Quiet Monday in Lucca, Italy

Monday Events: Slept in this morning after a late night. The rain had returned and the show had left town, leaving the streets quiet. Only the empty shells of the tents remain in the various piazzas of the town to mark the passing of the convention.

Laura and I set out this morning to finish our circuit of the city wall. We went to the main area of the stage where we had begun our trip days ago and went the other direction both glad to have our umbrellas with us. We circled the town clockwise this time, glad to get to the same place at last where we had abandoned the wall last week. We dove back into the town intent on finding the 'ampitheatro' -- the location of the ancient Roman amphitheater in the town. Laura was disappointed when we discovered it, however, as she was hoping to see roman ruins. All that remained was the oval piazza space where the amphiteater had once been. That's much like the vaunted circus in Rome where the only thing remaining is the space where once the Roman chariots had raced; everything else was built over by later construction.

We headed back to the hotel and found Mark and Andre there in the cafe space in front of the lobby. We chatted for a while there and discovered that not only was the convention covering our lunch for that day but also would be taking us out to dinner that night. Laura and I went next door to the Restaurante Giglios and ate inside this time. The room was rather oppulent and the Italian waiter there was grumpy ... Laura believe that's because he thought that she was keeping me from having wine during lunch. Such disapproval! We secured an English-speaking waiter and had a wonderful lunch. We even enjoyed the grumpy waiter, who was VERY formal!

After lunch we went back into the down. The day was very dark and there wasn't much we felt like taking pictures of. We went into the church in the center of town and right back out again; very cold and oppressive. We were in search of something to bring home as presents but realized that there just wasn't anything special that was catching our eye. We returned to the hotel and started packing up for our trip home the next day.

I have to say that we took great comfort in our video iPod. I had loaded a number of movies onto it before we came and then discovered that with the connecting cable we had purchased (of all places) at the truck stop we usually stop at on the way to Angel's would play the movies on the rooms television. One can get weary of hearing foreign language that one barely understand for long periods of time. The movies were a welcome relief.

Packed up, we went down to the lobby at 7:30 pm to join our hosts for one last meal before leaving the next morning. Mark and Andre, the 'Magic' card artists, joined us along with our hosts, Emanuele, Silvia, Anna, Nicola, the guy in charge of the writing workshops and our publisher Alessandro. They took us to the one restaurant that Laura had wanted to go to all week (and while we could walk right to it we cannot remember the name to save our lives).

We had a wonderful conversation over the fabulous meal that ran well into the night ... as most Italian dinners do. I asked why there wasn't any Italian fantasy being written. Everyone at the table seemed to think that Italian writers somehow automatically feel the need to become instant snobs and entirely too full of themselves; that it is required by Italian tradition. Emanuele, however, said something that I found deeply insightful and sad; that during the Second World War, what most people do not understand is that in front of the places where the Americans were killing Germans, Italians were killing Italians. There was a civil war between the Fascists and the Reformers which did not end in 1947 ... and, in fact, probably didn't end until well into the 1970s. The fabric of what fundamentally represented Italy in the Italian mind was torn assunder. I commented that this is similar to what has happened in Iraq; that we have robbed them of their cultural story, their heroes and their underlying mythology. How sad that the cradle of western civilization should be in such distress.

I then felt impressed to tell my story about Sturm, Chris and how one fictional character had lead a man to an act of true heroism. I never tell that story lightly nor do I tell it unless I feel moved to do so; I worry that I might start telling it for my own agrandisement. Everyone was deeply moved and, I hope, inspired by it.

It is time to go home. I am hoping for a cheese burger with actual mustard and ketchup on it somewhere at the end of the long flight home.

Musings: It is hard on a people to have their mythology stripped from them ... their national story shattered and with nothing to replace it.