Questo E Quello (This 'N' That)

Travel writers list many reasons for visiting Italy; virtually all of them are good. But for me, three really stand out: the food, the people, and arts and culture. A fourth is the diversity of terrain, from nearly 5,000 miles of beautiful beaches to painted villages hugging craggy cliffs, from eye-popping mountains to forested lakes.

Let’s start with scenery. I now believe my grandparents chose to stay in Oregon because of the state’s diverse landscape, which despite the cooler climate, mimicked the terrain in Piedmont and Liguria where they were born and raised -- from glacial giants of the Italian Alps to the seductive seashores of the Italian Riviera.

Having now sampled the food in Germany, Austria, Switzerland, France, Spain and Italy, I can confirm which one has the best culinary offerings. I know, should be a no-brainer. Shouldn’t need to travel to Europe to learn that Italian food is best. But for the sake of scientific method, the exercise confirmed what I already knew inherently.

We sampled as many ristorantes as possible. All were fantastic, though one stood out: La Pietra. Most dinner spots don’t open until 8 p.m., much too late for these two Americans. La Pietra opened earlier at 7:30 p.m., and the faire was delectable.

Because of Genoa's substantial fishing fleet, we subsisted on "pesci" (fish), the order of the day at every eatery, and streets were packed with seafood vendors hawking fish of all shapes, sizes and varieties. At the end of the day, vendors deliver what’s left to ristorantes.

The museums, churches, art stores and libraries were ready at hand, within blocks of the Hotel Columbo.

One shop known simply as “Art and More” near our hotel featured unique drawings of fairy tale characters (right), available for only a limited time by the artist.

Gina had purchased a couple on a previous trip, so she had us pick up a few more.

The people were all welcoming: our cousins, the Sanguinetis, our cab driver/interpreter extraordinaire Andrea Giovanelli, our hosts at the Hotel Colombo, Libero, Patrizia, Jacapo and Carlotta Sterlocchi. Even Nico (below), our “antipatico” server at the Café Barbarossa, who took about five trips to thaw, finally warmed up.

The Widow And The Orphan

Initially traveling to Italy in 2010, my goal was two-fold: explore Genoa and the Italian Riviera and attempt to locate family in a mountain village outside of the city. All I had to work with at the time was the name of the town (either Orero or Isolona), the name of the family (Sanguineti) and precious little else.

Inquiring at the bus kiosk at the Genova Brignole train station near my hotel, the ticket manager explained there was only one bus to Orero a day. When asked about the return trip from Orero, she replied: “domani” (tomorrow). Feeling like a neophyte and unprepared (and unwilling) to spend a night in the hills, I gave up.

When son Jory and I visited Genoa in 2013, I hatched an idea to hire a cab driver fluent in both Italian and English. “Would that be possible?” I asked Libero Sterlocchi, our hotelier. No sooner said than done; we had enlisted the services of Andrea Giovanelli (below), who also spoke Genovese, which would come in handy.

Venturing off into the hinterlands of Liguria, we pointed ourselves north and landed in Costa D’Orero near Casella. Unfortunately, as we would later learn, there were two villages in Liguria with the same name and we went to the wrong Orero. The next summer, my brother Richard and family found the correct Orero, near Cicagna.

Subsequently, in 2015, daughter Gina and I would once again enlist Andrea Giovanelli to escort us to Orero (and more specifically, Isolona), where we found the Sanguineti family -- Iva, Anna, Andriena and Andrieno. Their grandmother, Anna Brichetto, was the younger sister of our great-grandfather, John Brichetto.

In 2016, I visited the Sanguinetis again before searching for the family of my grandfather, Carl Joseph Cargni, in Torino (below). There, I learned that Carl Cargni was born an orphan of “unknown parentage” and was adopted by a family in the small village known as Chialamberto in the Piedmont region of the Italian Alps.

Years later, in the late-1920s, my grandmother, Gemma Emilia Brichetto, had lost her first husband, Antonio. A chef at an Italian restaurant in Portland, Oregon, Antonio died unexpectedly in his late-20s. A few years later, she met and married my grandfather, Carlo Giuseppe Cargni, and the union produced two children: my mother, Charlotte Nitta Cargni and my uncle, John Valentino Cargni.

With Andrea’s help with translation, I was able to relate the story of my beloved grandparents to the Sanguinetis, how they came to America separately -- more than a decade apart -- and then met, married and had a family of their own. I described it as a love story: "The Tale of the Widow and the Orphan.”

Of Poets And Pirates

As luck would have it, we had the chance to visit Portovenere on the Ligurian border with Tuscany. Boats run from April 1-October 31, but stormy seas can suspend service at any time. Thanks to timely good weather, we scored the first boat of the summer season from Genoa to that mystical land of poets and pirates.

Perched strategically on the western end of the Gulf of La Spezia, Portovenere – known as the “Bay of Poets” -- is a favorite among literati. The poet Lord George Gordon Byron purportedly swam five miles from Portovenere to Lerici to visit his friend Percy Bysshe Shelley. Nearby “Byron’s Cove (below) is named in his honor.

The name of the picturesque town has been attributed to the Romans who founded “Portus Venerus” as an outpost and fishing village, with a temple dedicated to the goddess Venus. The Italian scholar Petrarch described Portovenere thusly: “Such sweetness made Minerva forget about her homeland, Athens.”

Another explanation links to stories of a hermit monk known as Venerio, who today is celebrated as St. Venerius, protector of lighthouse guardians. According to legend, during stormy nights, Venerio would light huge bonfires on the island of Tino to save ships out at sea as the approached the Bay of Poets.

After the fall of the Roman Empire, Portovenere became a base for the Byzantine fleet and was eventually destroyed by the Lombards. Later a strategic base in Genoa’s war against Pisa for domination of the Ligurian Sea, Portovenere features a castle, fortified walls and other structures strategically facing the sea.

The site became a frequent target of raids by pirates from the Barbary Coast in Northern Africa. The Genoese erected the Gothic Church of St. Peter adjacent to the castle in 1198. Viewing the formidable fortification (above) from our boat, it’s easy to envision the Château d’If from the Count of Monte Cristo.

In 1575, Genoese Admiral Andrea Doria initiated a modern military seaport in the Gulf of La Spezia. In 1606, he built a small fortress (above) named "La Torre Scola" (tower of St. John the Baptist) on Palmaria Island. Portovernere and vicinity became part of the Kingdom of Sardinia in 1815 and the Kingdom of Italy in 1861.

After a lunch of anchovies and chowder at a chic restaurant, the return trip to Genoa provided better views of the Cinque Terre (below) -- the collection of pastel hamlets nestled among terraced hills that descend precipitously into the jade and indigo waters of the Mediterranean along the Riviera Di Levante.

Hub Of Liguria

Shaped like a salmon, Liguria, Italy extends from the French border to Tuscany, and features nearly 250 miles of gorgeous beaches from Ventimiglia to Portovenere. It’s much like you'll find on the French Riviera, only with an unmistakably Italian twist. At its epicenter is Genoa (above and below), hub of the Italian Riviera.

Marking our 40th wedding anniversary, we booked passage to Genoa by way of Frankfurt and secured a berth at the Hotel Colombo, located among the cobbled, history-steeped streets lining Porto Antico. The old port has been renovated and features newer dockside areas lined with fishing boats, ferries, yachts and cruise liners.

Genoa, founded several centuries before the birth of Christ, was an important Roman port and was later occupied by Franks, Saracens and Milanese. The first ring of defensive walls was constructed in the 12th century. Just steps from our hotel, the Porta Soprana (above), built in 1155 A.D., is the only remaining section of the wall.

To its credit, Genoa was the first northern city to rise up against the Nazi occupation and the Italian Fascists, liberating the city before the arrival of Allied troops. Coincidentally, we watched “The Secret of San Vittorio,” the story of a small Italian village that refused to give up its wine to the retreating Germans, while we were there.

Our plan was simple, really. Visit all the shops, churches, art boutiques, and museums in Genoa. Then, we would explore the Italian Riviera, including the Cinque Terre, followed by a cab ride into the hill country of Liguria to visit our long-lost cousins, the Saunguinetis, in the little village of Isolona. Va bene!

Nature Of Time

Ever wonder about the concept of time? I know I have. Time has been pondered in literature and song for, well, time immemorial. “Time has come today.” “Time is on our side.” “Time waits for no one.” “Time after time.” “Times like these.” “Does anybody really know what time it is?” “Time in a bottle.” Well, you get the picture.

So, when perusing summer reading material, I selected a tome on the subject of time by Italian physicist Carlo Rovelli, who “uses a conversational tone to untangle the most complicated” of concepts, someone who is “known for making complex science intelligible.” The book? Order of Time. Okay, I thought, I’ll bite.

Needless to say, I’ve been fooled by dust jackets before, and this would certainly be no exception. Rovelli delves into quantum loop theory, the laws of thermodynamics and other subjects that remain elusive for the likes of me. At times, I was clearly lost. Yet, he offered several digestible nuggets to consider on the subject.

He starts with a few questions. Why do we remember the past but not the future? What does it mean for time to “flow?” Do we exist in time or does time exist in us? Citing Aristotle, Einstein and other great philosophers and physicists throughout history, he weaves through realms straight out of Marvel’s “Dr. Strange.”

First, Rovelli deconstructs time, using a relatable quote from “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland” by English author Lewis Carroll: “How long is forever?” asks Alice. “Sometimes just one second,” replies the White Rabbit. True enough, because alternately, time can drag, or it can fly by. It depends on your perspective.

Without suffering through the worm hole that I experienced attempting to wade through the book, the short answer is this: time exists in each of us. There is no “flow of time,” and no “present” in the classical sense because our present does not extend throughout the universe. The "present" is like a bubble around us.

Yet the absence of the quantity of time does not imply a world that is frozen and immobile. On the contrary, Rovelli contends, it portends a world in which change is ubiquitous, without order from Father Time. The events of the world do not form an orderly queue, like the English. They crowd around chaotically, like Italians.

The world is not a collection of things, it is a collection of events. The difference is that while things persist in time, events have a limited duration. For example, a “rock” is a prototypical thing. We can ask where it will be tomorrow. Conversely, a “kiss” is an event. It makes no sense to ask where the kiss will be tomorrow.

Another learning: time for us is memory and nostalgia. It is the pain of absence. But it isn’t absence that causes sorrow; it is affection and love. Without affection, without love, such absences would cause us no pain. Even pain caused by absence is something good, even beautiful, because it is that which gives meaning to life.

To summarize: at the fundamental level, the world is a collection of events not ordered in time. The world that we have been given is a world seen from within, not from without. We must not confuse the world “as seen from the outside” with that which we observe, and which depends on our participation.

Rovelli ultimately poses the question: “How can we come to know so clearly about the past, about time, if we are always in the present? Here and now, there is no past and no future. He concludes, much like St. Augustine, that the concepts are within us. The idea is much more convincing than it seems on first reading.

“It is within my mind, then, that I measure time,” wrote Augustine, an early Christian theologian and philosopher. “I must not allow my mind to insist that time is something objective. When I measure time, I am measuring something in the present of my mind. Either this is time, or I have no idea what time is.”

Bottom line: time exists in all of us individually. In other words, it’s time to get crackin’ with living and loving, because this is our time. As the Zen poet Thich Nhat Hanh said: “The miracle is not to walk on water. The miracle is to walk on the earth, dwelling deeply in the present moment, feeling truly alive.”

Buongiorno, Italia!

We’re off to Italy by way of Germany to celebrate our 40 years together and tour the Italian Riviera. With a base in Genoa, we’ll explore stretches of both the Riviera Di Ponente west of the city to the French border and the Riviera Di Levante east to Cinque Terre and the Bay of Poets on the border between Liguria and Tuscany.

We’ll stay at the Hotel Colombo near Porto Antico in old town Genoa and also explore the many ristorantes and trattorias available in this part of Italy. Toward the end of our stay, we’ll visit our cousins who live in the nearby hill country in the village of Isolona, where my grandmother lived before coming to America. Che fico!

Northwest Of Normal

Finally saw “Dirtbag: The Legend of Fred Beckey” at the Broadway Metro on Kesey Square in downtown Eugene, which was a trick of its own. The documentary on the legendary Northwest mountaineer literally takes the show on the road, with limited, one-day engagements in both the United States and abroad.

Recognized as one of the most prolific and influential mountain climbers of his era, Beckey has been called many things: rebel, recluse, outlier, showboat, schemer, womanizer and worse. The moniker that stuck, however, was “dirtbag,” a tribute to the nomadic lifestyle he fearlessly and unapologetically pioneered.

Born in 1923 in Dusseldorf, Wolfgang Paul Heinrich Beckey (later shortened to “Fred”) emigrated with his family to the Pacific Northwest to escape pre-war Germany. When he died at 94 in late 2017, the fabled mountaineer and author would be the first to scale hundreds of routes to the summits of the tallest peaks in North America.

Fascinated by mountaineering as a youth (above and below, with my Dad), my first exposure to Fred Beckey was in the 1960s, along with other Pacific Northwest climbers like twin brothers Jim and Lou Whittaker, Willi Unsoeld and Tom Hornbein. Yet Beckey was virtually unknown compared to his more famous comrades.

Shunning publicity, Beckey lived like a hermit in Seattle, sequestered to write, or otherwise disappearing for months on expeditions. A hapless vagabond, he was a wiry nomad with backpack and climbing gear. He never married or had children, never had a business or sought security of any kind. He just wanted to climb mountains.

And climb he did. By the 1970s, any self-respecting young climber could quote chapter and verse of the Beckey legend, a name ubiquitous among mountaineering journals and literary guidebooks. As a wilderness ranger in the North Cascades, I purchased the "bible of the backcountry," Beckey’s Cascade Alpine Climbing Guide.

Though he admits help with his definitive guidebooks, the series includes not only access routes but also rich detail and nuance related to the history of the area and the natural environment, including geology, botany and much more. Having visited many places he writes about, I was amazed at the detail and accuracy of his books.

The movie captures the paradox of Fred Beckey. On one hand, he was scorned by some in the mountain community for his cantankerous nature and obsessive quest for routes. His first ascent, in winter, of Yocum Ridge on Mt. Hood (the nose on the face of the mountain as viewed from Portland) is nothing short of remarkable.

Considered irascible by some, he wasn’t generally viewed as a team player. When partners were hurt or killed on expeditions, Beckey suffered criticism. When the first American team to summit Mt. Everest was organized, no one invited Beckey. The Mountaineers refused to publish his books at first but eventually saw the light.

On the other hand, he was widely admired by generations of climbers for his extraordinary exploits. In seven decades, he had claimed more virgin ascents than any mountaineer alive. His guidebooks were a fusion of historical insight, technical analysis, geographical research and a sense of awe, poetically chronicling the beauty of nature.

The documentary illustrates the many faces of Fred Beckey -- the vagabond, the charmer, the recluse, the intellectual, the rogue -- along with interviews with a literal “who’s who” of legendary mountaineers: Reinhold Messner, Yvon Chouinard, Royal Robbins, Jim Whittaker, Ed Viesters, Conrad Anker and Eric Bjornstad.

“Dirtbag” details the life of the rebel climber with a clever aggregation of narrative, interviews and (interestingly) animation, and has already won more than two dozen awards for best documentary. So if you’re into mountain climbing and backcountry adventure, my advice is to buy the ticket, take the ride.