The Name of the Rose, an introduction

Palimpsest

This material was written for the Trinity Church Book Club, of which I am a member.  It is some introductory material for the current novel that the club is reading.


The Name of the Rose was Umberto Eco's first novel, and published in an English translation in the early 80's.  It led me on a journey with this eminent semiologiest, leading me to other novels such as The Mysterious Flame of Queen Loane, essays on beauty and literature, a nice little volume filled with advice to authors, and other wonderful works.  As a semiologist he fills his work with layer upon layer of meaning and connection.  The connections are both actual and virtual or imagined.  A palimpsest was a piece of parchment or vellum which had an original text erased and another written over it.  Often, with care, one could detect the text beneath.  This is a good example of his work, text above text, story within story.

Even the rose is a good example of what Eco accomplishes, petal within petal, there is interest in the detail, but the beauty is within the whole.  The book is simply a murder mystery, but layered over the usual convolutions of such a story are other "mysteries" and tangents:

1.  The whole culture and life of a 14th Century monastery and its scriptorium.  Here I am indebted to Stephen Greenblatt's wonderful new book, The Swerve, How the World became Modern.  His initial chapters on the medieval search for the ancient is quite enlightening.  In a Benedictine Monastery, one was required to read, some were required to serve as scribes, and others ploughed the fields of the community.  The requirement to read however was betrayed by the other requirement of silence - one did not discuss what one had read.  Thus, contending with dual purposes, the monks were under a great deal of pressure to both possess and dispossess the ancients; hence the conundrum that faces the monks about Aristotle's de Comedia.

2.  Within this moral dilemma there is another, and that is the dispute between the fanatic Franciscans and the Dominicans on the virtue of poverty in Christian ascetic life.  The question, "did Christ own his own clothing" was a simple way of stating the controversy, and the Franciscans thought that he didn't.  This period, just on the cusp of the precursors of the Reformation, in Paris (Jean de Gerson) and in Prague (Jan Hus) raised similar questions and concerns.  It would consume the age, until it was "resolved" with the Reformation and the Council of Trent.  In the novel, however it serves as a reflection of the many moral questions that consume monastic life.

3.  Finally, there are all the allusions that Eco makes in all of his writings, that range from the most ancient of things to the most modern of things.  Along with a feeling of exaggeration (read: Foucault's Pendulum for example) and just plain inventiveness, one can really be on a search into other literature and history when reading Eco.  In this regard, he is similar to both Saramago and Bolaño, making constant reference to tangential or related materials.

For me, reading Eco is always an education.  I hope that this brief but insufficient introduction will help guide your discussion.  I'm sorry that I will not be there.  Rome, does have its mysteries too, and it is to these that I am directing myself.

Enjoy!

Don Pippo, A Day in Milano - 7 June 2012

Connections

I have reservations on a train to Milano at 7:00 in the morning, so I get up early, take a shower, and suddenly realize it is only 4:30 in the morning, not 5:30 - so back to bed.  I walk to Statione Terminii walking past the Ara Sacra at Argentino, past a bunch of other sites that I would normally stop to take in. I get to the terminal, and board my train - quite comfortable.  I settle in at Carriage 4, Seat 56.

It is here that I get to experience something quite unique, for a people watcher.  A young Italian man is seated across from me - shaved head, one day growth of beard, dark glasses, jeans, white shirt and tie - huge watch with at least five different dials.  He is reading, no, he is using his phone.  Another man approaches, same descriptors.  There is some dispute about who sits where, but it is most gently disposed of.  There is a dance between the two strangers - a calm quiet speech between the two of them.  They invade each other's private space in a manner that would set most American straight men on edge, and would be a delight, but completely misunderstood by most American gay men.  There is touching, soulful looks, gentle conversation, smiles.  When we arrive in Milano they walk off together, part, and then go their separate ways.  Bellissimo!

The trip is fast - 3 hours - from Roma to Firenze (no stop) to Bologna, and finally to Milano.

Philipp is awaiting me in the concourse between the trains - all smiles.  It is so good to see him.  I saw him last, with my mother in München in 2004 - so it has been a while.  He is excited, his Italian is wonderful and he drives like a maniac.  I love it!  We go have a coffee at a café that is run by friends, and talk about family, how everyone is - at length.  I am interrupted by a phone call from Anna.  Her grandmother, Esther Koerber, has died.  This has been expected but I know that Anna is devastated.

Philipp has arranged for lunch at an unusual place.  He quizzes me about it as we walk to it.  "What do you think it is like?"  "Organized or unorganized?"  "Traditional or nontraditional?"  I am intrigued.  Once we arrive I understand his query.  It appears to be a delicatessen but with a few tables.  The offerings, or products are very unusual meats and cheeses.  There is no menu.  We are served specialties.

He starts us off with a plate of cured beef, cut carpacio-like with a round of cheese (ricotta and fresh mozzarella creamed together and served with salt, pepper, and olive oil.  Delicious!  Then there is an amusé bouche of lardo (fat back cured with rosemary and other herbs) with honey and olive oil.  It was delicious.

Then there was a plate of cured meats; a lightly cured ham, another form of pork, mortadella, speck, two salumi one which tasted of citrus, coppa, breseola, and a bacon-like cut.  My mother, the mother of all carnivores, would have loved this.

Then there was a cheese plate, which we were to eat in a distinctive order.  First a cow's milk cheese, very mild and soft - it prepared the way.  Next was an almost sharp cheddar-like cheese that had been kept with Barolo, a rich, red wine.  That was especially good.  The next cheese was a hard, parmesan-like cheese that had been wrapped in tobacco. and finally a cheese that had been cured with orzo.  All of them were wonderful.

Finally there were biscotti with what I thought was vin santo, but was grappa with some kind of moscatto.  What an experience.  Thank you Don Pippo!

We go to Philipp's apartment, but first have a gelato.  They fill the cone with hot chocolate (like the Spanish serve with churros) and then two scoops.  I had crema bologna, and strachiatella.  Delicious.

A quick nap for both of us, and then off to the Centro where we walk by the Duomo  and through the magnificent galleria.  In the piazza across from La Scala, I take a photo of my friend Leondardo da Vinci who presides over the pleasant park-like setting.  the last time I was here, it was a bleak paved over area full of cars and a huge television screen, which fascinated me at the time.

Philipp takes me to the area where all the fashion houses are, a great place for people watching and window gazing.  It's time to go home, but we stop first for a drink, and witness a woman who spends over (I think) €100 on lottery tickets.  She doesn't win a thing as we all (Philipp, myself, and the shop owner look on in amazement.  Then there is a interesting discussion about addiction.

It is time for me to catch my train, so we walk back to the car and Philipp drives to to Centrale, where we say our good-byes.  He will wait for a friend who is coming in from Napoli, and I will go back to Rome.

I have dinner in the Restaurant on the train, spaghetti pomodoro, pollo con palate, and a macedonia.  There's enough time to read and to sleep a bit.

I walk back to San Salvatore in Campo, and gratefully crawl into bed.  It has been a wonderful day.  Thank you so much Philipp!

Overlooked - Day Two in Roma - 6 June 2012

Wandering

A character in Tennessee William's play El Camino Real, exclaims, "I used to wonder, now I just wander."  Although I think my purposes were different than his, I just wandered today - hoping to hit sites that I hadn't seen before.  Thus, I walked south along the Tiber, passing the huge Jewish Synagogue (my hotel is just on the edge of the Jewish quarter) and then down to the Temple of Fortune, and of Heracles, right across the street from Santa Maria in Cosmedian.  Now here was a place that kept forgetting to go to on past trips, and now here it was right in front of me.

The floor work is beautiful, and the scale of the building so intimate that it shames the huge baroque churches that crowd this city.  The capitals and mosaic and stone work are similar to that at San Clemente.  All in all a beautiful experience.

I walk along the Circo Massimo intending to get to the Terme Caracalla, another site that I have ignored in the past.  First there is an encounter with a scam artist who is trolling for Euros - from his car!  The baths of Caracalla are spectacular.  Not many people are there but there are a few and the incessant cries of seagulls.  

Which reminds me; sleeping last night was a bit of a trial.  The cries of ravens, cats, and seagulls kept me up.  I was operating with the "Paris Syndrome" (Arthur will understand).  Either keep the window open and be kept up by street noise, or close the window and suffocate.

The baths were built in 212, and were abandoned when the barbarians cut off the water supplies by choking the aqueducts that fed the baths.  I got to thinking about how a civilization dies, sometimes by not facing up to the strengths of enemies, but by not recognizing the weaknesses that determine their ultimate strength.  Americans need to travel and encounter civilizations that lost their greatness by being oblivious.

From Caracalla I walk over toward the Colosseum, which is crammed with tourists.  I have lunch near by (fagiolli con ton no, and spaghetti bolognese) and then make a decision.  Do I go to San Giovanni in Laterano, San Clemente, or the Domus Aurea?  I do none of these but walk up to the Vittoriano, the wedding-cake-like monstrosity that was built to honor Vittorio Emanuelle, the last King of Italy.  To get there I pass by the Forum of Trajan, which is inaccessible do to a party yesterday.

The driver who drove me into the city suggested that I take the elevator to the top of the monument, where for €7, you can see wonderful views of the city.  So I take him up on his suggestion, and enjoy the view.  I walk next door to Ara Coeli, the church where Pope Leo X is buried.  I will encounter him again, later in the day.

It is very hot, especially with all that very white marble reflecting the sun's rays.  I have a drink, and then move on to the Capital.

It is beautiful, Michelangelo's square.  But they've done something to Marcus Aurelius.  They've finished him off with some kind of protective coating, that is soon to appear on a bronze statue near you. It's not very becoming, but the statue itself is really quite wonderful.

The Capitoline Museums beckon, so I pay my Euros and go to see an captivating exhibition called Lux et Arcana, an exhibition of materials from the Vatican archives.  There are notes from Marie Antoinette, and Mary Queen of Scots, along with the bull of excommunication for Martin Luther (remember Leo X?), a note from Luther that Galileo was a "fool", and a letter prepared on purple vellum with gold ink.  My, my.  

The head of Constantine in the courtyard is another thing that I had neglected to see - but there it was along with some other body parts.

I need to go home for a nap, so I walk by the Theatre of Marcellus, which in extraordinary Roman efficiency, is topped by apartments.  Along the way I also see the ruins just next to the Theatre, the Porto Ottovio, which is very interesting and the remains of the buildings in between the two sites.  It is time for a nap.

After some sleep I wander again, up through Campo di Fiori, Piazza Navona, and the square in front of the Pantheon, which is magnificent in the late evening.  In all of these piazzi young men are selling the latest gadgets to tourists:  LED lights that shoot up into the air and slowly float down, laser lights that shoot patterns onto the sidewalk in front of you, Asian umbrellas for the sun, and sunglasses, sunglasses, sunglasses.  I walk by the Spanish Steps and go to an old favorite restaurant, Otello alla Concordia.  (I don't think that it's my erstwhile alma mater that makes me return), but I do enjoy going there.  I started with zucchini e fiori fritti, followed by boccancino la vitella, with assorted vegetables (Arthur will be happy), and ended with a panna cotta with some kind of red fruit sauce.  Home, home, home.  I'm tired.

4-5 June 2012 - Transit

I don't understand?!

Usually I'm all excited about a trip such as this, an excitement that I have not been able to muster over the last several weeks.  Perhaps it is the stuff that I am dealing with at work, or the usual anxieties about travel.  Whatever it is, it is daunting my ability to rejoice in the travel to come.

Monday was spent doing errands, picking up prescriptions, having breakfast, packing, picking up a book that I needed, doing some last minute laundry - stuff like that, all covered with the fine dust of apprehension.

I use TaxiMagic to summon a cab (it's wonderful) and a Russian man delivers me safely to SFO.  Check in is a breeze.  Security is also quick and easy - although there is a family of four with two children.  One is sedate and nice, the other, a boy, is hell on wheels - screaming, running around in the security area.  The parents don't do much to change the situation.  Remarkable.  I mention to the TSA agent that I hope that they are not on my flight.  (They are).

I look for something to eat and end up having carnets at Andalé.  It is there that I figure out my reserve about this trip.  The last time I was at Andalé, Arthur was sitting across from me.  We were waiting for our flight to Berlin.  With that memory, I determined what my apprehension was all about.  In the past I have enjoyed traveling by myself, provided that Arthur and I did some traveling together.  This time I am missing him.  I was not looking forward to the loneliness, and missing the companionship, and Arthur's sense of adventure and curiosity - different than mine.  Interesting.

The flight leaves from gate 98 which is dominated by a huge mosaic that I greatly admire.  I don't take the time to note the title, or the artist and wish that I had.  There is a marvelous mixture of people on this flight to Frankfurt.  It's fun to people watch.  My usual misanthropy only kicks in a couple of times - when people are trying to load inappropriate pieces of baggage into the overhead.  The flight is uneventful - I guess one should be grateful for that.  The sun doesn't really set during this time of the year on the polar route, so I close my window shade in order to have a spotty sleep.

The layover in Frankfurt is quick, and as we taxi out on our way to Rome, I notice the new gates that are just being finished there.  I used to think that Frankfurt was the airport of the damned, but it's not so bad now.  The new gates line up in a long row, a box like structure punctuated with larger blocks which intersect and push out onto the tarmac.  Each is surmounted by a lighting structure and what could be a flagpole.  It reminds me of National Socialist architecture, spare and monumental.  I like totalitarian architecture, with the exception of Russian socialist architecture.  I do like Mussolini architecture and comment to my driver on the Church of Saint Paul in EUR as we pass it on our way to Rome.  He agrees and we talk about several examples.

Come to think of it, the French architecture that I know and love is also totalitarian.  I've always maintained that you need a monarchy in order to build a great city.  By the way, there are hay bales between the runways at the Rome airport.  

My hotel is small and cozy and right in the middle of everything - a block or two from the Tiber and Ponte Sisto.  Once I settle in, I have a walk over to Campo Fiori, and then to Navonna, and back again to Fiori.  I have dinner there - Carciofi alla Giudia (artichokes Jewish style - pounded together to open up their leaves, the choke is removed, and they are salted and fried in hot oil until the leaves are crispy and edible like chips, and the heart is a molten wonder).

Then I have Penne Carbonara, and I am full and satisfied.  Time for bed.

Everything's beautiful at the ballet - especially the past!

We just got back from the Ballet - an evening of George Balanchine - and it was lovely.  I was looking forward to it, because I genuinely like Balanchine.  It evokes something in me, that I really couldn't give expression to.  This evening, I sort of figured it out.

The first ballet was danced to Mozart's Divertimento No. 15, and it was all bows and doublets - very pretty.  The guy sitting next to me, attending his first ballet, saw through it however.  "So athletic!" he said to me.  He was impressed.  I didn't realize it, but the evening was going to work back in time, with this ballet being choreographed in 1956.  The style of the ballets were going to do the opposite, showing the development of a more angular and spare form.  This was Balanchine's classicism, however, and exhibited the basics from which he would draw the line and movement that accentuated his later work.  Beautiful and pretty, I was looking forward to something else, however.

The next ballet was the Scotch Symphony by Mendelssohn.  It reminded me of Simon Callow's line in Four Weddings and a Funeral, "It's Brigadoon!" And indeed it was, with laced bodices, at least four or five tartans, and all the classical Scottish moves.  Choreographed in 1952, it again exhibited the classic vocabulary that Balanchine was to use, this time flavored with a bit of haggis.  Appearing to be a story ballet, with a set to match, it was difficult to figure out who the characters were.  It was really all about the dancing, however.  The characters were just vehicles for style and convention.  What was clear, however, was the dancing's absolute connection to the music.  Each nuance, and each development of the music was expressed in the choreography.

Finally, we arrived at The Four Temperaments, set to Paul Hindemith's The Four Temperaments: Theme with Four Variations for String Orchestra and Piano.  This is the Balanchine that I know and love, and I think that this is my favorite of all ballets.  What I find so beautiful in this ballet is its strict angularity and power.  There is a moment in the first variation that defines this ballet for me.  A quartet of women enter 

on a diagonal from the upper corner of stage left, approaching dancers that have just finished several passages.  There is a full extension of the right leg that is brought down and then a pelvic thrust.  It is very powerful, and is repeated as a theme in each of the variations.  It is this movement along with hand gestures that are somewhat Egyptian in flavor that give the punch of this ballet as far as I am concerned.

For all of its movement, and sometimes lithe gestures, it is strident and modern in its approach.  When I thought about writing down my thoughts about this ballet I imagined that it had been choreographed in the sixties, but it was not.  It was first performed in 1946!  In comparison to the other two, it seemed so much beyond them.

Sometime in late 1956, walking home from Immanuel Lutheran School, in Albuquerque, New Mexico, I saw a new 1957 Ford.  It was for me the quintessence of the future (along with the GM Technical Center, Noguchi furniture, and a Philco television).  I thought that the future was going to be wonderful and full of hope.  Little did I know that there would be a Vietnam war, and that every social institution that I was connected with (the church, ministry, Christianity, heterosexuality, and being a male) would all soon be sinking ships.  This modernism stuck with me.  I liked modern churches and buildings.  I thought that futurism was progress - and still do.  The retrograde nature of our times is disturbing to me.  This ballet with all of its straightforward character and lines spoke to me again of my 1957 hopes and joy in the future.  It was good to reconnect!

Tuna in a tomato, leek, and orange broth with brown rice

There was a bowl of vine ripened tomatoes sitting in our vegetable and fruit display on the kitchen counter.  They needed to be used soon, and they stuck in my mind as I did some grocery shopping today.  Here's what I came up with.

This recipe serves two

Ingredients:

3/4 pounds of Ahi Tuna cut into two pieces
Olive Oil
Salt and Pepper

1 cup Brown Rice
2 1/4 cups water
1 Tablespoon Butter
Salt and Pepper
1 cup sliced Crimini Mushrooms
1/2 cup dry White Wine

4 Tomatoes
2 Leeks
1 clove Garlic chopped
1 cup fresh Orange Juice
3/4 cup Clam Juice
1 pinch Red Pepper Flakes
1 cup Green Beans cut into 1 inch pieces

1.  Preheat oven to 450º, and place a lined frying pan into the oven.
2. Place the tuna into a dish and dress with olive oil, salt, and pepper and set aside.
3.  Bring to a boil the water for the rice, along with the butter, salt, and pepper.  When the water has come to a boil, add the rice and when it returns to a boil, cover, and let simmer on low for 35 minutes.  When finished, let sit for ten minutes covered.

4.  Saute the mushrooms in butter, and add salt and pepper.  Add the wine, until it boils away, then set aside
5.  Blanch the tomatoes and remove their skins and then chop
6.  Slice the leeks and chop the garlics and add to 1 tablespoon of olive oil and butter each.  Saute until the leeks are tender.
7.  Add the chopped tomatoes and red pepper flakes and cook for 15 minutes uncovered.
8.  Place the cooked tomatoes in a food processor, and pulse until all the ingredients are well blended.
9.  Force the tomato mixture through a sieve and return to the pan.
10. Add the orange juice and cook for 5 minutes.
11. Add the clam juice, and let heat on low.
12. Cook the green beans for 4 - 5 minutes in boiling water, drain and add to broth.
13. Add cooked mushrooms to the rice and mix.
14. Add the tuna pieces to the pan, and roast for 5 minutes a side.

Presentation

1.  Place a scoop or the rice in a large soup bowl.
2.  Place a tuna piece so that it leans on the rice.
3.  Pour the broth/green bean mixture around the edges of the rice/tuna.

Serendipity and Living

The serendipity of life is over-whelming at times.  Randomly, and without warning, the universe supplies a new context – a new resource – a new point of reference.  On a Saturday, some weeks ago, Arthur and I were enjoying brunch at a new restaurant in Dogpatch, Piccino, on Minnesota Street.  Seated next to us were a couple of men, our age, and a few comments were passed, back and forth, over the course of the meal.  A couple of weeks later we were again at Piccino, and again this couple walked in.  This time the shared comments were longer, more in depth, and made more enchanting by our remembrance, each of the other.  We determined that we could not allow the possibility of meeting to be governed by the randomness of our meeting at this restaurant – so another meeting was arranged where we had brunch together.

Meeting and talking with Alex and Martin was like spending time with old friends.  We shared family stories, religious stories, San Francisco stories, relationship stories – in short, we shared life.  At the end of our time together we were honored to be invited to be present at Alex’s bar mitzvah later in February.  We accepted it and wrote it down in our household calendar, and wondered what this might bring.

Mission Dolores, San Francisco

Arthur found a parking place a couple of blocks from the synagogue – so we took it, affording us the opportunity for a leisurely stroll through the Mission Dolores area.  There was architecture to look at, coffee and a croissant (or poppy seed cake with icing) to be had, people to watch, and the warm sunshine along with a rather coolish breeze accompanying us along the way.  Arthur had provided yamakas, one from a synagogue he had visited in Amsterdam, and another from the Jewish Community Center.  However when we entered, we were provided special yamakas made of purple leather, imprinted with Alex’s name and the date of his bar mitzvah.

Siddur Sha'ar Zahav

First we were handed a Siddur, a prayer book.  This one was produced by the congregation itself.  I realized quickly on that I would have to have one of my own.  These were offered to us by Paul, a man who took us in hand, and introduced us to the liturgy, bit by bit.  The starting time, however, soon dissolved as the members of the congregation and guests visited with one another and provided a feeling of belonging and being made welcome

The Ark at Sha'ar Zahav

I sat there in my seat and just looked.  There were the faces – smiling, and the conversation.  Tallitim (prayer shawls) were being thrown over shoulders by men and women, some were simple in their strips and fringe, and others were more elaborate with worked collars of silver or gold.  It is about that time, staring at the ark, and the colored glass that surrounded it, that I began to well up.  I mentioned to Arthur that I was becoming emotional.  Image upon image, word upon word, and prayer upon prayer kept me swimming in a sea of remembrance and something like anticipation.  It was wonderful to see a community construct itself, and then to enter the ritual.  The words I knew from a different context, and here they seemed to have the same meaning as they were prayed in Hebrew.  I stumbled along with that.  There was the rhythm of prayer by Paul who was standing next to me.  An Auschwitz survivor who read Torah for us.  As the Torah was carried about the room I looked at the wonder in the eyes of the children. I was keenly aware that I wanted to be, and somehow was, deeply connected to all of this. 

The Torah Covers at Sha'ar Zahav

As the Kaddish was said, the lives of gay and lesbian people were remembered, and soon Arthur and I were both having difficulty saying the words as a thousand memories or friends who had died came to mind.  I wondered as we said the words, and sang the songs, if the members of the Ringel family, my mother’s mother’s family, had sung these songs and said these words in times past.  I wondered how much of this was in my blood and in the memories that come with birth.  If only people could experience the beauty of shared faith, and the mystery of prayer in another language.  What a morning!

Thank you Alex, and thank you Martin.