FIRE IN THE HOLE

One of the many capabilities of the CH47D Chinook helicopter is aerial firefighting. Contrary to modern beliefs, we do not have a red helicopter filled with firefighters wearing their rubber boots and hard-hats with a shiny bell and a Dalmatian in the cockpit. The Chinook can haul a bucket externally hanging from 100 foot slings that holds up to 2,500 gallons of water. This isn’t something we do routinely; however, in the event of an inferno like the wildfires seen in New Mexico and California each summer, these fire buckets can deliver a lot of water in a short amount of time- repeatedly.

About a two-hour drive north of Venice, Italy there is a small town tucked away in the Dolomite Mountains (which eventually merge into the Alps). The town of Mezzamonte, population 73, runs along a single mountain road lined on either side by white-washed stone houses built centuries ago. On a sunny August morning, after weeks of drought, Mezzamonte was in danger of burning into oblivion as a forest fire had literally encircled the town.

The mission came down at about 1000 hours (10:00 a.m.) on a Thursday morning and as aerial firefighting was NOT something we did often, myself and a couple of fellow crewdogs went out to run some checks on the fire bucket (the unit only had one) while still two more crewdogs prepared the aircraft for flight. There was a sense of urgency, an excitement in the air, as we methodically ran through our checks. Lives were at stake and we knew that we couldn’t afford to find out that the bucket was inoperable while hovering some 150 feet over the fire.

I remembered visiting Mezzamonte one time before (I was prone to taking the Jeep on rides through the mountains during my off-duty time) and having lunch at a little restaurant, or Trattoria, on the first floor of an old three-story house. La Stella, the Star, was the name of this quaint eatery that I’m sure would not be listed in Michelin’s Red Book guide to restaurants and hotels. I stepped into the sparse dining area sitting at one of five rickety wood tables and marveled at the colorful frescoes painted on the stonewalls by some unknown starving artists undoubtedly painting in exchange for a meal. A portly woman of about 50 years, wearing an apron stained from hours of working in the kitchen, approached my table with a bottle of water and a bottle of wine in each hand. Setting the refreshments in front of me, she announced, somewhat matter-of-factly, that today she has prepared a pasta dish of tortellini smothered in a cheesy cream sauce with diced proscuito ham, a tossed salad prepared from vegetables that earlier in the day had been growing in the garden outside behind the kitchen, and freshly baked bread. Turning over a glass in front of me, she continued to offer a meat dish of veal scaloppini in a Marsala sauce or some roasted chicken with potatoes and rosemary herbs. I went with the pasta, salad, and bread making a note to return sometime to try the rest. It was a meal fit for a king but prepared for a peasant, which when complimented with the homemade wine, defined the taste of Italy.

Because of some diplomatic road bumps involving the U.S. military interacting with local civilian agencies, we did not launch until just after 1200 hrs (noonish). We flew out to the area and could immediately see the smoke rising into the air. It was evident that this fire had been burning for some days as much of the flora was scorched for miles along the slope of the mountain. Fortunately, there was a lake (Lake Barcias) not far from the town and we were able to dip from it filling our fire bucket quickly. We began dropping 2,500 gallons of water on the flames closest to the edge of the town repeatedly in an effort to stall the inferno’s progress.

To perform such a mission, the Flight Engineer (FE) literally lays on the floor of the Chinook looking out a 3×3 foot square opening at the fire bucket dangling from slings below. The FE holds in his or her hand a release button that when pressed signals a mechanism allowing the bucket to drop the water (kind of like flushing a toilette). The FE plays a critical role in maneuvering the aircraft into position by relaying what he or she sees and giving directions for re-positioning to the pilot over the intercom. Once in position, the FE “flushes the toilette” and lets the pilot know that its time to go back to the lake for a refill.

The biggest challenge of this task is hovering about 150 feet over incredibly hot flames that often produce a thick smoke from the burning green trees. The next time you are grilling, place your hand above the coals- that rising heat is what we felt as we laid over the hole calling the fire bucket into place for nine-hours straight. Add to that the breathing in of acrid smoke and I think its safe to say that aerial firefighting can be a little unpleasant at times. By the end of the mission, my face was a bit scorched (looked like a sunburn) and I had a nasty cough for a couple of days after.

Three days of non-stop flying allowed us to stall the blaze long enough for the ground firefighters to make some progress and the town was saved. There were only two minor injuries to the residents and one barn damaged by the flames. I hoped that La Stella would be opened soon and thought to take some of my fellow crewdogs with me for a feast. Sgt Hook out.

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This post is filed under: Army Times & Reconstructed

The kind you see looking back at you from a lake or a pond. The kind that though you see yourself on the surface, the reflection actually runs much deeper. Drop a pebble onto the reflection and the image distorts as it ripples for miles across the lake but when it settles, the eyes are staring back unaffected, wordlessly stating that they have a story to tell.

I awoke this morning another year older. I didn’t notice anything different except for maybe a couple of extra gray hairs but I keep it short enough that it isn’t noticeable. Last night, after the kids were in bed, Mrs. Hook and I sat on the Lanai enjoying a glass of wine and listening to the geckos chatter. I couldn’t help but reflect on the past 39-years and the many experiences that have shaped who I am. I came up with two categories for these monumental experiences. The first group covers those moments that were significant in that they enhanced my character- the seasonings sprinkled on the feast of life if you will. The second category encompasses those rare events that were life-defining events. A couple of examples…

Seasoning- flying countless hours fighting a fire from the air over a small town in the mountains of northern Italy (see upcoming post)

Defining- falling in love and marrying the lovely and talented and downright sexy Mrs. Hook

Seasoning- earning a Bachelor of Arts degree in history through many late nights of studying after duty hours (and sometimes during duty hours)

Defining- taking an oath to defend the Constitution of the United Sates of America from all enemies foreign and domestic so help me God

Seasoning- kissed on each cheek by a teary-eyed 74-year-old Italian man as he said farewell to me after five years of being his tenant (and I thought he hated me) with promises of a place to dwell in the future

Defining- cutting the umbilical cord with teary eyes at the birth of Castaway Conner and seeing mother and son meet for the first time face to face (or face to breast as the case may be)

Seasoning- walking up to the snow covered New Schweinstein Castle in Austria (the one Disney copied) on New Year’s Day in the freezing cold keeping warm by sipping gluvine (a warmed spiced wine)

Seasoning- walking away from a CH47D helicopter that crashed into the side of a mountain in the Republic of Korea with all 15 other passengers as we let out a collective “whew”

Seasoning- rappelling 90 feet to the ground from a hovering UH60 helicopter

Defining- meeting my mother and father for the first time face to face oh so many years ago and raised by these terrific parents (thanks Mom and Dad)

Seasoning- sitting on the beach trying to catch a glimpse of the mysterious “green flash” as the sun set on the horizon

Seasoning- flying across the English Channel approaching the greenest place I’ve ever seen

Well, I think you get the point. The reflection is indeed deep and I can’t wait until next year so I can again look back and reminisce about all the fond experiences that I’ve had. I can’t help but wonder if Saddam is still alive somewhere reflecting on his past 66 years today as well- or maybe just the past 6 weeks. Sgt Hook out.

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This post is filed under: Reconstructed

Dear Sgt Hook,

Drill Sgt Bleu
U.S. Army (retired)

Old soldiers never die, they just fade away? Thanks again Drill Sergeant Bleu. Sgt Hook out.

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This post is filed under: Reconstructed

A funny thing happened to me today as I was walking with Castaway Conner enjoying the sunny aloha of a Sunday afternoon while the lovely and talented and downright Mrs. Hook, God bless her, took the other boys to the movies- Agent Cody Banks . I was pushing the jogger along the sidewalk pointing out the birds and the palm trees to young Castaway, who is at the age where he soaks everything in, as a young couple pushing a stroller approached us from the opposite direction. Passing each other, we exchanged greetings and continued on our separate ways when a light bulb came on in my head with a “ding.”

The young man pushing the other stroller must have heard the “ding” because he stopped and turned back precisely as I did the same. “Harvey?” I said. “Yes?” he said. “Hey, it’s Sgt Hook,” I continued, “I was your recruiter back in Maine remember?” To which he responded, “Oh yeah! Hi Sgt, how are you? This is my wife Mrs. Harvey and our son Harvey Jr. (he doesn’t give his kids cool pirate names like the rest of us ; ).

His wife, looking very confused (Harvey was single when I put him in boots) said, “So you recruited Harvey for the Army and now you are both stationed here?”

“Yes maam, small world I guess,” was my reply.

I not only recruited now Sgt Harvey for the Army, but he was my first recruit. “They” say you never forget your first recruit, but truth be told, I’ve tried to forget the whole damned recruiting experience. That’s a bit unfair of me, and as much as I’d like to elaborate, I’ll bite my tongue until long after I’ve retired. Let me just say for now that recruiting for America’s Army is a very important, thankless, and challenging job. If we didn’t send our Sergeants out to do it, we would not have the caliber of soldiers wearing the uniform today. But I digress; I’ll post a peek into recruiting duty at another time (it is, after all, how I met the lovely and talented and downright sexy Mrs. Hook).

Mr. Harvey (his title back when he was a civilian aimlessly walking the snow covered streets of central Maine) and I met at a Veteran’s Day ceremony that I had participated in. He approached me after the ceremonies were over and asked if he could join the Army. Mind you, I was a brand new recruiter yet to put anybody in boots so I enthusiastically answered, “YES!”

The following day I met Mr. Harvey at the recruiting station and helped him with filling out the application (a little more detailed than an application for McDonalds- trust me) and scheduled him for a physical. I was feeling a bit full of myself, after all, how many recruiters have young men running up to them begging to enlist after hearing just a brief speech given at a square in a town with a population of roughly 522?

My ego was crushed when Mr. Harvey failed the hearing test.

“You’re deaf?” I asked incredulously.

“What?” he replied (smart ass).

“DID YOU KNOW THAT YOU WERE DEAF?” I shouted.

“NO!” he shouted back. My illustrious career as a recruiter was fading fast. “But that would explain all the trouble I had in school,” he went on.

After consulting a friend of mine who was once a crewdog in Korea many years before, but was now, ironically, also a recruiter some twenty-miles south, I developed a plan for Mr. Harvey. We agreed that Harvey would see an Ear, Nose and Throat specialist (who would concentrate only on the “Ear” portion of his expertise so as not to discover any other ailments unknown to Mr. Harvey) and have his ears thoroughly cleaned. Then Mr. Harvey would spend a week without listening to the radio, television, or shooting his shotgun. “That is,” I said putting some pressure on, “if you are serious about wearing this uniform Mr. Harvey.” He complied and passed his second physical with flying colors, enlisting in the Army as an Airborne Combat Engineer.

It’s hard to believe that so many years later we would run into each other here on one of the Sandwich Islands and that he just pinned on the stripes of Sergeant, serving our Army proudly. As much as I didn’t care for recruiting duty, I’m damned glad I was able to help men and women like Sgt Harvey to join the ranks of the most powerful Army on the planet. Sgt Hook out.

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This post is filed under: Reconstructed

It will be sixteen years next month that I’ve worn this uniform. Actually, not this exact uniform, I have purchased some new ones over the years, but I do still wear my original dog tags issued to me at Fort Dix, New Jersey in 1987.

It was a warm day that spring when I nervously started my career as a soldier. It began with a roar, literally. My drill sergeant, Drill Sergeant Blue screamed at me, and all my brethren, for what seemed like hours, but was probably just half of one. “Pick up your Gottdamned bags and put them in the Gottdamned barracks…NOW you Gottdamned maggots!”

On a very hot day in June, Drill Sergeant Blue took his “Gottdamned” platoon on a 22-mile foot march complete with helmets, load-carrying vests, ruck-sacks filled to the hilt, and our M-16 rifles. I swear he didn’t sweat a drop, but we did! He was kind enough to stop periodically and allow us to drink from our canteens.

“You now have 5 Gottdamned minutes to drink water and change your stinking sweaty nasty maggot infested socks…MOVE!”

He also offered us words of encouragement along the march, especially as we neared the end, “Let’s go you Gottdamned maggots I wanna get there before my next birthday! Don’t tell me you Gottdamned maggots are tired?! Stop your crying or I’ll call your Gottdamned mammas and tell them to send a Gottdamned bus ticket for you to go home!”

In addition to adding some interesting phrases to my vocabulary, Drill Sergeant Blue taught me a valuable lesson in discipline that day. Once we arrived at our destination, a sandy area in the middle of nowhere called Paragon Trail, Drill Sergeant Blue gave the command, “HALT you Gottdamned maggots!”

I don’t know if I’ve ever felt such a feeling of relief though it was quickly followed by an incredible thirst. While chugging down water from my up-turned canteen, I was stunned when it suddenly disappeared. My empty hand still cocked above my pursed lips, I quickly looked down for it when my eyes met those of Drill Sergeant Blue’s and his weren’t happy.

“What the hell do you think you are doing Hook?! Did I tell you to drink your Gottdamned water?! Did anybody tell you to drink your Gottdamned water?! Do you think that you are better than the rest of the Gottdamned platoon Hook?!”

Turning to face the rest of the hot, sweaty, and no doubt thirsty “maggots” he went on, “Hook here thinks he is better than the rest of us…he’s decided to have a drink while the rest of us stand here with Gottdamned cotton mouths in this Gottdamned heat…isn’t that right Hook?”

Of course I wasn’t given the chance to answer, nor could I think of a good answer if I had, so I stood there feeling guilty and dumb and not so thirsty anymore. “O.K. you Gottdamned maggots, since Hook is so Gottdamned thirsty I want all of you to give him your canteens…NOW you Gottdamned maggots!!!”

Immediately, some 50 canteens or so piled up on the sandy ground around me. “There you go Hook, drink until your kool-aid pumping heart’s content…the rest of you Gottdamned maggots follow me!” Off they went to set up our bivouac site, leaving me standing amidst a sea of canteens that I refused to drink from feeling like a complete schmuck.

I have never forgotten that lesson in discipline and try to instill, though with a less colorful use of the vernacular, the same sense of discipline in my soldiers today…the Gottdamned maggots! Thanks Drill Sergeant Blue. Sgt Hook out.

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This post is filed under: Reconstructed

Life is just one damned thing after another.
–Elbert Hubbard

Mrs. Hook and I were relaxing after a nice grilled dinner (porterhouse steak with potato wedges glazed in olive oil grilled over an open flame on our Weber) with a couple of glasses of wine (Merlot imported from Italy) last night watching our 22 month old, Castaway Conner, dancing along with Blue’s Clues Big Musical (to which I embarrassingly admit to knowing most of the words) when I couldn’t help but think, “This is truly what life is all about.” How naïve am I?

Little Castaway was elatedly smiling from ear to ear while dancing and singing and flashing those big beautiful blue eyes when out of the corner of my weary green “crow’s feet” lined eyes I noticed a flash of light. It was actually a flash of firelight. Renegade Ryan, our 10 year old, had decided to start a little fire in our terra-cotta outdoors fireplace, of course his definition of little is not exactly mine. When I took a double take, I saw flames shooting out the chimney of the fireplace threatening to engulf the centuries old Banyan tree above that keeps our backyard shady during the sunny days.

After putting out the inferno essentially saving the lanai, if not the entire neighborhood, and lecturing Renegade on the importance of fire safety and reminding him that Smokey Bear says, “Learn not to burn,” I came back into the house to find young Castaway screaming in agony as his little hand was caught in the DVD player. Seems he was getting a little tired of Mr. Salt and the gang. Of course Mrs. Hook wasn’t happy that the wine stain in the carpet where, in my haste, I had dropped my glass is now a permanent part of our motif.

Now, that is truly what life is ALL about. Sgt Hook out.

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This post is filed under: Reconstructed

BEWARE THE GYPSIES OF ROME

The remainder of our trek was filled with moments of conversing, reading, and napping until the train eased into the Rome station and suprisingly enough, on time. We came to an abrupt stop causing the empty wine bottles to loudly roll across the floor of our chamber. Somewhat exhausted, and no doubt a little hung over, we collected our things, packed our still unfinished books away, and exited the train.

Having been to Rome before with my sister Kay, I found myself the unofficial tour guide responsible for getting the group to our hotel, L’albergho Enotria, of its whereabouts I had no idea. Up for the challenge, I looked at the address neatly printed on our syllabus, purchased a map of the Eternal City from a vendor among hundreds of map vendors at the station, and proceeded to lead the students down the streets of Rome to what would be home for the next two weeks. I felt like one of those beautiful Asian women I had seen with their colorful umbrellas leading much larger groups of Chinese and Japanese tourists around Venice as they snapped pictures of everything from the thousands of pigeons residing in Saint Marc’s square, Piazza San Marco, to the romantic gondolas navigating the city’s watery canals.

I was suddenly overcome with memories of my experiences outside of the Roman train station a year earlier and warned my fellow students to beware of the gypsies. Kay and I were on our way to this very station after a weekend in Rome carrying our luggage and numerous bags filled with the results of my little sister’s shopping spree, when we were approached by two very beautiful dark gypsy women. Dressed in lovely red, green, and gold flowing dresses with white pleated blouses that exposed their beautiful bronze shoulders, they encompassed Kay asking in Italian for donations as we hurriedly walked to catch our train. I noticed that one woman was holding a baby out in front of her and very close to my sister so I yelled at them to get away and warned Kay that they had been trying to open her purse beneath the baby using him to hide their actions. Kay looked down at her purse and screamed, “Oh my God Hook, they took my wallet!” I stopped dead in my tracks, turned around and grabbed one of the beautiful dark gypsy women dressed in a lovely red, green, and gold flowing dress with a white pleated blouse exposing her beautiful bronze shoulders, yelling at her in my best Italian to return the wallet. I actually sounded like a native as my blood boiled with anger. Looks of innocence and a sudden ignorance of the Italian language on their part did nothing to persuade me to release my hold on her.

Suddenly a group of shop owners came out of their stores to chastise the women for giving their street a bad name and threatening business. The shop owners began to shout obscenities and kick the gypsies when I noticed Kay’s wallet drop to the sidewalk. I quickly bent over and snatched it up, turning and telling my sister “let’s go.” Leaving the gypsies to the shop owners, we resumed our “New York” pace determined not to miss our train. Suddenly, a woman approached me from behind shouting for me to stop; however, thinking it to be the persistent gypsies I ignored her. Finally at a stoplight she caught my attention and, as it turned out, was not one of the gypsy women at all, rather a strikingly beautiful Roman who took my breath away when her eyes met mine. She politely, though also out of breath but for chasing us, explained that when I had bent over to pick up my sister’s wallet, one of the beautiful dark gypsy women dressed in a lovely red, green, and gold flowing dress with a white pleated blouse exposing her beautiful bronze shoulders had unzipped a pocket on my backpack as she was being kicked by one of the shop owners. I quickly shrugged off my pack and checked to see if anything had been stolen. Nothing was missing. I turned to the gorgeous Roman, thanked her, grazie mile, and bestowed many blessings upon her and her family as she walked away in the other direction. Sgt Hook out.

Eternal City of Rome
The Roman Conductor
All Roads Lead to Rome

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This post is filed under: La Vita Dolce & Reconstructed

ALL ROADS LEAD TO ROME

As the train rhythmically moved along the tracks I leaned against the window, relaxed from the wine, and stared out at the beautiful Italian countryside passing by. The sun was beginning to set casting a lovely hue onto the terracotta colored roofs of several farmhouses sporadically standing among rows and rows of vineyards just turning green with the onset of spring. We were passing through the Tuscany region, which is famous for producing Chianti wine and the Renaissance men of Florence. At one point we came out of a tunnel that cut through a small mountain when I saw a beautiful city atop a lush green hill seemingly wrapped with vineyards bearing grapes destined to one day fill bottles of the Gods’ nectar. A stonewall, the color of golden sienna, surrounded the city of stone houses and churches of the same color.

Months later I would visit Siena to revel in its annual festival, famous around the world- Il Palio. Each year in July, horses and jockeys raced around the town’s main square, Piazza del Campo, in an intense rivalry between the families of Siena for seven days for nothing more than bragging rights for the rest of the year. Each night, after a long day of races, large tables would be set out on the steep streets within the walled city and feasts of pasta, meats, breads, and cheeses were served in an atmosphere of wonderment. I was never sure if the family with whom I was celebrating had won or lost that day, as everyone seemed to be in very festive moods. On one such evening, I had participated in a few too many toasts, no doubt at a winning family’s table, and fell off my chair (there goes the ugly American again). A kind-hearted jockey still dressed in his colorful family colors helped me to my feet, but not before I noticed that the chairs and tables were built with the legs shorter on the upslope side of the hill than the legs on the downslope side (the streets were indeed very steep). I excitedly pointed out my discovery to my newfound jockey-friend who, making light of my ignorance, shared it with the rest of the table. All laughed heartily, including myself, as we toasted the engineers of Siena long into the night. I don’t know how those jockeys were able to ride the next day- I had the mother of all headaches.

Staring at the picturesque city and listening to the consistent rhythm of the train chugging along, I wondered if someone from Crayola had once sat in my place staring out of the window marveling at the beauty of the city of Siena as it passed, thereby coming up with a name for that particular crayon. Sgt Hook out.

Eternal City of Rome
The Roman Conductor

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THE ROMAN CONDUCTOR

At noon, food appeared almost instantly and bottles of wine were opened while we put our books down so as not to get in the way of our lunch and our getting to know one another. I shared the chamber, and my turkey sandwiches, with three women, all married to servicemen. Two I had recognized from a history class we attended together several semesters earlier, covering the period following WWII explaining how America had become entangled in European affairs and why we would continue to do so long into the future (seems to be panning out that way). I remembered how the two blonde student housewives sitting in front of me complained about their husbands in between key discussions on the Cold War. My third companion was the exotically beautiful Carmen whose dark hair and complexion exploded when she smiled, liking sunbeams radiating through storm clouds, demanding one to stop and admire its beauty. Her personality matched her smile.

Halfway through our third bottle of vino, the conductor entered our sacred hollow. Smartly dressed in his dark blue suit, again a style leftover from Mussolini’s fascist regime, with a matching Ralph Cramden bus driver hat, he politely asked for our tickets while eagerly holding his ticket puncher. I translated for the group though I noticed that Carmen easily understood what was requested of us. We all somewhat nervously handed the smartly dressed fascist eagerly holding his ticket puncher our tickets and watched as he slowly shook his head from left to right making a “tch tch tch” sound. Finally after what seemed like an eternity, he looked at me and rattled off a thousand words a minute in his native tongue. Granted, I had lived in Italy for almost four years at that time and considered myself if not fluent, at least proficient enough to get from Venice to Rome. Boy was I mistaken. “Cosa?” what I asked the smartly dressed fascist eagerly holding his ticket puncher and now our tickets. This time he repeated himself slowly and I understood that we were sitting and eating and reading and drinking wine together illegally as our seat assignments did not match the seats we currently occupied.

Quickly grasping the severity of the situation, I stood up, offered our smartly dressed fascist eagerly holding his ticket puncher and our tickets with an attitude a glass of wine, a pack of Marlboro cigarettes and thirty-thousand lire, which with the exchange rate at the time was about twenty-five bucks. “Va bene,” OK, he replied pocketing the cigarettes and money, chugging the wine down in one gulp, handing our tickets back with holes punched precisely in their proper place and wishing us a “good trip,” buon viaggio. That was the last we saw of the conductor throughout the rest of our trip, though we spoke of him often, toasting him fondly. Sgt Hook out.

Eternal City of Rome

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This post is filed under: La Vita Dolce & Reconstructed

Editor’s Note: Rebuilding of the archives continues with this series…

ETERNAL CITY OF ROME

I was having a conversation about education and how the Army offers some great programs for soldiers to earn undergraduate and graduate degrees when I was overcome with memories of my days as a student…

I needed only one class to complete my Bachelor of Arts degree in History; one elective and I would be degreed, educated, learned, and broke. It was a good feeling as I had been attending classes four nights a week, after a full day’s work, for almost two years. I remember coming home as late as 2300 (11:00 PM for my Air Force friends) some nights only to fall asleep reading whatever assignments I had been given, dreading the alarm I knew awaited me at 0430 (4:30 AM zoomies) the following morning.

One of my history professors managed to convince the Dean (what a title, almost as ominous as “the Duke”) to allow him to teach a class on the American Civil War that final semester of mine, but I decided to sign up for a literature class instead (what the hell) as I needed only an elective and had had enough of history for awhile. The course, Expatriate Writer’s in Rome, was being taught by one of my favorite professors, a fascinating woman who in her late fifties had been teaching Art History and English Lit for the University of Maryland in Italy for fifteen years. I had been a student of hers twice before and found her to be a wonderful teacher. She owned an apartment in Venice, and a house overlooking the Mediterranean Sea in Turkey, which I thought ironic considering the history of the two warring navies of each nation. If I remember correctly, the Venetian flotilla defeated the Ottoman navy out of Turkey back in the early 1500s in one of the last battles between oar-driven galleys. They seemed to have since reconciled any differences and my professor didn’t appear to be taking any flak for her choice of residences (though she was followed by a dark car everywhere she went). Anyway, I would often receive papers back from her with a grade hastily written next to a wine stain, as she was known for grading papers over the weekends with a bottle of the local grape always within reach. What really sold me on the course, however, was the fact that it was being taught in the Eternal City of Rome, itself. I could not pass up the opportunity to study the works of some of the greatest American and English ex-patriate writers in the very place they had written them. Of course I would be required to pay the usual tuition and book fees as well as transportation, food and lodging costs; a price well worth it considering the symbolic significance of completing my degree in a city so rich with history.

Having made the decision and registered for the class, I purchased the required readings including the works of Twain, Hawthorne, Byron, Shelley, Keats, and Henry James. I was expected to read them all before arriving in Rome three weeks later. Needless to say, I had my nose buried in a book every second of spare time I could find during those three weeks; especially enjoying Mark Twain’s travel adventures described in his chapter on Italy found in The Innocents Abroad. As the day of departure approached, however, I began to panic having only read my way through half of the reading list. I had been warned that the workload would be heavy as packing a three credit-hour literature course into two weeks couldn’t be anything but fast and furious. I began to wonder if I had the brainpower needed to survive the course never mind enough to learn something from it.

I met my fellow students at the Pordenone train station early one Saturday morning. Many of them I recognized from previous classes and some I met for the first time. We engaged in idle conversation at the station bar (not the kind of bar we Americans think of though alcohol is available) where smells of cappuccino and fresh pastries filled the room. The station itself was plainly decorated in the style of the old Mussolini fascist regime, yet I found it quite lovely from an historic point of view. Old pictographs of the city of Pordenone hung smartly framed on the burgundy colored walls with highly shined brass light fixtures strategically placed to keep the room as dim and homey as possible. I sat down at a table sipping an espresso and listened to the excited speculation of my fellow students as to what our next two weeks might entail. Eventually our chariot arrived, and the eight of us boarded the aluminum-skinned train covered with the dirt and dust accumulated from heavy travel. Stuffing our luggage into overhead bins designed to hold bags of travelers who tend not to over pack, we settled in for our ten-hour trek in search of higher learning. We filled four each to a chamber designed to seat six, defiant of the fact that our actual seat assignments were dispersed throughout the train. I was amused at the sight of everyone pulling out different books from the required reading list in a last minute effort to catch up on the assignments, myself included. That bit of dedication lasted until lunch. Sgt Hook out.

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