Stanford 

August 23,1962: Letter from Sam in Florence Italy to family

Dear Family, 

Just a short note to let you know I am alive and unwell. Jim caught a cold and it caught me two days later, just as we arrived in Florence. We drove immediately to Stanford in Italy, borrowed the doctor, and returned to the youth hostel 15 minutes later with a diagnosis and a bottle of pills each. I should be frequenting small rooms for the next few days, the doctor told me in broken English, but then all will be well.

We couldn’t find Salvatore. I phoned the Director several times, but he was always out, and we decided not to dare an unannounced, unaccompanied-by-interpreter trip by ourselves. Instead, we visited the National Museum of Naples, Pompeii, Paestum, and a few other spots. A particular interest was a side-jaunt to a summer school for American school teachers near some ruins off the wild Amalfi drive. Jim had an in (his MA Latin teacher was taking a refresher course there), so we got an inside view of the entire problem of the declining quality of American classical studies. I mean, you teach a ninth grade class Latin One, and you have a problem firmly in your grasp. It’s all very simple, really – just extrapolate.

Bidding Naples and its nice youth hostel goodbye, we drove north, through all sorts of fine little medieval towns, to Rome the same evening. Both hotels were full and looked filthy, so we found a pensione northeast of Vatican City for 700 lira (each).  Although we had a running battle with the landlady for the next three nights (the game is called “the main water valve“: the person who is “it “must turn on the water and get the basin at least half full before the other person finds out and cuts the supply off); and although she wanted to charge us for five nights, it was clean and quiet. That same evening we hit “La Traviata“at the Baths of Caracalla, and had no trouble sleeping after three hours of rather normal music. The next morning Reverend Woodham took us out (Reverend Woodham and two daughters: the rest of the family was vacationing in Switzerland).  Reverend Woodham, by the way, looked fit, and very satisfied. But I guess you know he is rather a doll, anyway. His daughters talked about vacations in Hawaii  ("dreamland”) studying “fun“ things at school, and their respective affairs. It all made me very homesick, I must admit. 

They took us to a great place for dinner – run by an American, but much love to by the Italians. The band is always playing full blast, marching all over the outdoor tables; it is composed of a trumpet, a tambourine,a “clicker“, a flute, cymbals, and several noisemakers. A few of the members sing loudly, too.  At one point, a lady in a gallery is serenaded, until her irate “father“ shows up, and, later on, a parade marches past the tables (with the band and dozens of gas balloons).  Wild place. I had bean soup, and it just about filled me, but I rallied under pressure and managed to down a chicken course, salad, and melon. The pressure was too great to refuse. 

The following evening was also exciting: Aida at the Baths of Caracalla. You can imagine the fantastic sets, I think, but not the little extras “ to liven up the somewhat mediocre singing: camels, a cast of over 2000, and at one point, a chariot pulled by four white horses. It was a very big deal.

Jim and I separated during the daytime hours we spent in Rome, because I had seen all he wanted to see, and vice versa. I fitted in the Borghese Gallery, Michelangelo’s Moses, and a few, not as important churches and Roman ruins. Saint Peters, by the way, was filled with grandstands for the ecumenical council, so not much could be seen there. We visited Tivoli and Hadrian's Villa together, plus a few of the old standbys. Reverend Woodham said we hit the city at the best time, because all the Romans were still vacationing away from the city, and most of the tourists had begun heading farther north. I thought the place was still pretty crowded, however.

From Rome we drove some more, past more old places, to Assisi, where we spent the night at a nun’s home for worried travelers. It was a pleasant place, but expensive as hell, and you can’t say no to a nun. Next time we will know better. Jim was by this time pretty much under the weather, so I saw what used to be Saint Francis's haunt by myself. His remains are still there, by the way, certified valid by some pope. Efficient lot, these popes.

The next day  (I’m beginning to feel woozy now), through Umbria and all of its picture galleries and old palaces, to Florence by mid afternoon. We will hang around Florence for 3 to 5 days, depending on our constitutions, and then go directly to Tours, bypassing Switzerland (Jim thinks climbing is a waste of time).  I haven’t said goodbye to Zermatt yet, however, and will hitchhike back there from Tours, to attend to my skis, and hitchhike back to Paris in time for the plane (hopefully).  I will leave my car in Tours for that boy, whether he wants it or not. I will stay about a week in Zermatt at the youth hostel, eating, sleeping, and climbing, and I will tell you why: I have had no exercise this summer. (Jim doesn’t like to “waste time“ and I don’t want to fight over it), and need some badly. I’m a bit underweight, and pant after a flight of steps. Zermatt should fix me up perfectly.

I miss everybody very much, and I’m dying to get home (don’t relay this info – it’s confidential).  I’m homesick for my family, my room, my good food, my dog, my Stanford life. I think I have had my fill of Europe for some time to come. 

Love, Big Sam.