Rome Reunion Part III - E-Bike Elation on the Appian Way

To begin with, Dave and I were late. We were meeting the rest of the group at Top Bike Rentals on Via Labicana behind the Colosseum. We didn’t have WiFi, and by this time during our stay, I’d worn out several maps, and the creases and tears in the one I’d stuffed into my bag obscured the street we needed to locate. 

A few nights ago, we came upon the Colosseum at sunset, the dying sun’s light seeming an orange blaze within the heart of the edifice summoning spectators once again. We lingered to marvel at the artistry of the heavens as backdrop to this iconic ruin. On this day, however, the Colosseum was but a landmark encircled by a tangle of roads, and we couldn’t spot the sign for Via Labicana. 

 

We asked a server at a café, but he didn’t know. We asked a nice man at an intersection who kindly pulled up the GPS on his phone and pointed the way… only it was the wrong way. A short while later, we asked a policewoman who sent us back the way we’d come. Aimless wandering is a lovely part of travel, but this was not the moment. 

 

When we arrived at Top Bike, the rest of our friends were already there, bikes assigned and helmets tried, selected, and buckled on. This time, I couldn’t blame our tardiness on Dave, but no worries, no one seemed annoyed.

 

When Bart, reunion organizer extraordinaire, first mentioned the idea of an E-bike tour on the Appia Antica, the old Roman road, I was hesitant. I remembered our motorbike ride along the same route in 1973. We were cocky, youthful immortals, but I remember the terror of winding through traffic to get out of the city, the choking fumes of diesel exhaust, and Dave’s craziness in standing on one foot on his bike seat while driving. I never want to beg off an adventure because of my age, but I thought this might be the time.  

 

Dave, however, was all in. “It’ll be fun, but you don’t have to go.” Bart, ever mindful of others’ concerns, spoke to the people at Top Bike and assured me that we’d travel back roads to reach the Appia Antica. So, we signed up.

 

Our guide, Elena, reviewed the use of the gears and the levels of the electric “assists:” eco, tour, sport, and turbo. “Above all,” Elena said, her accented English clear and definitive, “Do NOT use the left-hand brake by itself! The pistons will go down; the bike will stop dead; and you could go over the handlebars.” 

 

Good grief. Between remembering the gear instructions and this weird compulsion now in my head to squeeze that left break by itself, I was nervous. She also demonstrated the hand signals she would use when we came to major roads and had to “execute a maneuver” and cross “en mass.”

 

“I’ll go ahead and stop the traffic. You must cross as a group, quick, quick, quick!” 

 

Oh dear. Maneuvers. This sounded tricky and dangerous. 

 

“Okay! We all ready?”

 

Maybe not…

 

 “Let’s go!”

 

Shouting instructions and encouragement over her shoulder, Elena forged ahead down narrow streets, under stone arches, and past the Colosseum, her troop of near septuagenarians peddling gamely behind. I, no doubt like every one of Elena’s ducklings, toyed with the gears and tested the varying speeds of the assists. I wanted no surprises when it was time to use them.  

 

She stopped us often to identify points of interest and enlighten us as to their history and significance. At major roads, her unyielding glare commanded compliance of impatient drivers who honked their horns as she waved us safely across, her upraised hand and tiny body the shield between us and a phalanx of cars.

 

On the first steep hill, Elena yelled, “Set your gears to 1 and the assist at Turbo!”

 

Agh! How fast would this be? I did as instructed and… zipped up the incline. 

 

Whoaaaaa! That was fun! What normally would have been a daunting bike walk was… exhilarating!

 

With Elena in the lead, and Bart as rear guard, ever solicitous, making sure no one was left behind, we merged with the Appia Antica. Increasingly confident, nay emboldened on our bikes, we bumped and swerved over ancient stones rutted by chariot wheels.  While we passed many ruins that, at home, would have been closed to the public or carefully guarded within a museum, Elena halted our column only at sites of special interest. We dismounted to explore ancient walls, towers, a mausoleum, and a stadium. 

 

At one point, we pulled aside for a herd of goats. “You’ll see the farms soon,” Elena told us as we reached the end of the ancient road, crossed a highway – brave Elena protecting us with her arm outstretched - peddled through the parking lot of a strip mall that might have been anywhere, USA, and rode onto a vast expanse of parched soil and dry, brown grass. 

Simple shacks, feed troughs, and trammeled earth encircled by wire fences marked the goats’ home as we continued on. The day seemed suffused with light, with lightness, beyond that of the sun. Friend Fa Poco whipped by, and I had to whoop, “Is this the BEST or what?!” I felt strong and young as twenty-year-old Lea as I goosed my assist to turbo and sped, euphoric, to catch up with the others. 

Even Bart had gone ahead as there was no danger of getting lost in these open fields, and our destination, a series of massive stone arches, the aqueducts, stretched before us. Suddenly, I heard a shout. I looked over my shoulder and saw Dave in the dust, his bike on the ground, the front tire askew. I wheeled around and yelled, “Are you okay?  What happened?” 

 

When I stopped beside him, Dave was on his feet, shaking his head and wiping off bloody, dirt-encrusted cuts on his hands, knees, and elbows. “So stupid,” he grunted. “I was taking a video, just had to capture this: the farm, our friends, the aqueducts ahead, and you flying in front of me … and I hit a rock. I’m bummed I turned off the camera before I fell. That would’ve been a great shot! I just want to clean these cuts, what with the goats and flies and shit and all.”

 

Since Covid, I carry alcohol wipes, so I tore open several packets and gingerly dabbed at his cuts. “I have some bandaids, too?” I offered.

 

“Nah. No. I’m fine. Really. Let’s go.” We checked to make sure the bike wasn’t damaged, and re-mounted to meet up with the group.

 

By now, our friends were used to waiting for Dave in his quest for one more picture and had paused in the shadow of the aqueducts to rest and swig water. The chorus of friendly taunts swung to concern when they saw blood. 

 

“Oh no! What happened? I have things… First Aid! We can clean you up!”  Elena hustled to open the saddlebag on her bike, and produced cleanser, antiseptic, and bandaids.  Again, I admired her courage in taking on our aging, mostly E-bike-inexperienced troop. 

 

Once Dave was swabbed and bandaged, we turned our attention to the engineering genius of the ancient Romans in building the aqueducts that towered above and beyond us, some of which still operate to serve the city. Rome offers many reminders of the evolution and demise of civilizations, and I wondered, in two thousand years, what might remain, much less function, as clues to life in 2022?  

 

Our three-hour tour had stretched gloriously to five due to an extended lunch break and two more tumbles, yet the three spills did little to dampen our spirits. When the last of us wheeled back into Top Bike’s garage, Elena crowed about the fun she’d had with us. Still, I pictured her collapsing in relief later having seen her ducklings safely home. 

 

And Dave and I are totally getting E-bikes for Christmas.  

 

Part II - Rome Campus Reunion: Layer Upon Layer

9:10 AM. Time to leave Hotel Pantheon for class. We close the shutters, buckle on fanny packs, and head downstairs past the marble reproduction of an armless, naked Venus. In the hall, Svetlana with her beautiful smile and heavy eyeliner pauses from folding linens to bid us Buon giorno. We say ciao to Roberto at the front desk and head out onto Via dei Pastini.  

The street is nearly empty but for the homeless man who slumps against the wall in his usual spot near our hotel. His face is gaunt, one eye sunken and scarred, and a strip of hair runs along the crest of his shaved scalp. Despite the warm day, he wears a red vest and burgundy parka over his tattered jeans. He barks and grunts at passers-by, but most walk on without a glance, even when he lunges at them and punches the air.  

 

For several days after our arrival, I was unnerved by his efforts to alarm and neglected my vow to let no one be invisible.  Like everyone else, I averted my gaze despite the man’s desperate efforts to be seen. Lately, however, I’ve made a point of greeting him, and instead of growling, he nods and touches his forehead in salute. I hope one day to earn a smile.  

 

In a few hours, the restaurants along the street will open with a clatter of glasses and china as tables are set.  Crowds of tourists on their way to the Pantheon will edge past the hosts standing in doorways striving to entice diners to pull up a seat. Strands of braided garlic and artful arrangements of eggplant and oranges add visual appeal to the alluring aroma of baking bread.

 

We pause briefly so I can check my well-creased map, something I do countless times a day during our wanderings in Rome. Throughout the week of our reunion, some of the professors have generously included us in their tours and classes, and today, once we are oriented, Dave and I meet Professor Livio Pestilli and some of our TCRC 1973 classmates at Chiesa di Santa Maria in Piazza di Campitelli. 

 

After a brief introduction, Professor Pestilli guides us from church to church, commenting on the significance of changes in architectural elements from one era to the next. Like the students we once were, we listen intently and lift our eyes as he points out the artistry of flowing draperies and trompe d’oeil shadows painted on ceilings arching high above us. 

While different styles and techniques emerged over the centuries, some things never change. As the group waits outside the Chiesa di Sant’ Ignazio di Loyola, Dave does not appear. Friend Pamela assures me, “No one is concerned or angry except you, so don’t worry.” Having lived with the man for 47 years, I am not concerned, angry, or surprised… well, maybe a little annoyed. Kindly, she says, “I’ll go look for him.” 

 

She returns alone. Minutes tick by. I try texting my husband, but no response. I apologize to all and suggest we continue on. Dave is resourceful and this is familiar territory; I’m confident he’ll meet up with us eventually. Ours is a caring, forgiving crew however, and everyone insists we wait, but I know Professor Pestilli has an appointment at 1:00, and I’m starting to feel guilty about the delay.  

 

Sigh. “I’ll try to find him,” I mutter. Honestly Dave! But I have no more luck than Pamela as I dash across marble floors and dart between massive columns beneath extraordinary paintings of ecstatic encounters with the divine, ignoring all in my search for wild gray hair and a black polo shirt. I return to the group and convince them to move on.   

 

At our final stop, Dave appears, abashed and apologetic. “I just went back for one more picture, and lost sight of time. Without WiFi, I couldn’t reach you.” As I said, familiar territory; Dave and Time have a fluid relationship. 

 

The next day, we accompany Professor Cristiana Filippini and her students to the Basilica di Santa Sabina all’Aventino and her particular passion, San Clemente al Laterano.

 

As Professor Filippini leads us through the 12^th century basilica down steep, rough-hewn stairs through a 4^th century basilica, and then, to an even deeper level, her mounting excitement is contagious. At her direction, we peer through arches at vestiges of a 1^st century house with running water, something only the very wealthy could afford. 

Water continues to flow through troughs along the side, brought to the city by ancient aqueducts. Technology two thousand years old is still in operation, planned obsolescence a shameful invention of the future. I have been guilty of condescension in thinking my, those Romans were advanced, as if theirs was a primitive civilization that managed to exceed contemporary expectations. It is unnerving to consider the modernity of ancient Rome and the factors, increasingly frequent in today’s news, that led to its demise. 

Three levels below the street, the world of the present hushed above, walking a narrow passage in muted light, I feel the elation of exploration and discovery that so captivated me in my youth. I love this about ruins, about Rome. Almost every construction project stalls when excavation reveals the residue of long-ago lives. 

 

“This is the lasagna that is Rome,” says Professor Filippini.  “Layer upon layer upon layer…”

 

  

Part I - Home to the Convent

In my teens, I envisioned a career as an archaeologist. I was intrigued by the remnants of civilizations and their revelations about the rise and fall of ancient cultures and beliefs. Tucked in a library cubicle, absorbed in a book illustrated with photographs of faded frescoes and marble monuments, I would lose myself in the past, where all lives had been resolved. In a way, it made me feel safe: history held harsh lessons, but naively, I thought we’d learned them. 

 

In the fall of 1973, I left behind the ruins pictured in books and flew to Rome to explore them.  With Dave and 44 other students, in the midst of a cholera outbreak and with terrorist violence on the horizon, I arrived in Italy to attend Trinity College Rome Campus (TCRC). 

 

The program was housed in the convent of the Suore Camaldolesi, a walled enclosure on the Aventine Hill. The nuns were cloistered, unseen, but their faith was evident in crucifixes above the beds in every sparely furnished room; an admonishment, no doubt, to discourage anything but sleep in those beds. The crucifix was disconcerting, and so were the sopping towels and wads of wet paper that had once been toilet tissue: bathrooms in the dorm offered sinks, toilets without seats, and shower heads, but no stall. Important to remember: remove dry items before spraying water.  

 

My second-floor room overlooked a courtyard bordered in a U-configuration by the dorm, a classroom, and a wall, the dividing line between the school and the grounds of the convent. Palm tree fronds, rose-tinted stucco, and the red-tiled roof of the nuns’ living quarters were visible, but, for the most part, the land beyond the wall was as mysterious as the lives of the women who had chosen that seclusion. 

 

We were given some cautions early on. While it was hoped the crucifixes would keep the American boys in line, we girls were drilled in saying Lasciami stare, or “Leave me be,” to deter aggressive Italian men. And, while we’d been required to have a battery of vaccinations before departure, we were warned not to eat seafood due to cholera concerns. 

 

Ah, the food. I was raised on basic ‘50’s American fare – hamburgers, meat loaf, Minute rice, potatoes, canned Le Sueur vegetables, and Cheerios or Captain Crunch for breakfast. My mother’s recipe for spaghetti sauce was browned ground beef with a can of tomato paste stirred into the drippings. It was yummy, but the meals at the convent were… what? How to adequately describe the leap in my gustatory experience from meat loaf to the divinely-inspired bacon and cheese blend in pasta carbonara? The fresh smell of summer in basil pesto? The richness of risotto infused with the earthy flavor of mushrooms? And at breakfast, a crusty roll laden with chocolate Nutella scooped from a great vat. I figured, who knows when I’ll get food like this again? I consumed seconds and thirds… and gained ten pounds. 

 

Eventually, a group of us pried ourselves away from the convent to try dinner at a restaurant. Few spoke Italian, and while most menus in 2022 include English translations, that was not the case in ’73. We’d learned the phrase for “what is this?” and when Dave pointed to an item, fegatini di pollo, and asked, “Cos’é questo,” the server thumped his chest with both hands and clucked. Okay. Chicken breast. Sounds good. Frank, Dave’s roommate at Trinity, took a chance and ordered “Fritto Misto di Mare.” I played it safe and ordered lasagna.   

 

Such a good choice. My dish was set before me, a vision of delicate pasta layered with creamy pink tomato sauce and just the right amount of cheese. Dave looked suspiciously at his plate. Hm. Apparently “fegatini” meant livers, with a few hearts and kidneys thrown in. And Frank’s? A generous portion of fried seafood. There was momentary silence at the table and then a burst of laughter as, Cholera be damned, Frank shrugged and took a bite. Well, if he was going down, we all would, and each of us reached over and speared a forkful. 

 

The first weeks of the program were a giddy blur of exhaustion and excitement as we explored our surroundings. The Colosseum and Forum were within walking distance, and just down the hill, where chariots once raced, the boys played football in the Circus Maximus. We sampled billowy gelato, plenty of wine, and decided American pizza didn’t come close to the original.  We visited catacombs, museums, and the Capuchin chapels decorated with the bones of 4000 monks. We stood in awe before Michelangelo’s Pieta in Saint Peter’s. Together, we experienced art, the sacred, the ancient, and the new: the wonder of a world opened through travel.   

 

This September, almost 50 years later, 17 of us, some accompanied by spouses and adult kids, returned to Rome and the convent. 

 

                                *                                  *                                  *

 

In 1973, Umberto Todini, introduced us to the work of directors Frederico Fellini, Luchino Visconti, and Roberto Rosellini and the brooding power of Italian Neo-Realismo films. In 2019, our former professor traveled from Rome to Rhode Island to join us for a reunion among friend Lise’s artful gardens, fountains, and driftwood sculptures. It was there he insisted, “Next time, you must come to Rome!”

 

Everyone agreed it was a great idea, but really, what were the odds? Yet, in 2020, initial plans were made, and then, Covid changed everything. So, there was a sense of the surreal as we gathered last month at La Panella, Umberto’s favorite restaurant, in Rome. 

 

Allowing for changes in hair color and a few lines about the face, we all looked the same… didn’t we? Some had remained close, but for others, half a century had passed since we’d scrambled the dark corridors of the Mithraeum, marveled at the Monks’ bones of the Capuchin Monastery, harvested grapes, and dodged persistent Italian boys together. All those twenty-year old kids united again in Rome. 

 

As Umberto voiced in his welcome, “The fact that we are here means something by itself: memories, connections, fidelity to the experience, and the desire for knowledge… and for Rome.” He used the word “revival” rather than reunion, and as conversation buzzed around the table over beautiful bread baskets, wine, and canapés, indeed, the word applied. Nicknames from ‘73 resurfaced: Romala, FaPoco, Donovano, Francobolli, Bartolemeo, and Davido, and in the days that followed, we revived, as well, our roles as students and co-adventurers.

The following evening, at the invitation of Stephen Marth, the program’s director, we returned to the convent to join current students and staff for a panel, reception, and tour. “That will be quick,” I thought as I recalled our small campus. But in the years intervening, by papal decree, the religious orders had been required to increase their accessibility, and the terrain beyond the convent wall, formerly forbidden, was ours to meander. 

As we strolled past gardens and gnarled trees beneath a trellis laden with vines heavy with fruit, we learned that one of the former nuns had been a student at Yale before choosing forty years here in solitude. What had happened to drive her into hiding?  

 

What a contrast to the convent’s role in opening the world to us, the students of 1973. And how different had been our limited life experiences from the kids studying here now. Dave had never been on a plane before our trip to Rome, and most of us had never been overseas. Our communications with home were sporadic, written on wispy blue aerograms – in pen, by hand! - and sent by Vatican mail, facts old-fashioned and alien to the students of ‘22, with their cell phones and prior travels.

 

It was a jolt to realize that youthful as we felt ourselves to be, we could be these kids’ grandparents. So much for thinking we hadn’t changed! And as we have, so has the world. Dave mused about the course of a hundred years: in the half century before 1973, our parents and grandparents lived through the Great Depression and a world tragically well-versed in war and dictatorship. In the fifty years since, technology has transformed life, and with the warning voices of a generation traumatized by WW II waning, the danger of Fascism has risen again. What will be the reminiscences of the students of TCRC 2022 when they return to Rome for a reunion in 2072?  

 

To be continued… 

  

Supportive Strangers and Purple Lights

The night is warm. The press and bustle of the daytime throng has thinned. The massive, majestic hulk of the Pantheon presides over the piazza, its presence a surreal remnant of ancient Rome. At Ristorante Ritorno al Passato – Return to the Past - Alo has welcomed us to the table we have adopted as our own. 

 

Dave and I have been in Rome for a week, drawn by a reunion with college friends and our love of this city. On our first night here, we ate dinner at this restaurant, one of the open-air establishments that circle the piazza.  Attracted by the friendliness of the owner, Andrea, and the two servers, Camelia and Alo, we have returned for a meal or glass of limoncello every night before heading back to our hotel. 

Andrea kindly indulges my flawed Italian and speaks slowly, articulating each word so I can understand him. To our amazement, we learned he is a doctor, the director of an assisted living facility as well as part owner of this restaurant. He tells us he and his servers make more money at the restaurant than he does in his day job. It seems the issue of skewed values as reflected in salaries is not unique to the U.S. 

 

Camelia hails from Romania, but like so many servers here, speaks several languages, and her English is perfect. On slow nights, she has told us of her mother’s grace as she fought cancer before passing a year ago. Having not seen her sister since Christmas, Camelia is giddy because Corinna arrives in a few days. “We are all that’s left now. We have only each other.” And soon, they are going to Mykonos for a week.

 

Camelia has brought us small, stemmed glasses of icy limoncello. I glance at Dave as he leans back in his chair and gazes at the Pantheon, a serene baby-sloth smile on his face. It is an expression I cherish, especially when beamed my way. This evening, it encompasses everything within and around us. The ancient city, re-connection with old friends, the joy of new friends, and the fact that we are here together. The years and months preceding this trip held anxiety and obstacles – travel complications, Covid, creaky knees, world events – and yet, we are here.   

 

A stocky, swarthy man appears at our table and says, “You buy?” With a hopeful grin, he places a stuffed green cactus with bulging eyes on the table. He flips a switch and it begins gyrating to a tinny tune. The perfect souvenir of a trip to Rome! What would Emperor Hadrian, the Pantheon’s builder, make of this absurd creature? 

We shake our heads no, not interested. But perhaps we’d like a wiggling cat? A stuffed bull? The vendor makes another pitch and sends the bull hopping across our table. Who would want these weird items? Apparently, the man seated at an adjacent restaurant. We note he has purchased both a bull and a cactus. 

 

Since our sabbatical in 2005, it has been our mantra to let no one be invisible. So, on this occasion, as he always does, Dave asks the vendor where he’s from. Like Alo, the vendor is from Bangladesh, and we ask about his family’s well-being having heard of the floods devastating his country. He shakes his head sorrowfully, says, “Is very bad,” and moves on in search of those who might want a dancing cactus. 

 

Dave and I are wearing brightly beaded bracelets from another vendor, Ibrahim from Senegal. We’ve encountered him several times, and by now, greet him by name. We have purchased some wooden bowls, crafted, he claims, by his family, and in thanks, he gave us the bracelets. I wonder if they broadcast to all that we are suckers, possible buyers, but no matter, we like the bracelets and the bowls. 

 

The piazza also hosts vendors who sell roses, glittery balloons, and neon UFO’s that sail into the sky, high as the Pantheon’s peaked pediment. What a bizarre, marvelous juxtaposition of the modern against the ancient, and as we follow their path into the darkness, we know Lexi, Paul, and Eleanor, our grandchildren, would love them.

 

Having seen a graying matron about my age purchase and successfully launch a UFO, I approach the vendor and ask the price. “5 euros,” he says. 

 

Hmm. No. Cool as they are, the UFOs are cheap plastic and won’t last long. “3,” I offer.

 

He says, “4.”

 

I stand firm, and for 3 euros, I own a UFO.

 

The matron is sitting with her family at a table nearby, and she gives me a thumbs up. “You inspired me,” I say. “It looked like your launch went higher than those of the rest of your family.” She nods modestly, and those around the table laugh and agree. Their wine glasses are half full, their plates empty. Life is good.  

 

“Try it!” she said.

 

“No, I feel self-conscious.”

 

“You can do it!” a friendly chorus rings out. 

 

“What’s your name?” asks a handsome young man at the table, and I tell him.

 

Water splashes in the fountain as a marble dolphin sprays a cascade. Utensils clatter as diners at the restaurants enjoy their pasta, aromatic with fresh basil and garlic. Lights cast a shining path across the cobblestones as the matron’s family members call out, “We’re here for you! Go Lea! Go Lea!”  

 

How can I not? I thread the rubber band around a small hook and adjust the wings of the fragile toy. In the shadow of the Pantheon, to the cheers of strangers, I pull back on a rubber band and launch a tiny, purple, pinpoint of light into the sky. 

 

    

 

  

Lady Liberty, the Sylvestros, and the Littles

Dave’s grandfather, Michael, was a boy when his uncle from Rome came for dinner at the family home in Caserta, Italy. Business was good, the uncle announced, and he needed another street vendor to help sell shirts. From the head of the table, Michael’s father surveyed his children until his gaze fell upon his eight -year-old son. “Take Michael,” he said. “He eats too much.”

Perhaps, in part, it was that forced early independence that led Michael, like thousands of Italians in the early 20^thcentury, to seek new opportunities in America a decade later. By the time the Statue of Liberty came into view, Michael had met his future wife, Lucia, on board. 

 

Michael and Lucia settled in Worcester where he became a tanner preparing raw cow hides, while Lucia cooked, cleaned, and raised the family. As often happens, their children were staunchly American, and had little interest in the language and culture their parents left behind. However, beyond the barrier of their grandparents’ mystifying inability to speak like normal people, their grandchildren, Dave and Steve, found life at Nanny and Grampa’s house fascinating.

                                                               Michael and Lucia Sylvestro

There was Grampa’s homemade wine served in jelly jars, shelf upon shelf in the basement of canned vegetables from Uncle Jack’s garden, and Auntie Carmela’s heavenly pasta sprinkled with crumbled nuts. When Rinny, the family dog, brought home an unlucky rabbit, Nanny praised the pup, and served the rabbit for dinner. Nothing was ever wasted, much less perfectly good meat. 

Auntie Carmela always told Dave he had the map of Italy all over his face, and when Trinity College offered a semester in Rome, it was a chance to find out. But when we departed in 1973, we flew, never glimpsing the statue that had welcomed Dave’s grandparents.   

 

At age 69, I sheepishly confess, I’d never seen Lady Liberty up close. So, when our son Tucker invited us to join him, his wife Lisa, and our grandchildren Paul (6) and Lexi (3 ¾) on a visit this summer, Dave and I were all over it.  

 

Given their ages, it was unlikely the littles would be moved by the statue’s symbolism nor her impact on those escaping persecution and economic hardship as she seemingly rose from the sea in welcome. As yet, Paul and Lexi knew nothing of the Lady’s role in greeting their great-great grandparents, but we hoped the fun of the ferry ride, the whir of helicopters overhead, and a glimpse of massive toes would captivate the kids in ways that heritage, freedom, and opportunity would not. 

 

It was sweltering the day of our visit, and we were grateful Lisa had insisted on early morning tickets. For most of our time on the dock, we were shielded by an overhang, but before the ferry was even in sight, crew members waved, shouted, and hustled the prospective passengers, herding us like driven cattle onto the sun-baked dock to await transport.  I wondered how similar this discourteous boarding might have been to the start of Michael and Lucia’s journey. They spoke no English, and all that awaited was unknown. What courage to endure the jostle and push, and the lengthy voyage over uncertain seas. 

 

As we waited in the heat for the ferry to pull in, the kids were amazing.  They really were. But despite our efforts to distract them with glimpses of ships, seagulls, and a treasure trove of coins tossed into gullies along the docks, Lexi and Paul were wilting. Dave hoisted Lexi onto his shoulders and when he tired, transferred her to Tucker’s. When she was finally set on her feet, she gave up and lay down, not whiney or grumpy, mind you, just ready to rest in the shadow of encircling grownups. True to form, Paul used his time constructively, playing chess on Tucker’s phone. 

 

When the ferry arrived, the staff urged us forward. It was unnerving: the rocking of the boat, the shifting of the gangplank, the press of masked passengers, the unrelenting heat, and the insistent staff. “Keep moving, keep moving. Step up! Step Up!” Again, I imagined Michael and Lucia and all the anxious immigrants like them hoping this gamble was a move forward, a step up. 

 

Blessedly, we found seats inside, out of the sun. The trip to the island was quick, and as we drew closer, despite my lifelong citizenship and lack of desperation, my first glimpse of Lady Liberty filled my heart with yearning. Unlike the waves of immigrants arriving at the Statue’s feet from 1886-1914, the pang in my heart grew from the beauty and poignancy of the Statue’s message, and America’s failures to meet her promise of refuge. Thoughts of Japanese internment camps; ships turned back to Nazi Europe; and most recently, caged, weeping children separated from their parents weighed on my mind. 

 

Much as it is my way to sully pleasures with painful reflections, it is the kids’ way to find fun where they can. Soon after docking, we came upon a water system spraying droplets and mist over the brick walkway.  A delightful respite on this steamy day! Visitors of every age, size, and color, speaking countless languages, frolicked, giggled, soaked, and took selfies in the sparkling shower of water. True to form, Paul was primarily intrigued by the hose hook-up. 

Whether it was mindfulness of the kids or the aging grandparents, Lisa, wisely, had not purchased tickets for the crown, and opted only for the pedestal. High enough! Dave and Lisa braved the 195 steps while Tucker, Paul, Lexi, and I waited in line for the elevator. 

 

For Edouard de Laboulaye, the end of slavery and America’s Civil war signaled an inspirational turning point with potentially global implications. With sculptor Auguste Bartholdi and Gustave Eiffel, he set out to shine the light of freedom around the world with a gift to the newly re-United States in the form of this monumental statue. In October, 1886, “Liberty Enlightening the World” was re-assembled on Bedloe Island. As time passed, the statue came to mean something other than enlightenment. Her torch, her face, and the sunburst of her crown were beacons of freedom, signs of arrival in a safe place. Lady Liberty came to symbolize America itself. 

 

As it should be, the walkway around the pedestal is surrounded by a wall too high for Paul and Lexi to see beyond. So Tucker and Dave held them aloft while I fluttered about, anxious at mental images of a child going over the side. Better to keep our stay at the pedestal brief, and hustle along to the shelter of the air-conditioned museum.

 

Vintage souvenirs and posters, and a variety of artistic interpretations of the statue were on display. While Paul and Lexi were drawn to climb and probe massive models of the Lady’s face and foot, I searched for and found the original bronze plaque bearing Emma Lazarus’s poem. “The New Colossus” echoes the vision that motivated de Laboulaye and Bartholdi: “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.” 

For our littles, and perhaps their adults as well, sitting was our current goal. Three darkened theaters, thoughtfully carpeted, offered the refuge we needed. Lexi sat in my lap and Paul snuggled with Tucker as we sat on the floor. Churning waves rolled across the screen as an audience of immigrants’ descendants listened to the story of the Statue of Liberty and her role in the lives of their ancestors. 

       

 

   

 

 

   

 

 

 

 

My Grandfather's Choice

In the early 1930’s, my grandmother was in labor, but something was wrong. A doctor came to my grandfather who was in the waiting room and asked, “Do you want to save the mother or the child?” Shocked by the question and terrified at the specter of losing his wife, my grandfather, Poppy, said, “The mother, of course!”

 

The loss of this lovingly-awaited child in the second trimester was wrenching, as are all late term losses, but how much worse would have been the death of my grandmother for Poppy and my uncle, then a toddler. 

 

My mother, the result of a later, successful pregnancy, told me this story. She would not have been here to do so had Poppy made another choice or not been given a choice. I would not be here either. Nor would my two sisters, their sons, my children, and three grandchildren. 

 

Ronna McDaniel, chair of the RNC crowed “Life wins!” at the overturn of Roe v. Wade. Another GOP leader spoke in glowing terms of family trees now free to flower with the babies that otherwise might have been lost to abortion. In my family, but for the termination of a pregnancy, the branch occupied by ten cherished people would not have sprouted. 

 

30-year-old Izabela Sajbor of Poland was excited about having a sibling for her daughter. When, at 14 weeks, the fetus was discovered to have severe abnormalities and would not likely survive, the family was heartbroken. That Izabela was made to carry it to term was torment. But at 22 weeks, she was admitted to the hospital because her water broke prematurely. She wound up developing a fever and convulsing, but due to Poland’s restrictive abortion laws, the doctors were more concerned about the continued fetal heartbeat than the woman slipping away before them. By the time the baby’s heartbeat stopped, septic shock had set in. It was too late to save Izabela.    

 

The Conservatives touting Roe’s demise as a victory for life are choosing, yet again, to ignore history and the deaths that preceded the ruling, as well as the deaths that will surely follow. Beyond criminal sentencing for those seeking abortion, the states howling “No exceptions!” are sentencing women with ectopic pregnancies and women with botched abortions to death. They are sentencing rape and incest victims to compounded trauma. Celebrants of the evisceration of women’s rights over those of a fetus are also of the party that obstructs social programs to help the vulnerable women and children unwanted pregnancies will most affect. The “victors” are all about birth, but then they wash their hands.  

 

Frantic at the removal of a fetus, but inadequately moved by the deaths of schoolchildren, these self-proclaimed pro-life advocates are the same people who turn bellicose in defending the right to own and brandish – thanks again, Supreme Court - murderous weapons. As grieving families bury their loved ones, the hypocrites turn away and vote no.  

 

“Life wins”? Not so.     

 

Casey and Karis

Casey and I should be sitting at a gate at JFK waiting for the announcement of our Air France flight. We should be imagining strolls down the streets of Paris anticipating dinner, good wine, and baguettes. We should be picturing ourselves in the sunshine in Nice, beaming as our Karis marries Dmitry. We should be visualizing the reception and dancing barefoot, pausing only to hug Karis and eat cake.

 

Hotel reservations and flights were nailed down a month ago. We updated our passports, applied for TSA Pre-Check, and indulged in a T.J. Maxx shopping extravaganza – the first, we realized, since the search for Casey’s wedding dress. Like any good mama bear, Casey has worried about leaving three-year-old Eleanor, but this would be a special time for the two of us, and Karis is a special friend.

The girls met in New York in 2007. Karis was training to become a Pilates instructor and needed a body on which to practice. Casey filled in as the body. They became close friends and roommates, and in 2011, to the horror of both girls’ parents, they decided to head to South-East Asia for a 4-month back-packing adventure. 

 

Their destinations were terrifying for those who came of age during the sixties: Viet Nam, Cambodia, and Laos among them. For us, these names conjured napalm clouds, perilous jungles, guerrilla warfare, and exotic diseases. For Karis and Casey, only one of those words, exotic, applied.

 

Casey was 28, so it was not up to us, but what a leap of fearful faith it was to let our daughter go! Plus, things were a little shaky right from the start: while heading out the door to meet Karis and her father at JFK, I said, “Case, are you sure that’s the right airport?”

 

“Really, Mom? Well, yes. But now you’ve made me nervous.” She called Karis who was already in the car, on her way… to Newark. 

 

Throughout the four months of their trip, Casey posted pictures and a blog. She and Karis were the heroines of the story, and Dave and I couldn’t wait to read every installment. Hiking the Great Wall of China. Cruising the Mekong River with a sketchy crew. Sampling crickets in markets. Wading through rivers on elephants. There were alarming tales, too, which, thank heavens, we learned long after they happened: an inebriated night ride tubing down a river, a terrible case of food poisoning, and two robberies.

It was agony to think they were half a world away, so, with their permission, Dave and I joined them in Thailand. As we rode elephants, caressed tigers, bathed in waterfalls, and hiked jungle paths with them, we, too, came to love adorable Karis. And now, 11 years later, Casey and I were going to France to revel in the happiness of her wedding. 

But the telephone rang at 7:30 this morning. Casey and Eleanor both tested positive for Covid, and PJ, Casey’s husband, didn’t feel well either. We couldn’t go. It was out of our hands.

 

As the day wore on, more signs emerged. Little Eleanor told PJ she’d dreamed of “a big airplane filled with water,” and spiked a fever of 103.9. Casey sent a picture of her sick little one asleep on the couch with the message, "This is the reason we're not going." My sister-in-law called and mentioned a minor collision the week before between two planes at JFK: one Alitalia, the other, Air France.  “I wasn’t going to tell you,” she said, “but now…” 

As painful as this was, it was not meant to be, and we’ve tried to focus on the nightmare involved had we been in flight or in France when Casey and Eleanor became sick. Covid has taught us to make plans, but have no expectations, so we’ve been resigned, even grateful, that Covid cropped up before we took off. 

 

But our beloved Karis is getting married, and we won’t be there with her. 

 

 

 

  

Lacking Conscience or Courage, What Toll?

My son, Tucker, appeared at the door of the bedroom where I’d snuggled him in for a nap but minutes before. He was three years old, and we were visiting a friend for the day. Clearly unnerved, he said, “There’s a gun in there.” 

I scooped him up and entered the room. A rifle was in the corner, leaning against the wall. How had I missed it? The gun was removed, and I lay down with my boy until he drifted off to sleep.

 

Not long before Tucker was born, one of my students died in a gun accident. He was thirteen, a bright kid, funny, kind, and promising. Having spent two years at a school for children with learning disabilities, he’d been accepted at a competitive, traditional school and was eager to commit to that challenge.  Instead, he died. While playing with a gun, a friend of his shot him by mistake.  

 

In the aftermath of that loss, I raised my children to have a gun aversion borne of my own. 

 

In 2012, twenty children and the six adults striving to save them were shot at Sandy Hook Elementary School by a troubled young man with an AR-15. Dave and I live two towns away, and sometimes it’s a struggle to ban from my mind images of the carnage faced by first responders at Sandy Hook. And now, Uvalde. It stills my soul to think of the unfathomable grief of the victims' parents and loved ones. How does one live with such pain? Joe Garcia, husband of murdered Robb Elementary School teacher Irma Garcia, could not. He died of a heart attack the day after the shooting, leaving their four children orphaned.  The ripples of tragedy fan wide, anger and sorrow sweeping parents, grandparents, siblings, teachers, friends, neighbors… and those of us, far removed, who mourn for them. What will be the toll of this recurring trauma? 

 

Mental health in America is a serious issue, but it is guns that are doing the killing. It is assault weapons that are slaughtering children, shoppers, and church-goers. Those who bellow, “You can take my gun only from my cold, dead hands” seem to think their rights, based on a willful application of an amendment written in the 18^th century for militia men and musket owners, supersede those of the swelling ranks of deceased, injured, and bereaved.

 

They are wrong, but for now, it seems Karma alone will settle these countless scores. Life-saving laws have idled for years as Congressional Republicans, absent conscience or courage, worry more about re-election than murdered children.   

 

Since the Columbine High School shooting in 1999, 2000 Americans have been killed or wounded in mass shootings, and that does not include the thousands of individual gun deaths and suicides.  As 50 Senators block H.R. 8, the Bi-Partisan Background Checks Act of 2021, the murders continue as Americans approach outings with wariness, and parents, fearfully, send their kids to school.