In Honor of Puccini's Birthday: My Trip to Lucca, Part One

     In the summer of 1997, I went to Italy for the first time, to do a total immersion language program. Following the advice of the Italian conductor Roberto Abbado, I decided to go to Tuscany, which is the cradle of modern Italian and also where the accents are cleanest, and after much careful research I arranged to stay for three weeks with a teacher who lived just outside the lovely walled town of Lucca. One of the great things about these total immersion programs is getting to choose where you want to study; you're not enrolling in a specific school in a specific city. I chose Lucca because it isn't overrun with tourists, and my teacher lived in a small village where I could enjoy the rolling hills and rest from what had been a particularly grueling opera season. Also -- and very importantly -- Lucca is the birthplace of Giacomo Puccini, composer of such beloved operas as La Bohème, Madama Butterfly, and Tosca.
     In these programs, you live in your teacher's home (in my case, it was just my teacher Delia and her husband Vittorio, a retired couple on the far edge of middle age), they provide all your meals; you and they speak nothing but Italian (Delia and Vittorio had no English, anyway), you have 2-4 hours of lessons every weekday, and on weekends your hosts are obliged to show you around the area, and even take you on short trips.
     Here are some excerpts from my journal, written during my stay in Lucca:
    

     23 June 1997.   Well! My first day was very full The flight into Florence was about an hour late. I zipped through passport control and customs, and there were i signori Bartelloni at the front of the small crowd of greeters, holding up a sign with my name on it. It was searingly hot in Florence, and the car's air conditioner took nearly half and hour to cool up. Within an hour, we reached Lucca. There were the walls which I've seen so often in travel books -- not nearly as tall as I thought they'd be, and of course, I couldn't see much of the city, but the promenade on top of the walls looks so inviting; I can't wait to walk it.

     San Martino in Freddana is just a few minutes from the city. The Bartellonis have a pale pink villa (modern) with  vey nice garden all around, a terrazzo, and the house sits along a small private road which is shared by a couple of other houses, including the one owned by the padrone. The Bartelloni's garden is filled with roses -- pink, white, apricot -- and honeysuckle, and of course small plots of various vegetables and fruits. There are lovely raspberries lining one fence. The tiny village is surrouded by wooded hills. The sun is warm, but the breeze is cool -- very much like springtime in Texas. I have a lovely room with en suite bath. Everything is so spotlessly clean, it makes me a bit nervous, being the slob that I am. In the living room there is massive furniture made of California redwood, and an old Swiss upright piano in fine condition. After touring the house and garden, I met the neighbors, Piero and Piera, a nice young couple.

     I was, of course, fed straightaway -- a clear beef broth followed by a cold chicken breast stuffed with prosciutto, and whipped potatoes.
     I took a long nap after the afternoon meal and conversation (all in Italian), then their two nephews arrived -- Antonio and Gianluca -- to stop the night before going on to Florence for their final exams. Very nice young men, and nice looking. We had cena on the terrazzo: pasta asciutta, bollito (pork, chicken, and tongue), gelato with raspberries, and of course espresso. Then conversation in the living room, and I sang and played a bit for them. I was still very tired, so I retired early.
     This morning, after my espresso and pastry, I went with the Bartellonis to the supermercato, per fare un po' di spesa (to do a little shopping); then I had my first lesson, which was mostly to see at what level I am grammatically. Very easy for me, having learned all the moods and tenses already. Then I strolled round the neighborhood, found the bank, post office, and bus stop. For lunch, there were fresh radishes from the garden, arugula, prosciutto, and pasta with pesto. Delia told me, "La pasta fa bene la pelle." (Pasta is good for the skin.)
     (Later)  My brain is tired. So is my body. It's hard work, being a houseguest -- as nice as the Bartellonis are, I'm just not used to living in a stranger's home. I wonder if Dan feels the same. He's doing the same program in Pescia, which is practically next door. He'll be coming to visit on Friday.
     Delia and I worked on Figaro recits this afternoon. Pronunciation, phrasing, intent, everythng. Oy. But it's great -- I will know these recits backwards and forwards and upside down!
     Dinner this evening was pasta in brodo (pasta in broth), pomodori (tomatoes) e mozzarella, uova (eggs), e salame. Molto buono, ma non sono abituata a mangiare così tanto! (Very good, but I'm not used to eating so much!)
    
     27 June 1997.   Today Dan came to visit from Pescia. Delia and I did our lessons in the morning, then we went to CRAI to buy the ingredients for pizza and tiramisu, and to the post office so I could mail my postcards. I watched Delia make the tiramisu -- very simple, really; even I could make it! She said that some people use panna (cream) instead of marscapone, but it isn't as tasty. Then she made pizza margherita ("la vera pizza" she says, the true pizza). Dan arrived at around 2.30. We were both so happy to see a fellow American! At last, someone with whom to speak English! I know a total immersion program was what I wanted, but it really was such a relief to have a whole afternoon to talk without first having to think about vocabulary or grammar. Dan has done very well in his 4 weeks of study -- when he came to Italy, he knew far less than I did. Far less. Now he can form simple sentences with little problem; he's started to use verbi composti and l'imperfetto, and he can understand a good amount. But he told me that his first week was extremely demoralizing for him -- he would have nightmares in which he couldn't understand anything anybody said and he couldn't communicate.
     I showed him around the house, including the flat above, which Delia and Vittorio are making ready for lodgers. After eating our pizza and tiramisu, we went for a walk on some of the back roads. It's so beautiful here! There's too much traffic on the main street, so little room on the sides to walk without being terrified of oncoming cars, but the back roads are shady and narrow and quiet, with pretty villas and lovely little gardens. We found one of the many neighborhood churches and took a few pictures.

     Dan could only stay he afternoon, since his hosts were preparing a special dinner. It was so nice to hear my own language and see a familiar face. I lead a solitary life in general, but being alone in a strange country, staying with strangers, is altogether a different thing.

     28 June 1997.   Today they took me to Torre del Lago and Viareggio. Torre del Lago, famous for Puccini's house and its opera festival, has been commercialized greatly since Puccini's death; the lake no longer extends up to his villa, and the villa itself has been poorly maintained, but I didn't care. All I wanted was to see his piano and the few pages of manuscript that are kept there. The tour guide is an elderly, weatherbeaten man in a t-shirt, sneakers, and baseball cap. He seemed very much taken with a Brazilian woman in our group who spoke fluent Italian and seemed to know a bit about Puccini. She was vivacious and flirtatious, so he pretty much ignored the rest of us, except for one moment when he asked me, "Giapponese? Cinese? (Japanese? Chinese?)" To which I replied, "Americana." He lost interest.
     When we finished the tour, the three of us sat on one ofthe benches on the piazza in front of the villa. Delia kept talking on and on about the appalling condition of the house and grounds -- "Tutta abbandonata" --, how Italy just doen't seem to care about the arts, etc. On and on and on. Finally I said, "Vorrei sedere un po' da sola per riflettere." I had to be alone and quiet for a moment; I didn't want to listen or translate or struggle with anything -- I just needed quiet. So I went to another bench directly in front of the villa and just tried to imagine Puccini walking through the garden, smoking a cigarette. Some experiences are very personal; one doesn't want other people intruding, no matter how well-meaning their intentions are.

(The sign says "Do Not Trample." No, indeed.)

To be continued. . . .