As the sun rose we crested a hill, and pulled over. All of northern Italy was spread before us as if a curtain had lifted over a grand opera's opening act.

Small towns lay in the center of fields and olive groves spread out around them. Rows of ancient villas stood clustered together, their stucco sun-bleached shades of pink and beige. I wondered if hallways connected families to each other, if generations of Italians lived together this way-- cloisters of families, people at every stage of life.

Perhaps at that very moment, two lovers were embracing in the shadows of one of the rooms, or someone was breaking eggs into flour in a rustic kitchen.

I caught a glimpse of a woman in long black dress, wearing a bright red scarf, taking a bucket to a pump. I opened and closed my eyes to try to focus, to take in, as if I were taking a snapshot and storing it in my mind. I hungered to remember every detail.

We pulled off the Autostrada to eat lunch and sip wine. We breathed a calmer air that didn't take our breath away like the Tyrolean ether. Julia photographed the towns in the distance. Caroline journaled. I looked down at the ribboned highway disappearing into a glittering, unexplored mist, trying to find a strand of imagery with which to begin a poem.

I was silenced by the beauty of antiquity, a holy quiet, a sense of prescience overwhelming me, as if something as rarified as an aria, yet with the purity and simplicity of the village life so beautifully chronicled by writers that had come before me, were about to unfold.

We stopped briefly in the exquisite port of Rapallo to buy vegetables and bread. Then we sped along again, under low clouds that cast shadows over the road.

Off in the distance, late in the afternoon, I could see the spires of a cathedral; the traffic picked up.

"Il piu bel citta 'nel mondo" lay ahead.

Julia at the wheel now, we exited the Autostrada and the road curved past small farms and olive groves, terraced up the hillsides on either side. We descended into a valley, and there, bathed in late daylight, was Verona-- a radiating jewel of antiquity, cut into cypress-covered hills.

Julia expertly drove along the Pontevecchio, the historic bridge into Verona, until we were at the center of the city, on its roundabout. Now there was teeming life all around us.

I couldn't help myself.

“Where are we going to stop?”

“I don't know. I'm going to drive around another time, to see if I can find a way to get across town. Watch for signs for parking."

It was no use; we drove around and around, police blowing their whistles at us to allow swifter local traffic to pass.

Then, abruptly, we veered off the road into the parking lot of what appeared to be a monastery-- an austere building built against a cathedral which faced away from us; between the church and a row of shops I could see a teeming piazza.

Julia pulled in between two Fiats and braked to a hard stop.

“We can't park here. They'll tow us,” I said.

I went to the clothesline where my panties hung and took them down and pulled the curtain.

“Really, we shouldn't. What does the map say about a campground.”

“Nothing,” Caroline said. “We'll have to go to the piazza and relax, and find someone to ask. “Here.”

She handed me the Berlitz Guide.

“We mustn't stay here,” I said again. “It's not fair. What if all of the other tourists came and parked here?”

At that moment two men in long robes and skull caps came out of the monastery, stopping short when they saw our bus. They looked at us, one shaking his finger. They walked away, around the corner.

“See. They don't care. They've seen it all, even if they are monks. Look, we're just going to park here for a few hours while we get our bearings. Come on.” Caroline tucked lire into the pocket of her jeans.

We got out, locking up the bus. We walked around the corner of the cathedral into the square.

Now it was nearly dusk. We found ourselves standing on an immense piazza boundaried by storefronts and cafes. Caroline took our hands.

“Let's go over there.” She had seen a picturesque spot: a small cafe out of the way, with white wrought iron tables and chairs outside, under striped umbrellas that each read "Cinzano".

We sat down. A waiter appeared in a snowy shirt with carefully buttoned cuffs, slicked back dark hair.

My friends looked at me; this was my true debut.

“Ah, grazie."

He stood patiently.

I looked at them. "The usual?"

“Yes. Si.”

“Prego, biquieri di vino bianco,” I said once more, in my best Italian.

He smiled, and bowed. "Bene."

I was relieved; I had again made myself understood.

He came back with a white porcelain pitcher brimming with cold white wine and three long-stemmed glasses. He filled each of our glasses.

“Cin-cin,” he said, bowing away.

“Cin-cin,” I mused.

“Cin-cin, then, I said. We lifted our glasses. Then it made sense: Cinzano Vermouth, written on the wine card, must be the signature drink in Italy.

“To us,” I exclaimed, refilling our glasses.

“To life, to art,” Caroline laughed, lifting hers.

Julia reached for my language manual.

“We better figure out where we're going before we have any more wine.” Her cheeks were rosy in the fading light.

Suddenly, someone began to sing "Volare", from another cafe. His voice carried over the square.

Pigeons wheeled around us. We were already giddy.

“Give me that,” I said, grabbing the guidebook, furtively looking around to see whom I might approach to ask about a campground.

The tables around us had filled up. I listened for the sound of English, but all I heard was a river of Italian, barely audible in moments as “Volare” blared across the air.

I turned around to see who was seated behind us.

Three young men were stretched out in their chairs, lounging at their table, drinking wine. When I looked at them, they each raised their glasses.

“Cin cin.”

“Cin cin. Seguia. Salud.” I was a bit tipsy.

I turned back around and thumbed through the Berlitz. I found again the phrase "Dov' e... for “Where is...”. I could not find an Italian word or idiom for campground anywhere.

I turned again, working up my nerve.

"Dov... dov e' camping, I asked, smiling.

They laughed. Then they looked at each other and me, and over at Caroline and Julia.

One of the men was older than the others; he seemed our age. He had dark, close-cropped curly hair and a mustache and sideburns. His shirt was unbuttoned part way, and a crucifix gleamed from his chest, nestled in dark profuse hair.

The other two seemed to be about seventeen. One of these leaned eagerly toward me.

“I speak Anglish,” he said, smiling. “I study language in la scuola.”

“Va bene,” I said, “Bravo. Dov e' camping.”

Now we all laughed. They stood up without further ado and turned their chairs around, joining us.

“Buona sera, regazzi,” one of the two younger ones said. “Mi chiamato Fortunato...Lucky”.

I quickly paged through the Berlitz.

He said, 'Good evening, ladies, my name is Lucky,' “I said to Caroline and Julia.

The man our age sat down next to me. "Guiseppe,” he said, smiling at us, pointing to himself.

“I am Francesco, Franco,” our self-appointed interpreter said.

Lucky stood up and gave a brief whistle, startling us. "Vino ancor," he called across the tables.

“Si,”came the waiter's faint voice.

“Wow,” I said. “You just stand up and call for more wine.”

"Only man do this,” Franco said, turning to say something to his friends.

“Everyone go camping?”

Uh-oh. "No.” I said. “We have a bus.”

He looked puzzled.

“Ah. Autobus. Autobus. Ah.”

They looked impressed. “Where is autobus?”

I pointed in the direction of the cathedral.

“Monastery,” I said. “Church. We parked there until we find a campground.”

“Ah. You park for Church?” He looked incredulous.” He translated for his friends.

They laughed again, toasting us, ordering more wine, this time ruby red Valpolicella, Verona's signature wine; Caroline had touted the virtues of this wine, with its one-glass suffusion of recklessness.

We huddled together as a few raindrops spattered down on our umbrella. Should we excuse ourselves now, or stay. I looked at my friends, who continued to toast nearly everything, ever more voluble and laughing.

Thanks for reading me! Ch 7 will go up tomorrow. Scroll down for previous chapters-- they're up in reverse order. Five chapters at a time will appear on the blog. The others will be archived-- scroll all the way to the end and click on the archive box to view. There are twenty-two chapters total. There are comment boxes at the end of each post; I'm also on Facebook, and you can reach me at jenneandrews2010@gmail.com .

Chapter Seven - Nightfall in Verona - Jenne' R. Andrews

2011-04-14T12:08:00.000-07:00

Chapter Seven, Wherein the Poet Is Claimed

Ah! Je veux vivre dans ce reve

qui m'enivre ce jour encor

Douce flamme, je te garde

dans mon ame' comme un tresor...

Cette ivresse de jeunesse

ne dure, helas, qu'un jour...”

Ah! I want to live in this dizzy dream

for another day.

Soft flame, I keep you

treasured in my heart!

This delight of you

lasts, alas, only one day!

Juliette's Aria, Romeo et Juliette, Gounod

Io conosco un giardino
sconosciuto a chiunque altro,
un rifugio di velluto
sotto un cielo azzurro intenso.
... Ti porterà in quel rifugio,
e io ornano le labbra di baci ...

I know of a garden

unknown to anyone else

a velvet refuge

under the most intense of skies

I'll take you to that refuge

and cover your lips with kisses...

trans. Jra

“Maristella”, Giuseppe Pietri

“Regazzi Americani,” camping at the Cathedral.

This, according to our unintentional companions, was cause for more wine and celebration. Now dusk was settling around us. I was chilly, and pulled my jacket over my flowered halter top. A basket of bread sticks appeared. Franco fielded questions and answers. “Volare” gave way to “Al di la.”

Franco looked at me, and pointed to Guiseppe. “He is my oncle.” he said. “Oncle Pepe. Oncle Pino. Pino Candido.”

Caroline and Julia stifled a laugh. I frowned at them. I introduced us all.

“Carolina, Julia, Jenni,” Franco said. Jenni I became, the French end of my name out of reach.

“Regazzi Americani: bravissima,” Lucky said, hoisting his glass.

For the past several minutes, I had felt Pepe's eyes on me. I had realized that our feet were touching.

Caroline was watching us. I looked at her; she winked at me.

I was about to suggest that we switch places, when Pepe put his arm along the back of my chair. He picked up a breadstick, dipping it into the wine, and then gently offered it to me, bringing it up to my mouth.

Lucky smirked. Franco raised an eyebrow.

I looked at Pepe. His eyes were kind, and seemed a bit tired. I could see a hint of fire in them.

I took his hand and guided the breadstick into my mouth and took a bite. His face broke into a gorgeous grin.

Now everyone cracked up.

“Brava, brava,” Franco exclaimed.

Julia and Caroline looked at me, shaking their heads.

“Now you've done it,” Julia said. “We'll never get rid of them.”

At that moment Franco stood up. “We go,” he said. “We show you night in Verona. We know all the best places.”

Lucky lit up. “Si--faremo una passegiatta,” he said-- “We'll promenade.”

I looked at my friends. Now Pepe had slipped his arm across my shoulders. I couldn't pull away.

We got up and went off to freshen up. When we came back, Franco went to Caroline's side, and linked arms with her. She was taller than he was by a foot. He looked up at her in adoration, as if she had dropped out of heaven.

Lucky went over to Julia, offering his arm, smiling. He had curly hair and dancing green eyes and full lips, an air of overconfidence for a teenager five feet tall.

“O.K.” Julia said, in resignation. “We can go for an hour or so, but I'm tired. We'll just have to stay in the monastery parking lot and take our chances.”

I was past caring. Pepe's arm was around me as we set out to explore Verona.

Now it was nightfall, and there were throngs of tourists in the streets. We left the piazza and found ourselves walking down narrow cobbled streets; on either side were pale, ancient rows of villas with tile rooftops, their walls covered with fading Venetian frescoes. On the first floor of each beckoned tiny cafes with tables and chairs set up on a terrace.

We slipped into one of the bistros and shared a platter of antipasto, washing it down with white wine, plugging the jukebox with lire. Pepe inserted a small fried squid into his mouth, spreading its tentacles out over his mustache and then turned to me; I screamed, and ducked a kiss.

We drank more Valpolicella and danced, and went back out into the night.

Franco stopped and whispered something to Pepe, and then turned to me.

“We go to the balcony,” he said.

We were mystified, looking at each other.

Our untiring escorts led us through a maze of walkways and suddenly, we entered a courtyard banked by trellises of roses perfuming the night air.

“Va bene,” Lucky said, squeezing Julia and planting a kiss on her cheek. She rolled her eyes at me.

Pepe touched my hand, pointing to something in a corner of the courtyard. He led me past the few other tourists lingering near the walls, reading brochures, writing in small journals. We walked up to a wall, beneath a balcony, where there was a bronze plaque.

“Guarda, Jenni,” he said, tracing the writing with his finger. “Look.”

Caroline and Julia and their escorts stood behind us, chatting.

I peered at the plaque, barely legible in the light of one of the lampposts placed at intervals in the courtyard.

"Romeo… Wherefore art thou, Why hast thou not come....." it read.

The lyric was written in Italian below it.

I was stunned.

At that moment, Pepe took me in his arms. He smoothed my hair back from my face, smiling. He gave me a sweet, lingering kiss.

There was a burst of applause from everyone in the courtyard, including the tourists we had never met. I blushed.

Franco and Lucky conferred with Julia and Caroline.

“We go now to autobus,” Franco said. “You and Pepe stay.”

I panicked.

“Don't leave me here,” I said. “How will I get back?”

“Pepe knows the way,” Franco replied. “You walk. Promenade. Cin-cin.”

I was exhausted. I wanted to curl up under Juliet's balcony and go to sleep.

But, we set out together, exploring first one cobbled, rose-trellised corridor and then another, finally sitting at a small table, across from each other.

He smiled at me. "No English."

I smiled back. “No Italiano.”

Then he smiled again, leaning toward me, taking my hand and squeezing it.

"Beatles. I luv you yeah."

I laughed.

“Le Donne e mobile,” I said, with no sense of whether he would recognize the Rigoletto aria. Women are untrue.

He threw his head back, laughing. I pulled my chair back from the table and we made our way back to the piazza. We stopped every few feet to kiss. When he kissed me he lifted my face up to his, gently teasing and nipping my lips. We lingered on a bridge, beneath which iridescent green water flowed, reflecting the lights of Verona.

"Fiume Po, " he said, kissing me again. This was the River Po', that wound its way through Tuscany.

I unwound the strands of Italian he spoke to me as we walked, managing to glean that he was a pre-med student at the University of Turin. He said that he came from the province of Reggio Calabria, that his home was at the toe of the boot of Italy, across from Sicily.

My responses were half-Spanish and bits of Italian. He seemed to understand me when I said we had flown over in early June for a ten-week trip, and that I had a return ticket dated mid-August.

In addition to kissing me repeatedly, he would draw back and look into my eyes, as if he were trying to read me, to see beneath the image of the young American woman I conveyed.

I told him that I was a poet. He nodded with a thoughtful look on his handsome face, as if that explained something.

In all of those passionate kisses, there was no need, somehow, to throw ourselves down on the banks of the river, or devour each other in one of the alcoves. At the zenith of the era of sexual liberation in the United States, this was startling to me. We sat in a cafe again, and he took my hand, looking at it, holding it to his cheek, tracing my fingers.

We reached the bus, and kissed in the darkness. “Forse domani?” he asked.

“Tomorrow?”

“Non so..” I said, uncertainly. “I don't know..”.

“We're meeting them for breakfast,” Julia called faintly, from the bus.

“Ah. Domani.”

“Domani.”

My lips were chapped and burning; I was freezing. He stepped away, pulling his jacket up around his ears.

I slid open the door to the bus.

“God, what time is it,” Caroline said from the depths of her sleeping bag.

“I have no idea.”

“So how was it,” she asked.

I didn't answer. I wanted only to crawl into my nightgown, and burrow into my sleeping bag and recuperate from having just been hit by the moon, which was to have remained suspended over the Fiume Po' rather than knocking me off my feet. Where had he gone? Would he be alright? Surely he wouldn't have to curl up on a bench. He had not so much as suggested he join me in our bus.

We all slid into a sleep punctuated by feral cats beneath the bus, hissing, snarling, rutting. I didn't care.

For once, I was wholly caught up in the moment, suspended between my old life and our journey, euphoric.

“Whether it is singing or dancing or play-

acting or physical transport of love, or vengeance

or cruelty, or whether it is work or sorrow or

religion, the issue is always the same at last,

into the radiant negation of eternity. Hence

the beauty and completeness, the finality of

the Italian.... His figure, his limbs,

his face, his motion, it is all formed in beauty,

and it is all completed. There is no flux nor

hope nor becoming, all once and for all.

The issue is eternal, timeless, and changeless.

All being and all passing away is part of the

issue, which is eternal and changeless. There-

fore there is no becoming and no passing

away. Everything, now and for ever. –

Twilight in Italy, D.H. Lawrence.

Chapter Eight - Nightfall in Verona - Jenne' R. Andrews

2011-04-14T12:07:00.001-07:00

Chapter 8-- Wherein the Poet Fights New Temptation...

E strano!...e strano!...in core

scolpiti ho quegli accenti!

Saria per me sventura un serio amore?

Che risolvi, o turbata anima mia?

How Strange! How Strange!

That voice has struck deep into my heart!

Would true love be so terrible?

What do you think, my troubled spirit?

Violetta, Sempre Libera, Act I, La Traviata, Guiseppe Verdi

It was three a.m. Why bother to sleep now, as if I could. I had tried a few minutes longer, to no avail. I sat up and put mentholated cream on the mustache burns left on my mouth and neck by Guiseppe's – Pepe's--fierce kisses.

We had gone over to the Juliet bronze near the balcony and touched her breast for good luck before our private “passagietta abrazo” – our walk together arm in arm through the emptying streets of Verona, past villas with peeling stucco covered in roses, stopping to sip more wine, falling into clinches in alcoves out of the scrutiny of the bicycling night patrol.

I had been jettisoned out of life as I had begun to acclimate to it, a virtual vagabond with two friends, nomadic and free for the first time in her life, by two hours with a total stranger. Yet, our hours together had me in chains of longing. I burned in the dark to see him again; I had dozed, now and then jerking awake when the cats beneath the bus chased each other.

Then, I froze. How could I undo what I had just done? I was terrified. I didn't want to be swept away. No more heartache. No more impossible love.

“Julia. Wake Up. We have to go. We have to leave Verona right now.”

“What? Are you crazy? We just got here. Let me sleep.”

She groaned and burrowed into her sleeping bag.

“Listen. I'm going to get tied up with this guy. I mean, I am. And I think it would be best if we left now. “

“What if this is your one true love, your little big love,” she said, sleepily. “Wake up. This is Italy. This could be a dream come true.”

“And,” I said. “It could be a nightmare. Truly. Please.”

“No.” She turned away, pulling the down bag over her head.

Caroline had heard all of this. “No, Jen. Stop scaring yourself and keeping us awake. Go to sleep.”

At daybreak, still in turmoil, I dressed and slipped out of the bus. I struck out on my own, heading for the first espresso bar I could find.

I turned down a cobbled street; it was quiet; the stones shone with absence, the early sun lighting the faces of the ancient villas of Old Verona, where the tan and rose stucco peeled away and the ancient frescoes told faint stories of conquest, the bare, time-devoured walls here and there revealing striations of brick made by hand centuries ago.

I wondered about the narrowness of the streets as I walked along, squinting into the early light. Perhaps nothing wider than a horse or ox-drawn cart had ever needed to travel them.

Suddenly I heard a bit of commotion at the end of the street. The shutters of the second story windows flew open and as I approached, dark haired women appeared on their balconies.

Then I heard it: a rich, familiar tenor voice, someone singing scales into the morning air.

My heart flew into my mouth. Surely not.

Around the corner, beaming, with a small entourage, came Luciano Pavarotti, grinning up at the women calling his name.

For a moment, about fifteen feet from me, he stood still, and took a ceremonious bow. Everyone laughed.

Then, a cappella, he burst into Le Donne E Mobile....singing about a third of the aria before he bowed again, grinning, and walked on, up to the street.

The women shouted, “Luciano, bello, bello, bravo!”

Off in the distance sat the Arena di Verona and in two weeks Boheme would open there, Pavarotti as Rodolfo. I had noticed a poster and had a wistful moment, in my distraction. They were heading in that direction.

I grabbed an espresso and bolted it down; my heart began missing beats, but I ran back up the street, in my bell bottom jeans, my long hair flying behind me.

I slid the bus door open.

“You won't believe it. I just saw Pavarotti, I exclaimed.”

Caroline and Julia groaned in unison, and once again pulled the sleeping bags over their heads.

I was more elated than if Gabriel himself had appeared before me, and crestfallen that they could care less. I went off again, to the cafe on the piazza, wondering if our three companions would already be seated, sipping coffee.

There they were, waiting for us.

I shyly came up to the table and sat down.

Pepe's face broke into a smile. He leaned over and kissed me.

“Buongiorno, Jenni.”

“Buongiorno, Pepe.”

He touched the burns near my mouth. “Che cosa..”

I looked at Franco.

“Tell him his mustache....”.

The boys laughed, Franco translating. Pepe chuckled and leaned over and kissed my cheek.

Caroline and Julia emerged from the alley to the monastery. Everyone buongiorno'd everyone else.

Lucky stood. “Oggi, il Lago di Como, si? Perche no?“

My friends looked to me. I shrugged my shoulders.

Franco looked at us, and at Pepe and Lucky.

“We want... you to come swimming at Lake Como... in your bikinis,” he added.

Julia looked at me. I shrugged my shoulders again.

“We have to leave today,” she said. “We talked last night and we are going to Greece.”

I was stunned; they hadn't said a word.

After Franco translated this news, no one spoke. Pepe looked down at his empty coffee cup. I twisted my hair and squeezed his hand.

I reached in my pack for my Berlitz.

“Mi dispiace-- I'm sorry,” I said.

He straightened, with an air of resolve. “Non fa niente...”

I looked at Franco.

“He says, Don't worry about it....”

But I had seen his face, and he had seen mine.

The waiter brought us a dish of strawberries.

“Fragoli fresci,” Pepe said, picking one out of the dish, and putting it in my mouth.

“Oh, Jesus,” Caroline said. “We can leave you here, Jen.”

“No, no. It will be all right.”

All of us walked to the bus in the climbing sun. Julia took a picture of Lucky sitting in the bus drawing the curtain over his face. We all laughed.

Pepe pressed something into my hand.

I looked down and on a small piece of paper, there was his name and an address. I folded it and slid it into my bra.

“What will you do now,” I asked Franco.

He spoke briefly in Italian to the others.

“We finish our vacation, then we go to Calabria.”

Calabria was a thousand miles away, at the toe of the boot of Italy.

Now my heart sank.

I looked at Guiseppe. He looked at me.

Then, he leaned over, and kissed me tenderly, on the cheek.

“Ciao, bella,” he said.

A huge lump in my throat, I climbed into the bus.

I couldn't bear to look back as we headed out of Verona. We veered onto the Autostrada.

Caroline turned to me. “We think we might not have time to go to Greece,” she said. “But we want to have an island adventure. We want to go to an island and sunbathe, and do nothing, just for a few weeks. Corsica belongs to France and they say it's beautiful.”

I didn't tell her that I had Pepe's address against my heart.

“Sure,” I said, absent-mindedly. “That sounds good.”

I could still smell his skin. I determined that I would take a sponge bath again, in my small corner of the bus, and put on clean clothes, perhaps give myself a spritz of the cologne Caroline had picked up when we stocked up, leaving Verona.

Perhaps it would help me to simply log the sequence of events that had befallen me, and close my journal and put it away.

Caroline handed me a brochure, written in French, with a photo of a boat on the front. On the side of the boat was written “Corsica Star.”

“We have to go to Genoa, and put the bus in the hold of this ship. Then it's about four hours across the Mediterranean to Corsica.”

I settled back, pulling my sleeping bag over myself. I didn't want to be a wet blanket, to put salt on my friends' tails. I resolved to rest, to bear up, not look back.

We pulled into Genoa in afternoon, and drove the bus into the hold of the ferry. The sun was going down over the water as we steamed out into the darkness.

We had a picnic on the deck, each of us pouring ourselves a very full cup of white wine from the pitcher brought to us.

I was enchanted by the sea, the incandescent tips of the waves at night, the water's deepness, like infinity itself; I stood at the stern of the boat, looking down at the wake. I unbound my hair and let it fly in the wind. If I thought of Pepe, I leached tears.

I wrote a postcard to my mother: “Hi Mom-- I'm actually heading out from Genoa, where Columbus left for the Americas.... hope all's well, don't worry. Love, Jen.”

I planted my feet firmly on the deck and swayed to the rhythm of the tide, for the first time toasting to myself, and the courage with which I had boarded the World Airlines jet only two weeks ago-- a century ago, another world, another life, it seemed.

I looked out over the ocean, wondering if I would ever sleep again; I did not want to miss the emergence of the island out of the fog that swirled around us.

Our journey did not disappoint. At daybreak, I could make out the outline of mountains.

Caroline and Julia were again asleep, on benches under an awning against the cabin.

I stood over them, touching each of them gently.

“Land ho,” I said.

Foolishly, I imagined that a diminutive man with sideburns and a mustache would be standing on a dock in the port, waiting to take me into his arms.

Please note that I’ve archived the posts to the right of the blog. Chapter Nine goes up tomorrow- Hope you’re enjoying my odyssey! xxxJenne’

Chapter Nine - Nightfall in Verona - Jenne' R. Andrews

2011-04-14T12:06:00.001-07:00

Chapter 9, Wherein Yearning Bests the Poet...

Che Gelida La Manina

...Chi son? Sono un poeta.
Che cosa faccio? Scrivo.
E come vivo? Vivo.
In povertà mia lieta
scialo da gran signore
rime ed inni d’amore.
Per sogni e per chimere
e per castelli in aria,
l?anima ho milionaria.
Talor dal mio forziere
ruban tutti i gioelli
due ladri, gli occhi belli.
V?entrar con voi pur ora,
ed i miei sogni usati
e i bei sogni miei,
tosto si dileguar!

Who am I? I am a poet.
What do I do? I write.
And how do I live? I live.
In my carefree poverty
I squander rhymes
and love songs like a lord.
When it comes to dreams and visions
and castles in the air,
I've the soul of a millionaire.
From time to time two thieves
steal all the jewels
out of my safe, two pretty eyes.

They came in with you just now,
and my customary dreams
my lovely dreams,
melted at once into thin air!

Che Gelida La Manina, Rodolfo's Aria, Act I, La Boheme

The port city of Bastia, Corsica, appeared out of the fog; we were steaming in at sunrise, so that across several minutes the ancient villas built into mountainous terrain emerged, glistening like facets of a cleanly cut jewel. At first the clustered villas seemed transparent, without doors and windows.

As we neared the island, their ethereal blueness gave way to the outlines of salt-washed pale walls of three and four story buildings with red tile roof tops, each upper window with a balcony, behind which small doors concealed what I imagined to be vivid and happy Corsican life.

The port already teemed with activity. Our captain gave one last blast of the fog horn to proclaim our arrival. He maneuvered us past fishing boats; off to the right as I hung over the railing I could see great, gleaming white yachts at anchor.

Caroline and Julia woke, digging into their packs for combs, and joined me. We took each other's hands.

We docked and disembarked the Corsica Star. We waited while our bus was driven up out of the ship's hold and parked. Caroline picked up a map at a kiosk.

Now the air was filled with the poetic resonance of French. Fishing boats had come in with the first loads of the day; burly, dark men were dragging in their catch, dumping gleaming fish into great barrels, pouring buckets of ice over them. Women were setting up markets under flimsy awnings, opening burlap bags of potatoes, unwrapping fresh bread and setting it upright in baskets. Freshly butchered chickens and quail were hung in the early morning shade.

We stopped at the exchange on the dock, trading in our lire for francs. We sauntered through the market, filling our canvas shopping bags with bread, a round of parmesan, a wedge of brie.

We bought tins of sardines and a tube of mayonnaise; we found cans of hearts of palm and stocked up on the ubiquitous hand-blown globes of cheap but effective white wine that crinkled our tongues and softened the edges of uncertainty.

We drove out of the clamor and color of the port, and pulled off the road.

Caroline looked at the map.

“Look.” She showed us an area with the campground symbol of a flame with crossed firewood beneath it, that appeared to be at the very edge of the Mediterranean.

“It's only about 5 km from here. Let's see if we like it.”

The road was etched into the hillside, following the coastline yet well above it. We began a climb into Mediterranean ether, winding ever higher until we reached a plateau covered with vegetation-- startling, full bushes with enormous purple flowers, spiking plants reminding me of the yucca of the southwest, wide-leaved, gnarled and ageless trees.

We pulled in to a campground half-full of buses, small aluminum campers, pitched tents. Music of all kinds blared into the air. There were clotheslines strung between trees with frilly lingerie, t-shirts and khaki shorts draped over them.

We found a place on the grassy bluff, under the trees, and parked. We set to work bringing out small folding chairs, spading up a small circle we surrounded with stones. I went looking for dead-fall, bringing back dried sticks and twigs. I bagged up dried leaves for kindling, and checked to be sure that our tin of matches was still tucked into the cabinet where we kept our small vials of herbs.

We set up our camp stove on the lid of the trunk, and set water boiling for instant coffee. We had bought ice and the wine and cheeses lay in the cooler.

Caroline and Julia went into the bus and came back out in their bikinis.

“We're going down to the beach. Wanna come?”

Like a bird far from home, I was nesting, insuring that our refuge from the unknown was properly lined and that it would contain us. I wanted to sit in the shade, write, and collect myself. Above all, I wanted to take Pepe's address out of my bra and secure it in my journal.

Moreover, sunbathing, in my state of mind-- that we were journeying in heaven, was too pedestrian for me. How could they not want to live into every moment, notice everything, drawing it and writing it down?

“Have coffee with me first,” I said.

We sat on our small chairs sipping from our tin cups. Our closest neighbors—ten feet away-- were nowhere to be seen, but their small tent sat neatly on a tarp, two chairs next to it.

Suddenly, over the din of multiple transistor radios and portable tape decks, we heard a thin voice; perhaps someone was attempting an aria.

The voice grew louder.

We looked around.

“Oh, Pierre. Mon Dieux, Pierre,” the voice gasped.

Julia grinned, and pointed to the tent.

It was vibrating, and then it began to list from side to side.

Then we heard a duet: “Dieux. Sacre Bleu. Stefanie, Stefanie...”

“Oui. O, Pierre.”

We sat with our hands over our eyes until the voices died away, suppressing our laughter.

Caroline and Julia put on t-shirts over their bikinis, packing up beach towels, a thermos of water, a few magazines. They sauntered away, disappearing over the lip of the bluff.

I was alone, in our campground, in a now quiescent morning.

I took my journal out and uncapped my pen, writing the date at the top of a blank page.

“Last night we took the Corsica Star to the port city of Bastia. I thought of Pepe all of the time, even though the crossing was like a dream. I wrote to Mother.... I must not think of Mother. This is my rest-cure, like the languishing dowager princesses who used to be taken on holiday... “ Some passage from a Victorian novel lingered in my mind.

'I wonder what he is doing, and if he is thinking of me. I wonder if we will ever see each other again.”

There was a stirring amid the flaps of the tent not fifteen feet from the bus and a flushed young couple emerged, pulling on shorts and shirts. They were startled to see me.

“Ah. Bon Jour.”

“Bon Jour,” I said, holding out my hand.

The young man, tall, handsome, in his twenties, kissed it. “Parlez vous Francais?”

“No. Je suis Americaine. Parlo un po' di Italiano.”

“Ah,” he said, switching to Italian.

“Mi chiamato Pierre; lei--” he pointed to Stephanie—e’ mi sposa...”

Stephanie was short, slim and beautiful, with cascading, curly dark hair and dancing eyes.

“Bon Jour,” she said to me, draping herself around her husband.

I was about to attempt an explanation of the fact that I had two traveling companions, when Caroline and Julia came back up over the bluff.

“So soon? What happened?”

“Do you want to see something amazing?”

“What.”

“Bridget Bardot's yacht. Everybody said it was hers. It's right out in the harbor.”

“Not really,” I said. “Did you see Bridget Bardot?”

“I thought I could see a blond on the deck,” Caroline said, going to the back of the bus and pulling out the cooler.

“Well then,” I said. “A Bardot sighting. What next.”

I was feeling my oats.

Then they noticed the couple, standing off to the side.

“Hello.”

“'Allo; bon jour,” Pierre said, taking Stefanie's hand.

“C'est Stefanie, mon amour.”

Caroline burst into beautiful Vassar French. Suddenly she, Pierre and Stefanie were rattling away, sitting in the shade.

I got out the wine and passed out extra plastic cups.

I had been thinking of something rash. Perhaps if I said what was on my mind, my pragmatic friends would stop me.

I took Julia aside.

“What would you think if I asked Pepe to join us here,” I asked.

She looked at me uncertainly. “What, in the bus?”

“No. We would find a site of our own.”

She could see the wistfulness in my eyes.

“Why not. But how can you contact him?”

“I have his address. He gave it to me in Verona.”

“Sure,” Julia said. “Write to him. We'll mail it tomorrow. How are you going to write a letter in Italian.”

“I don't know. I'll figure it out.”

I sat down in the shade, sipping wine. My friends were caught up in conversation with our French neighbors. They had broken out the bread and cheese, and were lifting their cups, now and then bursting into laughter.

I took my journal out of its shelf at the back of the bus.

Suddenly I was again terrified. What was I about to do?

Someone was playing a tenor aria that began, “Io conosco un giardino....” I know of a garden...the rich voice filled the air. I saw myself under the Juliette Balcony, in his arms.

“Dearest Pepe,” I began. “I have not forgotten a single kiss. We are on Corsica, camping. We will forfeit our destiny if you don't come. Ciao-- Jenni.”

I reread my own words, somewhat astounded at myself.

I paged through my dictionary and attempted a rough translation in Italian, copying it to a separate page of my journal, printing carefully and largely so that no letter of the alphabet could be confused with another.

Later that day we drove to the Fermo Posta in Bastia, where with Caroline's help we explained we needed to send a letter to Reggio Calabria.

The postman took the envelope from my hand, and glued a bright blue stamp in the upper right hand corner. He tossed it into a leather mailbag behind him; it slipped into a sea of letters and cards and disappeared.

We drove back to the campground and made our campfire. We broke out our wine, once more filling our tin cups and toasting to each other by the fire.

“What will you do if he writes,” Julia teased.

“I don't know. Perhaps he won't write at all.”

For all her worldliness, lovely Caroline was a romantic at heart.

“I saw how he looked at you at breakfast. He'll be on the first train; if he has to swim, he'll come.”

I was tense, yet euphoric. I had given myself too much to look forward to, too much to worry about. Then I was struck by a sagging grief out of nowhere.

“What is it.” Julia came and sat next to me.

“I just thought of Stephen. I haven't thought of him in days,” I said.

“Stephen is moving on, like you are,” she said. “He's all right. And if he isn't, he'll have to deal with it.”

I could see Stephen's face; I was suddenly flooded with the memory of being in his arms, of waking together in his warm apartment in Minneapolis, in a blizzard, and making long slow love. The days before I left in which he had come and gone from his wife, in utter turmoil, breaking both our hearts, had faded too quickly.

What had I done? I had answered to the invitation to escape everything between us. Now I was falling for someone I had merely kissed, merely known for two hours, who had shown me I was still alive.

Pavarotti’s voice filled the air with his soaring, rich bel canto. I couldn't make out the words of the aria.

I wanted to become something and someone else: to be one of the high white birds that soared over the Mediterranean we could see in the dusk that crept in from the sea, blanketing us in a suffusion of dream and memory.

Where would I go? I thought that I would wing my way straight into the sun, so that I would be blinded, and not realize it in time.