EPIPHANY in PORTOFINO (family vacation photos)

The rain fell in short light bursts on the dock in Portofino. It was like any other drippy day in a quaint town on the Italian Riviera. And for that matter, I can’t even say for sure if being in Portofino had anything to do with my epiphany, or if it was just mere coincidence that what I heard and what I saw changed forever the way I looked at holiday cards boasting family vacation photos.  

We traveled a lot when I grew up and my Pop always asked strangers to take our family vacation photo, which often became the annual Christmas card. To complicate matters, he liked us to be walking in the photos. Asking a stranger to snap a photo of what would live in the family album to mark that specific year is one thing. Asking a stranger to snap a photo of your family walking is a far more complicated request.

One of my favorite Christmas card vacation photos was taken on a trip after my brother and I were off in college. It is a walking photo of my folks in Greece. I love the juxtaposition of the elements in this photo and always wondered what the stranger/photographer thought about Mom in high heels and Pop with a briefcase walking amid the ancient ruins. “Yes, they're from United States, Cali-fornia,” I imagine the stranger/photographer/Greek tour guide thinking, “Elena and I must buy business suits to wear when we go to visit Cousin Adelfo in Santa Cruz."

Tourists milled around the dock waiting for the next ferry. “Let’s stand over here against the wall,” says the father of four to his wife. I watch as he approaches a man explaining camera settings to his son. “Hello,” he says holding his arm out, red digital camera dangling from a tie dye strap around his wrist. “Will you take our picture?” He says opening his mouth wide to form perfect English words and adding eye motions and pleading face gestures as he hands the camera to the stranger. He holds the index finger and thumb of his left hand in front of his face as if grabbing a king size bar of ivory soap as his right index finger moves up and down as if pushing the trigger button on the camera. The stranger nods. He understands from the pantomime that he is being asked to take a photo.

The American father flaps his arms to position his clan against the wall and turns to the stranger. The stranger examines the camera. As expected, the stranger does not speak the same language. From the glare off the water, the stranger cannot see the image on the screen and the camera appears to have no viewfinder. He aims the camera in the general direction of the posed family and snaps a photo, then another. He extends his hand as if to return the red camera indicating he is done. The family is already posed so I snap a similar photo they will never see. My photo ignores their faces and captures their body language, the defining moment caught as the two smallest children strike moonwalk poses.

 

“No please, please, a few more,” the mother says in rapid voice, unaffected by the fact that the stranger does not speak her language. The stranger tries to hand the camera back to the husband a second time, but the husband makes the trigger finger motion again, this time more rapidly. “Tell him to leave extra room at the top or bottom so we’ll have space to write Happy Holidays from the Jasper Family, Portofino 2011.”

The husband acknowledges her, full well knowing he will not try to use hand signals to interpret his wife’s holiday inscription as she will surely change it several times before the card is printed. “Another day in paradise” it might read if it weren’t raining, or “Celebrating our 20^th with the kids in Portofino where we honeymooned. WooHoo!” Whatever the message, there is no need to attempt a verbatim translation. In sign language, the father has no idea how to say leave more space at the top or bottom. He instinctively reaches above his head as if picking apples from a tree, then makes a back and forth waving motion, next with both hands at waist level he pushes his hands downward in a motion that’s a cross between air sit-ups and rinsing a bed sheet in a stream. He repeats the motions indicating to leave room at the top or bottom, but his movements are misinterpreted by the on-looking crowd.

Apple picking, window washing, sheet rinsing, trigger finger, >repeat<, apple picking, window washing, sheet rinsing, trigger finger – the gestures take on a rhythm that are accompanied by a local teenage boy slapping his open palms against the sides of a tin garbage can. First to step out of the staged photo is the oldest son, then the daughter joins in, next a buzz-cut tourist in shorts and his tattooed girlfriend, then the ticket taker by the gang plank – soon everyone on the dock is in syncopated motion: fingers high - reach the sky, fingers spread proud – wipe the cloud, hands down - push the ground, wiggle the tip - snap the pic, and with that, the new vacation photo Macarena hits the cobbles of Portofino like American Bandstand come home to roost. The crowd is in motion, young and old moving, twisting and gyrating in unison as if under a spell. When the ferry boat horn sounds, the crowd, just having participated in an Italian style unrehearsed flash mob, stops as quickly as it started and cues up for the voyage to the next port of call.

On many occasions I push myself on traveling families if I recognize a setting that will serve as a good keepsake image. I do the finger trigger pantomime and reach for their camera. It makes tourists smile and I feel good knowing they will have at least one happy snapshot to share on their holiday card…  like the 1958 Christmas card memory I hold dear of my beret-clad family snapped by a stranger with my Pop’s camera on a Paris tarmac in August of 1958.

     So, as I said in the beginning, while waiting on the dock in Portofino, I had an epiphany and adopted the role of stranger/photographer taking my own curious photographs of tourists posing for their family photos – those all-telling potentially incomplete photos snapped in an instant by a stranger that, back home, might make you think… that’s not exactly how I remembered it. As for these taken-by-a-stranger vacation photos, maybe I saw something interesting in their pose that would be better enlarged and displayed on an art gallery wall than short lived on a holiday card. My faux vacation photos were never intended to be used as holiday cards… unless you are from California where the norm is abstractly translated or you happen to be a stranger who photographed my family on vacation or you plan to bring a briefcase when you visit relatives at the beach in Santa Cruz.

First Maria's Mussels then Vinci & San Miniato

Tall and thin with a huge smile and bright sparkling eyes... it's curious how first impressions create lasting memories. Alessandro was a summer house guest of an Old Sacramento attorney. The attorney met "Alex" while vacationing in Piombino, Italy, located on the coast near the island of Elba. Alex, age 17, was a waiter at the Hotel Esperia, owned by his parents. He mentioned to the American tourists that he planned to visit United States, and a few months later arrived to experience the summer of 1984 in California.

I ran my public relations company from an office located in the law firm. Between the lawyers, staff, spouses, private investigator and me, 10-12 of us assumed the role of Alessandro's American family. He was charming and welcomed into our clan immediately. We taught him about California, life in America, and shared our favorite pastimes. We were there for him at a critical time in his development, when learning experiences would last a lifetime. In 1986, our "adopted Italian son" returned for another summer, and a few years after that, I lost track of him. Christmas cards to Italy were returned with no forwarding address. His folks had retired from the hotel, and by now, Alex had certainly grown out of his carefree adventurous teenage years.
  

Fast forward to 2011. The decision is made I will go to Italy with Barbra and take her photography class at the Santa Reparata International School of Art in Florence. Coincidently, Alex received a misplaced card from me that had been mailed to the hotel several years prior, given to his parents, who still live in Piombino, and then forwarded to him. After many years of no communication, he easily found me via the internet. Imagine my surprise to hear from him and learn that he lived with his wife and two sons about 25 minutes outside of Florence. He invited Barbra and me for a Saturday visit. We would take the train.

Their house is in Fucecchio, between the San Miniato and Empoli train stations. I was excited as well as anxious about this meeting. After 25years, would I recognize this boy turned man? He had emailed a photo of his family and his oldest son was a carbon copy of the young Alex I knew. Would he still speak English? His recent emails had been quite understandable and delightful. What would we talk about? Somehow we always found something to talk about, I guessed we would again. Those uncomfortable feelings passed as soon as the train stopped in Empoli shortly after noon.

A tall thin man stood on the station platform as close as he could get to the incoming trains. He waved with joy when my head popped out the train door - and just then, a pleasant calm came over me, as if I was coming home, home to a place I had never been, and in a way I was. Alex and I shared experiences and relationships with several loved ones who have since passed. We are part of each others' history. Alex embraced Barbra and me with a pure sigh of relief and joy often reserved for long lost relatives. We drove through the streets in the town where 17th Century artist Jacobi da Empoli painted his masterpieces and we drove by a large industrial looking building with the words PRADA in big bold letters. Soon we reached the home of Alex and Maria and their sons, Andrea and Fabio.

A symphony of flavors floated from the mussel pot on the stove, through the living room, and out the front door. Maria was busy in the kitchen preparing lunch. She wore a pretty sunflower blue cotton sundress with its hem hiked up every 10 or so inches creating a scalloped billowing effect. She said this was her "house dress", but she looked pretty enough to go to a party. She was inherently warm and hugged me as one hugs an old friend. I was, in fact, an old story come to life.

There was no hesitancy in Maria's manner as she manipulated the pots and pans, sliced and stirred, and brought out one dish after another for placement on the kitchen table. The photos here show only part of our lunch. The table was quickly layered with so much food that it read like a feast in a 17th Century still life: sliced grilled eggplant, skinned potatoes, cheeses, cold meats, fresh green salad, breads… so many plates that after the meal, some were wrapped and returned to the refrigerator untouched. Our individual bowls of mussels were refilled from a seemingly endless supply on the stove. Alex encouraged us to use the garlic toasted bread to soak up the sauce - his suggestion did not need repeating.

Maria was scheduled to work that afternoon and Alex would be our driver. He drove us to meet Maria’s brother and pick up sister-in-law Barbara, (spelled with three a's, unlike photographer Barbra spelled with two a's) who enjoyed practicing her English while serving as our tour guide. Her delightful stories of the countryside, history, and travel kept us entertained and laughing all afternoon. The relationship between the family members was impressive in its unusual ease. They were all happy individuals and happy together.

Our private tour took us to the villages of Vinci, home of Leonardo daVinci, and San Miniato, built on three hills overlooking the lower Arno Valley, a primary route between Europe and Rome in the Medieval times. On the train ride back from the coastal towns in Cinque Terre, we saw a tall watch tower perched atop a hill like an angel on a Christmas tree. That was San Miniato and the walk up the inclined pathway to the tower, although only a few blocks long, caused every calf and thigh muscle to burn and beg for mercy. At the top of the hill, couples lounged on the grass under the shade trees. The spectacular views and serenity provided an outdoor sanctuary for lovers in the early stages of discovery. 

Our stop in Vinci was nothing short of awe inspiring. Walking on the hills Leonardo knew so well just made you want to breathe deeply, with eyes wide open, in hopes of being infected by the surroundings that fed his genius. We arrived at the end of day after the museum closed. This provided a good excuse to return on another trip. The street, however, exposed a fascinating built-in outdoor museum. The strange angles and shapes embedded in the ground enabled viewers to examine the thought pattern of daVinci’s mind.

 

Back at Alex and Maria's, Maria had returned from work and was preparing a second remarkable meal - dinner (those recipes will be shared in another story.) After dinner Maria gave Barbra and me each a bookmark to remember our day. Mine is a frog which is taped to the monitor of my computer.

It was dark when they drove us to Empoli to catch the last train back to Florence. Inside the train, I took a final look out the window to capture a lasting memory of the day. Both Alex and Maria stood on the platform as close to the train as possible. I wiped the tears from my eyes. Maria wiped her eyes. Alex smiled that big Italian smile and his eyes twinkled as if to say, don't worry - we'll all be together again, but this time it won't be 25 years.
……

Thank you Maria for sharing your recipes!

In California we can buy shell fish in months that contain an "r" (January, February, March, April, September, October, November, December).

Here's what Alex said when I asked him about seasons in Italy. "We don’t really have a season for shell fish, let’s say that during wintertime we find mussels from Sardinia, Liguria and Adriatic sea, while in summertime we find mussels from Spain, but at the end we have mussels all the year !"

NOTE: I considered rewriting the recipe as you might see a recipe in a cook book, but decided it's best in Alex’s own words - in reading his explanation you'll share the warmth of Maria’s kitchen.

MARIA's MUSSELS

"Let’s speak about mussels…

Well take couple of Kg. of mussels that must be cleaned, wash them and put them inside a pot, then put a little bit of extravergine olive oil, parsley and cut garlic, half a lemon (squish it), and a little of hot pepper (chilli peppers), (do not put any salt in the pot ) then cover the pot and lite the fire with a low flame; after about ten minutes, open the pot and put in half a glass of white wine, and let cook for other 10 minutes; taste if they are cooked at the right point and serve them. It is also good with the water that they produce, to put some toasted bread that can be rubbed with some garlic.

Hope they are clear enough, but please tell me for any doubt.

Maria is happy that the frog bookmark watches over you !!!!!

Good appetite !!!!!!!!!!!!

Love,

Alex and Maria

Wanted: Travel Scribe with Markers

At the end of the year, I spend a lot of time thinking and reflecting on the unexpected that happened in the previous year - the “markers” as my friend Lynn calls them. Incidents in your life that imprint you, not like a calendar or a clock marks time, but an activity or maybe even just a thought that impacts you in such a way that your life is changed from that point forward. This discussion came up over the topic of certifications and awards. The physical certificate or trophy being the marker of recognition and no matter how recently you were proclaimed the winner, or how far removed you are from that time and place, or whatever you did to achieve the recognition... its existence is a “marker” of excellence.

I slyly scoot by the unpleasant markers of 2011, trying only to ponder those episodes as learning experiences, and move by the pleasant markers with equal speed, knowing that I've already basked in the glory for an extended period of time. My primary focus on is hope. I always hope the next year brings wonderful eye-opening experiences and I hope I’ve learned enough from the rough times behind me to confront those ahead. I have no doubt that there will be lots of surprises in 2012.

Something I always consider is my personal growth in the work aspect of my life. In high school I wanted to own a motel or work on a train. In college I started out as a journalism major, but saw that the cool students hung in the art department. In adult life I owned a handmade clothing store, a public relations firm, and then settled into special events, my natural niche. I never had a job with an easy one word description where the profession indicates what you do - like a lawyer, teacher, doctor, or chef. Even when I told people I was an artist, they said, “You’re a what?” in a tone as if asking if it was contagious, or sometimes they’d say, “An arborist - do you know my uncle, he works in Golden Gate Park.”

At gatherings where I am a stranger, another stranger often asks that fatal question, “What do you do?”

“I’m a professional event designer and producer,” I respond.

“Oh, I see,” they’d reply and then ask, “So what do you do?”

“I design and produce events.” I’d repeat.

Usually their face remains blank and thinking I might snap them into the moment and catch their attention, I’d add, “I win international awards.”  You’d think I would know better, but no  –  they didn’t get it the first or second time, and no variety of changes or additions to the words will cause them to understand how a person could be in the business of special events. I might then try the shortest resume, "President,” a position I have held on several occasions, but really, who cares about a title.

So where’s this all going – to jobs and titles... during my public relations years, my office was in a building with a law firm. I often found myself perusing the newspaper classified ads for interesting sounding jobs. One that caught my attention was “Skip Tracer.” I liked the sound of the words as they played off each other. I liked the mystery of recognizing each word independently, but not together. One day the private investigator looked over my shoulder and asked, “Why are you reading the classified ads for jobs?”

“Just dreaming,” I said. “I don’t know what they are, I just like how they sound."

“How what sounds?” he asked.

“The names of the jobs,” I said. “Like skip tracer. I’ve seen a lot of jobs for a skip tracer.”

The PI was quiet and then asked, “Do you know what a skip tracer is?”

“No,” I replied, “I just like the sound of it. Skip-tracer," I whispered. "And it says high pay, no experience necessary.”

(At this point in the story we’ll leave out the part about me eventually dating him, him carrying a pistol in his boot, and always sitting with his back to a wall and face to a door, and we’ll move on to the current job titles that fascinate me.)

Spending time in Italy continues to reveal lots of new job possibilities. There are cobblers, window dressers, pasta makers, book binders, fish merchants, bakers, and craftsmen. I could get a job as a chalk artist, or street musician... or maybe a human statue by the Uffizi, a paparazzi, or a bell ringer in a really high tower.  A movie director might discover me leaning against a lamp post and give me a role as a street walker in a Felini-esque film, or I could pose nude for a sculptor as he chiseled a marble bust, or maybe I could climb up on the scaffold to polish the cathedral doors.

As we exit 2011, interesting job titles recently advertised on the internet include: Master Resiliency Trainer, Fit Tester, 100% Chinese Egg Donor, Part-time Sperm Donor, Lego® Engineering Instructor, and Relief Manager. But, the job I really want is Travel Scribe. Hey, I can travel and I can scribe (if those are the credentials needed.)  Moses was a travel scribe; Marc Antony certainly had a scribe recording his trysts with Cleopatra; Lewis and Clark had scribes on the wagon train, but I'm not seeing any current job opportunities for travel scribes, much less travel scribes with markers. Just imagine, how cool would it be to travel and have someone record you trip – ok it wouldn’t be exactly how you remember the experience, but that would make it all the more fun – a travel scribe could transform that “not pasta again meal” to sound new and fresh every time. Or maybe I could be a travel scribe for a company to excite people about visiting a particular country or interest them in taking a particular tour – face it – the folks who write travel brochures are writers… they’re not scribes… they don’t let you feel the stickiness of the damp clay soil underfoot, or see the rising reddened bulge on your ankle from a toxic insect bite, or even smell the springtime air, thick with the lemon perfume of the Femminello Ovale. 

So – Hello 2012 – as I set my sights on the future – what surprises do you have in store for my two one-word answers to the question, “What do you do?”  Depending on the crowd, I might answer “writer” or “photographer” and I'd add freelance just to let them know I was available. Never would I dare say “photojournalist” because even though it’s just one word - I can already hear the response… “Oh, photosynthesis – yes," and then they’d smile that all-knowing smile and add, “Do you like it?” or worse yet, “How long have you been doing it?”