Anna and Clayton

Dear Family and Friends,

Today, August 15, marks five years since my mother's passing;  I'm departing from my travel accounts here to talk about my aunt and uncle whose full lives are also nearing their end.  Aunt Anna is my late father's only remaining sibling, our family's link to the last generation.  My brother's in-laws are also struggling against the ravages of age in two separate nursing facilities in West Virginia. 

This past Saturday, Greg and I visited Aunt Anna in Northside Hospital here in St. Petersburg, Florida, where she is in the cardiac intensive care unit.  She's 92 years old, and this past Thursday, she had a heart attack and her heart is getting tired.  She's had a series of health issues and has recently fallen in her home, where she has insisted on living, despite having her husband, my Uncle Clayton, in a nursing home for well over a year.  They have been dedicated to each other for over 65 years, and through his time in the nursing home, despite her limitations, Aunt Anna has missed very few days of visiting him there, a feat made possible by the faithful attention of their daughter, Susan.  

The family has been informed that her condition is weakening and that now is the time for Uncle Clayton to see her one last time.  Saturday, he was transported from the nursing home and wheeled in his chair to her room.  While seated beside her there, his head slumped forward and he was rushed to the emergency room where it was first thought that he was in the midst of a stroke, but later determined other conditions including low sodium and potassium were to blame.  With treatment, he has rallied and by Sunday was once again alert and articulate from his hospital bed;  Aunt Anna, however, is continuing to slip away.     

Living is all about changing.  We've never before been the age we are now, so we are witnessing our lives always for the first time.  For me, my siblings, and our spouses, as we move into the role of the "last generation," we know more vividly the reality of change.   This is not yet the time to be the reality of our children's lives, for they have the sense of forever stretching out in front of them. 

Now I am thinking not only about my dear mother, but also Aunt Anna, Uncle Clayton, and about an entire era transitioning. 

Aunt Anna's 92nd birthday, May 2011
Visiting Uncle Clayton on nursing home patio

More from Siena

Back to Lessons from Siena

My last post covered our first day in Siena, our encounter with a certain Scotsman on a balcony overlooking the Piazza del Campo, and our dinner experience with Mr. DeNiro.  The next day found us, after a pleasant morning, seated once again on the balcony stools, overlooking the square, anticipating some kind of celebration.  Since the air was a bit chilly, and we were exposed high on the balcony, we had decided to splurge on a mug of Italian hot chocolate.  If you've never experienced true Italian cocoa, well . . . you ought to, unless you're one of those who don't like chocolate (I've heard that there are a few people like that -- not sure what they look like, how to recognize them.  Maybe they have a lean, gaunt, pitiful, hungry, hollow-eyed appearance.)  Anyhow, drinking Italian hot cocoa is almost impossible.  That's why you're often served these sweet fingers of dipping pastry with the cocoa (sort of like donut sticks) and a spoon.  The cocoa is thick, dark, and creamy;  it feels and tastes as if you're drinking the richest hot dark chocolate pudding.
Oh dear me.

Back to the point.  We could tell something special was up, for the square was buzzing with more folks than we saw the previous day.  Chairs and a speaker's podium were set up directly in front of the old town hall, facing us.   Soon, obvious dignitaries congregated, standing at the chairs, shoulder to shoulder, in a couple of rows, facing outward toward the square and the gathered crowds below us.  Some facing us were military, with medals and ribbons;  some were in business attire.  One looked to be a bishop in frock;  and several were in medieval attire of leggings and tunics.  The area was festooned with flags -- we assumed of the city, the country, and the Tuscan paratrooper base.

We had an incredible view of all of this, perched on our shallow little balcony;  I felt sort of like the queen up there and I started waving to my subjects in a stiff-wrist, twisting, queenly way.  Eleven o'clock arrived and we heard something.  Recall that the walled city has very narrow roads, enclosed by continuous stone and brick buildings.  So the sounds coming from the roads leading into the piazza were amplified, bouncing and sweeping from the openings into our square:  men's voices singing, accompanying brass and wind instruments, drums beating, and boots hammering the brick streets.

Here they come!

Then they poured in, resuming precise lines once freed from the tubes of roads, in fatigues, maroon berets, and armed:  seven abreast and seven deep -- one group, another, another, until five groups of fifty men, each with its leader, and then the band;  they  stood at attention facing the gathered dignitaries, all the while their proud deep voices singing, drums beating, horns playing.

I wished we understood the words, but we absolutely felt them.  I knew that Greg felt the same when we shared looks from moist eyes.  The love of country was so evident and strong, that for that time, we were Italian too.  The paratroopers fell into parade rest, and stood silently through the ceremonial inspection by a medal-encrusted general, and next, the speeches, and the bishop's blessing.  Thank you, Will, you lovely Scotsman.

Lessons from Siena

Hello all.  It has been a few days since my last post and I am eager to reconnect.  I hope this finds you all well and happy.  And on that note:

I encourage you to travel, to open yourselves to opportunities for adventure, to dive into cultures so unlike your own, to meet new people, to stretch and grow, noble motivations all.

At times, also, you might learn that some of those new people can act like little poop-heads, and even that's ok, because meeting them might be an opportunity for the both of you to grow.  I certainly hope that a certain Scotsman named Will has found his path to enlightenment, because his lovely petite Irish wife, a bubbly brunette named Kate, was entirely charming and sweet, and she really doesn't deserve a poop-head husband.  What she saw in Will, however, left my husband, Greg, and me both wondering.  However, simply describing our brief encounter with him feels to me as if I'm giving it far more significance than it deserves for a couple of reasons:  one,  our encounter with Will hadn't dampened our enthusiasm of the place and our time spent there; and two, on further reflection, I realize that I can't always predict what lovely outcomes that seemingly random occurrences might bring (even those with aforementioned poop-heads). So, to be fair, Will did tell us about a public celebration taking place the next day which we would likely have otherwise missed, and he gave us a right-on restaurant recommendation.    But I'm getting way ahead of myself because I haven't even told you where in the world we were!   So, let's back up and set the stage:

Our hotel's walls date from the 1300s

It was in mid-October of 2008, and Greg and I were exploring Siena, Italy, a beautiful walled hill town in Tuscany.  We had followed advice from our travel guide, and taken a room in a deceptively large hotel, Hotel Alma Domus, part of a complex of historical buildings associated with and including the home of Siena's Saint Catherine who lived there from 1347 to 1380.  In the early 1300s, her father ran a very successful wool factory and the five-story hotel where we had our reservation is actually the previous drying rooms where the treated wool was stretched on racks.   
Even though the exterior structure is mostly unchanged, with lovely ancient soft-colored and weathered brick, and some interior beams are still visible, the building has been brought into the modern era and is quite comfortable.

(I'll eventually get back to Will, but I'm enjoying my recollections of the hotel, nearby cathedral, and the town, so hang in with me . . .)

Hotel courtyard

The size of the hotel is obscured due to the hilly terrain and approach:  we arrived at the hotel from its side which we reached by walking down a medieval narrow stone-stepped road.   Then, entering a gated small brick courtyard, we moved down more steps past potted red geraniums to the door leading into a spare lobby.

Behind the facing reception counter sat Sister in her habit, at her desk, no-nonsense and straightfaced, peering at us through wire-rimmed glasses.   She gave us a simple and clean room, twin beds with matching crucifixes above our head.  The incongruous white tiled bathroom was  outfitted with modern fixtures, including a pristine white porcelain bidet.  Our one window provided a view of red tiled rooftops and the magnificent dome of the Cathedral of Siena (Duomo di Siena) which was built in the 1200s, and in which we later found heart-stopping masterpieces in paint and marble.

Cathedral San Domenico

Just a few steps up the street past the hotel is the Cathedral San Domenico, built in 1125, where visitors can see, on display, in the area called Chapel of St. Catherine, her head and thumb.  She had been born a twin, one of her parents' 25 children, and after refusing to follow their wishes to accept a planned marriage, she devoted her life to God, a calling she had heard in early childhood;  one of her accomplishments occurred when she traveled to Avignon in 1376 to encourage Pope Gregory XI to return the papacy to Rome, which he did in 1377.

Siena was at one time, before Italy was Italy, a city state that competed with Florence as a military, artistic, religious, and societal power.  In about 1350, it was Florence that eventually succeeded, however, having withstood the Plague with fewer casualties than did Siena.  Remember that Siena has no river, and the Arno River of Florence was a significant advantage in washing the streets of the Black Death.

Piazzo del Campo

Typical narrow "streets"

Our first day we explored the narrow streets and followed signs to the very large Piazza del Campo, one of the most beautiful squares in Europe.  It is distinguished by eight sections of brick laid in a herringbone pattern and banded by travertine, the area sloping gently downward toward the old town hall, (Palazzo Pubblico) and tower (Torre del Mangia).  Their construction began about 1297,  and the neighboring hospital which dates from the 1500s, had been a sort of welfare provider to the poor.  All of these are now open to the public to be enjoyed for their historic significance, including the fact that almost all squares in Italy had been centered around a church or cathedral;  but in Siena, the government buildings took the place of prominence, the Sienese believing that good government, not the church, provided the best foundation of society.  At our vantage point, opposite city hall, we looked down on the Fountain of Joy (Fonte Gaia), which still collects rainwater that once was an important water source for this town with no river. Twice a year, the traditional (and very treacherous) bareback horse race, the Palio, is held in this broad space which is bounded by stout buildings -- where injuries to both horse and rider are not uncommon, despite the padding applied to the buildings' walls.

But there was no race the sunny fall day we were there.  Instead, we peered from a rugby restaurant's narrow balcony across the square humming with pedestrians, tourists, and cafe crowds.  It was on this third-floor balcony that we met Will and, later, Kate.  We were enjoying a sandwich and a glass of wine at the counter attached to the balcony railing;  the seating was just enough for six customers, perched on stools, facing the square.  Will was seated at my left, Greg on my right, and another couple to his right.  I greeted Will, exchanging the usual pleasantries, during which he revealed that he was Scottish, and his wife, Irish, and that two years prior on a vacation to Siena, they loved the place so much that he accepted the job as Siena's rugby coach. At the moment, Kate was showing some company from back home a few sites, and would be joining him there soon.

Will took our picture on the balcony overlooking the square

Ok, so far, so good.  Then the bomb dropped.  He looked at me and said, "You sound like Forrest Gump."  I barely contained myself as I explained that I am not from the deep south as is the fictional character, Forrest -- that I am from the mountains of West Virginia, and we have learned that much of our dialect is actually derived from Elizabethan English.  To which he responded, "Well, we've moved on from that."  How terribly clever of him.  Then, after he'd fully digested that we were American, he proceeded to tell us how fond he was of President Bush (the younger), even telling us a joke that painted a portrait of W visiting Rome, with his left arm draped over the mayor's shoulder and his right arm sweeping out toward the ruins of the Roman Forum, and drawling "Don't ya worry -- we'll git the ones who did this!"  That did it.  I turned toward the square and derived so much more interest in staring out into space, and since Greg had heard all of this, he, too, swiveled on his stool and happily chatted with the young couple to his right.

I don't recall how long this went on before Kate arrived, and introductions revealed a sweet demeanor -- thus our befuddlement.  Then, as a salve, when Will learned that I am part Lebanese, he told us that we should return to the square the next day because, he said, that at 11:00, Siena would be honoring its paratroopers who have just returned from Lebanon.  To further redeem himself, before we left, he and Kate recommended that we try a restaurant that sits just back of the square.  Always interested in locals' suggestions, even this newbie, we made sure to remember the place, though the name has now escaped me.  Fortunately, at the time, we had no trouble finding it.

So, that evening, after resting only a bit after our day of exploring, we set off for the square, to circle around, and walk down some steps to its back to find our dinner.  The restaurant took up the lower floor of a stone-walled building and included outdoor seating under a canopy.  It was a bit early yet, but the tables out front were already covered with white tablecloths, and while we were checking over the posted menu at the road, a black-aproned and highly accented gentleman called for us to come on in.   He ushered us inside saying "no problem" when we saw that we were first, and showed us into the dining room off to the left.  He left us briefly and we took it all in:  it was an Italian painting of white-plastered walls, dark beams at the low ceilings, clustered tablecloth-covered tables and comfortably padded wooden chairs.

Soft-lighted niches and wall sconces washed the walls and accented the architecture, creating a warm glow through the room and revealing rich tones of wood-paneled wainscoting.





We were already happy.  We figured the gentleman to be the owner since he brought us in early and seemed generally to be running the show.  When he returned, he had a basket of bread and a saucer, placing both in front of us;  then, he grabbed a bottle of olive oil from our table, poured a pool into the saucer, and sweeping his arm theatrically, over the oil, sprinkled salt from our shaker.  Greg looked up at him and said, "You know -- you look like Robert DeNiro!"  I think he actually swelled up right in front of us.

"Robert DeNiro" and me

We ordered a bottle of Chianti, he bounced away, and we dug in to the bread basket, while checking over the menu.  In the middle of our meal,  we had already finished off the last of our wine, and he swept back toward our table, and without stopping, or even looking at us, he sort of back-handed a half-bottle to the table top.  I think Robert was a very good sport (and most likely a proud one when it comes to Italian-American actors).  Before we left, he returned for pictures . .

Chianti!

Our first day in Siena was a busy one, and, typically, we ended it full, tired, and happy, and yes, feeling glad to have met Will and Kate.  I think that, if you are a traveler, you learn to value the whole experience, and that going with an open mind and heart, when you come home again, you feel that somehow, you've come full circle, finding yourself, only a self that is a little bit better.

After dinner, returning to our convent-run hotel and our little twin beds, and looking up at our own little crucifix, Greg and I were also looking ahead to tomorrow.

(to be continued)