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

Excess of Accessories… the Street Market at Piazza San Lorenzo

You can never have enough… what? To some it's jewelry, money, romance, or chocolate, but ask another person and the answer might be travel, museum passes, or fast shiny cars. I like color. To this end, I wander the street markets in hopes to pass close enough to the rows of hanging scarves that residue from the dye slips into my pores, changing my Scandinavian white skin to the pearl pink of an oyster shell with the iridescent quality of the woven silk. I walk the streets of the market place often, not looking for a trinket to take home or yet another unnecessary accessory, but rather for a color rush.

The street market is perhaps the perfect visual representation of the phrase “organized chaos.” The abundance of items are showcased by clever display techniques and offer an advanced lesson in structural engineering. The two primary display methods used are to hang and to lay. Scarves are systematically knotted, draped, and layered, right next to purses which hang one overlapping another like crackers neatly spread on a cheese plate. The soft hanging items play the clear proper notes like the string and horn sections in the orchestra while the rigid table top items bang together with the calamity of the percussion section.

The outdoor market guarantees the opportunity for discovery – my second favorite reason for wandering the streets. “You’ve got to get those,” I overhear a college student with a purple stripe in her waist length chestnut hair say to her friend with braids, “Get those fuchsia colored ones. No the tangerine.”

“I just couldn’t,” replies the blond girl, adjusting the strap on her gingham sundress, “Momma will just kill me when I get home.”

“No she won’t,” says the first girl, tugging at the waist of her red leggings, “Trust me, she’ll just be glad you made it home and didn’t move in with that cute waiter at the Old Stove,” she says referring to the local pub in Piazza Signoria, a favorite beer drinking karaoke haunt of students abroad.

There are blocks of stalls set-up in the streets around Piazza San Lorenzo, the closest street market to my home on Via Ricasoli. I have learned to walk each block in six different ways. I don’t zigzag back and forth but rather walk from one end to the other, either on the right side, left side, or down the center – and then repeat the process from the other end. As I approach from different directions, the ever-changing color stories of the stalls provide new sources of inspiration.

The colors show in patches: larger items popping like ornaments on a Christmas tree, and smaller trinkets blending together mosaic-style. Vendors take full advantage of the space by hanging goods from the 10’ tall cross bars of the “porta stalls,” which are actually wagons. In the morning, the petals of the wagon open outward creating stalls with a kaleidoscope of surprises for the tourists. In the evening, the remaining products, along with the hinged canvas awning, fold neatly back into the wagons and are rolled into nearby warehouses for overnight storage and restocking.

Next to the souvenir stall (magnets, bottle openers, key rings, etc.) is a stall with men’s clothes. Today, just above my eye level, a white shirt hangs with pair of papaya colored linen pants. “Ah Marcello” I say out loud, imagining his strong bronze arms extending through the rolled sleeves and his bare legs rubbing against the nub of the linen. He wears bright colored pants, I have determined, so that I can easily identify him in a crowd.

I have not seen him for days and now, imagining him wearing those papaya pants, my eyes scan the crowds in hopes to catch a glance of my Marcello. I search the crowd until finally, my wish is granted – I see a man from behind – red shoes, red shirt and short pants in color called chartreuse.

“Ciao Bella,” I hear him say to a girl and I am jealous. “Bella, Bella, youa coma herea and Ia giva youa extra special.” His words to her make me even more jealous. I can’t see his face as he speaks to the girl, so much younger than I that she is certainly inexperienced with real men, men like Marcello. She seems plain and ignores him. I want her to go away. I won’t ignore him. “Bella, Ciao Bella” he says again and this time she walks away, leaving room for me to get closer.

“I’m here Marcello,” I think so loudly that my face flushes crimson. “I’m here for you Marcello,” I think even more loudly as I approach in hopes that my thoughts speak to his manly desire. And then, as I anticipate our eyes meeting with passion, he turns and like a wind-up toy repeats “Ciao Bella, youa coma herea and Ia giva youa extra special.”

“Yikes,” I gasp, my body responding with such shock that I almost lose my footing on the cobble street. It’s not my Marcello at all – it is a buffoon waving a rainbow colored duster at some leather jackets. Having caught me blatantly excited, he smiles even bigger with delight. “Bella, Bella, wherea youa go, Bella. Coma backa Bella, Ia hava something special fora youa,” I hear him say as I quickly turn and scoot down the street, away from the marketplace, away from the color fix of my day, away from my dream of a chance meeting with Marcello.

The stalls are starting to close and the sun is going down. The festival atmosphere of the street market quickly slips away when the daylight dims. I’m shaken by my aborted search and the heart pounding anticipation, followed by the jolt of disappointment. I plod indifferently from street to street until I reach my home, my safe haven on Ricasoli. I aim my key toward the shoulder high keyhole just as someone inside pulls the door open. Dulled by my sadness, I don’t want to speak Italian right now, so I don’t raise my eyes. My head hangs down as I brush against a large figure in the doorway and step into the long dark hallway leading to the stairs to my apartment. “Ciao Bella,” says Marcello as he pulls the heavy door closed behind him and walks out into the golden glow of the Florentine sunset.

Naptime in Riomaggiore

Riomaggiore, a 40 minute train ride from Monterossa, is the fifth and southernmost charm in the Italian coastal bracelet called Cinque Terre. The word Riomaggiore means “river gorge” and describes the town built into the side of a mountain once cut open by water. It is a medieval commune with tower homes, tall houses with two or three rooms on each floor, terracing their way to water’s edge. The natural steep wedge in the landscape creates a funnel shape, allowing the town to start at the hilltop and gently pour itself into the clear blue waters. Slabs of alabaster and marble form a sea wall which shelters a tiny calm harbor reminiscent of a child’s bathtub filled with toy boats. Both the hilltop elevation and seaside access provide breathtaking vantage points.

With the exception of five or six tourists, on this particular day the little village sits lifeless, like a perfectly outfitted movie set anticipating the arrival of the actors and film crew. A side street waits patiently for the Hollywood scouts scouring Italy for locations to double as scenes for a remake of It Started in Naples. I look down the alleys to catch a glimpse of Clark Gable in shirt sleeves, suit jacket slung over his arm. I look into doorways in hopes to catch a peek of Sophia Loren wearing Italian housewife garb, circa 1960, using a straw boom to sweep dust out onto the street. “Hey Mister,” I think I hear from the next block and look to see if Nando, a preteen boy, is begging for cigarettes as in the movie. “Hey Mister, I carry your bag,” I imagine him saying, grinning and nodding his head. There is no one there, but I have a vivid imagination fueled by the big screen and my travels. My folks brought me to Italy when I was eight. I was mesmerized and, as a hyper-impressionable child, I absorbed the colors of the real and celluloid scenes of Italy to be used later as the backdrop for my adult life.

Visiting Riomaggiore is a déjà vu experience. I’ve been here before, if not to the streets of this exact village then to the purposeful streets of another where my lazy meandering turns the scrapbook pages of the towns which draw breath from the sea air and where the sun functions as a camera flash. Here time stands still: brightly painted row boats and stacks of pastel buildings instinctively know how to pose for photos. The abundance of everyday props, in the way of small fishing boats and fishing paraphernalia, reinforce the fact that there is nothing pretentious about this painter’s pallet of a town – there is no time to be pretentious while tending to the daily chores. The absence of people, on one hand, causes the heart pounding excitement of taking a private behind-the-scenes tour and on the other causes the queasy uneasy feeling of walking through a ghost town. Up another street, laundry dries on clothes lines hanging innocently over the heads of tourists. In the quiet, even leather sandals sound loud brushing against the cobble stones and the air whooshes with a thickness like walking through veils of sheer curtains. Although, everything appears to be in stop action, left exactly as it was when the heat of the day forced a mass retreat from the streets, the boats bobbing in the water and the wet sheets flapping in the breeze offer every indication that human beings lurk behind the thick paint-peeled walls.

On the hill I find signs of activity. A lady holding the spaghetti-like curtain at the entry to the butcher shop could have been the inspiration for Sophia Loren’s movie character. Higher on the hill, and off the beaten track, there is a piazza where a few townspeople gather and older children play. A huge mural covers the entire side of a building; it has a man with the face at least 6’ tall.

Between the children counting coins on the steps and the larger than life artwork, there are signs of younger children. I snap a photo of a still life I call “Bikes with Training Wheels Abandoned at Naptime.”

The photo is part of the invitational show entitled “The Art of the Bicycle” at the Milk Gallery in Sacramento, CA.  As the day rolls on, I’m just happy to linger in an outdoor café, savoring the fresh catch of the day, sipping a glass of the local sweet wine called Sciacchetrà, and listening to the soft shuffle of rope soled shoes as the fishermen drift up the cobbles toward the hilltop train station. I’ve heard stories of tourists caught up in the calm of Riomaggiore and missing the last departing train. Next trip, I plan to be one of those people hypnotized by the easiness of the solitude in this little fishing village built in the river’s gorge.

I hear a whistle and look over the rim of my wine glass to the street. “Hey Lady,” says the young boy in a red cap who I saw earlier counting coins, “I carry your bag.”

“Yes,” I respond impulsively as if playing a role in that 1960s movie. I’ll catch a train tomorrow… or maybe I’ll just stay here and paint.

……………………….

Side note: A trivia site on the internet mentions that the young boy who played Nando in It Started in Naples was born Carlo Angeletti or Marietto Angeletti and according to director Fred Zinnemann's 1992 autobiography, Marietto, who also appeared in Zinnemann's "Behold a Pale Horse", grew up to become a physician in Italy.

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?”  

 

 

Nativity for the Common Man

As a child, I remember a spot light shining on a manger next to life size painted plywood cut-outs of people by the entrance to our church. At home, Mom placed three 12”candles shaped like the wise men on the buffet near the decorated tree. These were indications of the Christmas season. We didn’t have a “crèche,” which now I understand to mean a set (like a stage set) on which the nativity figures were placed, so I didn’t practice telling and retelling the story of the nativity while positioning the miniature dolls and animals into the scene. As an adult, I notice nativity scenes in December when blinking lights outline the rooftops and on front yards, the molded plastic father, mother and baby glow from inside. This year was different as my first nativity sighting occurred on July 6th when I opened the cabinet door under the sink at Aldo, 17 Ricasoli, Florence, IT. Accompanied by a sleeve of unused colored sponges, the crèche (complete with glued down Mary, Joseph, baby Jesus, and some animals) rested peacefully beneath silver drain pipes. I took finding the “Nativity Scene with Sponges” as an omen of good things to come. I did not know at the time that my mission for the 2011 holiday season would turn into a search for the nativity scene representing the common man.

Near my home, at the Church of the Latter Day Saints, there is an annual display of nativity scenes. I had never seen it so this year, with camera in hand, I stopped by to snap some photos. At the entrance, I learned photos were only allowed of the choir and family photos, so my camera went back in the car and I went inside. More than 400 nativity scenes were displayed on draped tables throughout the church. Some were ornate as if made by a master craftsman, others childlike. All had a baby with his parents and beyond that, the scenes grew to contain as many as 60 to 75 figurines and props from animals and palm trees to bridges and ox carts. The largest scenes were life size and the smallest would fit easily in a measuring cup. They were carved from mother of pearl, exotic wood, stone, metal, bone, and drift wood. They were crafted from buttons, wash cloths, cut tin, glass, wire, beads, and one of my favorites was made of tightly rolled paper.    They were sewn of patchwork fabric, hand embroidered, machine stitched, crocheted, and cut of felt. They were painted, molded, glued, formed of modeling clay and assembled with Legos. A tree was covered with nativity ornaments and there was a collector series of porcelain figures, the type you might find in a stationary store. One scene was intricately carved inside a section of a tree branch and next to it, a set of painted egg shapes nestled one egg inside the other. Several crèches were mounted on hinged sides that closed into a storage box. In the corner of one room was a four foot tall 3-D landscape complete with fish swimming in a pond and an electronic star filled sky. Many of the displays had cherubs, people and animals, all with elongated necks representing the artistic style of their country of origin.

In the main hall, local children’s choirs sang as people of all ages, economic backgrounds, and races wandered through the display filled rooms. Tears unexpectedly filled my eyes when I peeked into a tiny room barely larger than a coat closet, which had been transformed into a stable. “Try this on,” said the lady shepherd passing tunics to a young man and his wife. “Place your baby here in the manger,” she said adjusting the husband’s headpiece and motioning them to sit on the bales of hay. The next family in line had already been handed the young couple’s camera and took photos of the costumed family in the Bible story setting. (Now I understood what the greeter meant by "family photos.") In the South American room, colorful tissue flowers and shiny ornaments hung from the ceiling. In another room, the walls were covered with a black silhouette of an ancient Middle Eastern skyline and a short video reenactment of the nativity played on a loop on a big TV set. There was no charge for the viewing and although I felt it was a shame I couldn’t take photos, I would probably have had to be pulled away while the event was being dismantled, saying “But I need to take more photos!” I was mesmerized by the variety of sculptural pieces from 50 countries as I asked myself, “How did they all know the same story?”

Reading has always been a challenge for me, but overload me with visuals and I’m happy...  hence, the drive-through nativity staged by the local 7^th Day Adventist Church was the next activity on my quest. When it was my turn in line, I rolled down my window and a man named Jon (the pastor at the church in shepherd garb holding a warm cup of soup – did I mention it was 38 degrees outside), welcomed me as well as all the cars in front and behind me. Next another shepherd helped me turn my car headlights to parking lights. Then a woman and her son, dressed as townsfolk, took the census, “How many people in your car and how did you learn about this.” I’m sure her son looks forward to one day playing the role of the innkeeper or a wise man. Finally another shepherd handed me a CD and explained that the CD would tell the story of each scene and indicate when it was time to drive to the next scene. 

Like the Duomo, against the darkness of the nighttime sky, the vignettes shown as brightly colored pages from a child’s picture book. The sets glowed with just the right amount of theatrical lighting and just the right amount of wind and fog to make each scene believable. The flat backdrops and draped curtains were simple in form and, graciously accepted shadows cast upon them by the movement of the actors. Camels, sheep, donkeys, and roosters performing in unscripted roles provided the added touch to bring the scenes to life. Painted billowing canvas created the cave-like space containing the nativity scene. It was very much like the actual birthing cave in Bethlehem that I saw when I was 27 when my mom, dad and I went to Israel. Where the baby was born in the stable was a confined space, a small cave. Instead of the closeness making me feel too large like Alice in Wonderland, I felt quite tiny. If I had been there at the actual birth, I imagine I would have fit into the little hand of the newborn baby Jesus.  

I visited neighbors the next day and mentioned how impressed I was with the staging and props, and how the cars dimmed their lights and it really felt like a private showing, and that maybe now I was beginning to understand the nativity story. The conversation was not interactive, just me recalling in elaborate detail the drive-through experience, complete with a weather report on the temperature and a short commentary about what the pastor might have worn under the shepherd outfit. Bill’s head tilted down as he looked over his half glasses reading the Sunday paper; Jeanette hummed as she wrapped holiday sweets in the kitchen; and Jennifer sat by the fireplace with her feet on an ottoman, hand stitching a very large needle point. I jabbered on describing the life size sets one by one, “And there was a real camel, and sheep, and at the end there was heaven and it was all foggy and there was with a band of angels with white-mittened hands standing on a truckload-of-cotton-balls cloud and blowing songs of praise out their horns, and then an exit sign.”

                                        “Ah,” said Jennifer without skipping a stitch, “the back door to heaven.” 

The CD continued after the tour was over which gave me something to listen to on the ride home. Pastor Jon talked about how much his church liked to stage the free drive-through nativity scene and he said something I had never heard put into words before, “Think of it – how could a Jew of humble birth who lived only 33 ½ years, never went to college, who never traveled more than 200 miles from his birth place, never wrote a book, and who when he died possessed nothing but the clothes he wore, have influenced the societies and the cultures of the world so profoundly that time itself is divided before and after his birth.                   
                          
And that brings this story of my search for the “Nativity for the Common Man” to a close.  Needless to say, I was intrigued by the interpretation of artists from around the world as they recreated the story of a man whose wife had a baby in a stable on a star lit night in Bethlehem many, many years ago.  Happy Holidays to all – may you each find the nativity story presented in manner that speaks to you.