Lately, I have been thinking about how time dances. Imagining it moving as a march feels too hard-edged. It spins and dips. Recently, most days, I feel as though I am Alice in the Looking Glass. Dancing here on planet Earth. I read the news headlines, and I cannot believe them to be true. How can humanity, a guest on this exquisite planet, be so dense and selfish? The greedy nature of AI programs, from what I’ve read, seems to behave similarly to that of humans, chomping away toward solutions and moving forward at any cost. Is this fear and possibility of the end of humanity due to AI the same feeling that appeared with the advent of the Nuclear Age? Then, did clearer heads prevail to prevent humanity’s annihilation? There do not seem to be clearer heads now. Can my brain be aware of these dangers and concurrently urge me to get up in the morning with hope? Yes, I am alive, in the here and now, with who knows how much time left. That has always been the thing, right? I’m not intending to sound melancholy. It just is. And as the cool morning air here in Portland replaces the warm orange skies of wildfire season, it attests to the march of time.
Spinning back in time
The phrase “the march of time” has a military feel. I prefer to replace it with another descriptor. Preferably “the dance of time.” August and September are big birthday months for our family, and the milestones begin with one outlier in June. This year, we planned a family trip celebration. “The trip is the gift,” we like to say. And, as I write this, that sweet phrase means more than ever. This trip is the gift, a gift of time through life with beloved friends and precious family. And as the dance of life and memory spins me, this writing dips back into a long-ago journey.
A door closes and Italy opens
Back in the day, my father made a movie in Italy titled Viva Max! The story briefly, concerns Gen. Maximilian Rodrigues de Santos who leads his motley band of Mexican soldiers across the United States border on the pretext of marching in Washington’s Birthday parade; instead, the men advance to San Antonio and capture the Alamo. How did the film and our family end up in Italy? Well, there was an uproar about filming at the Alamo, led by the Daughters of the Republic of Texas, the official custodians. The filmmakers were denied access, and the group further sought an injunction against all filming of the structure. And so, in Italy’s Cinecittà Studios, a large replica of the Alamo was built for an estimated $250,000. That Hollywood backstory led to my first trip to Switzerland in 1969, so thank you, Daughters of the Republic of Texas. A door closed and a family trip to Europe opened.
Junger than Springtime
So off we went to Rome, on a treasured family journey. Our family unit was a liquid, my parents moving away from each other and then flowing back together. We had recently moved to California and then were off again, together, this time with our own guide, Ermano and after Rome came Switzerland. Both my parents were in their element. My dad funny, charming and full of promise. My mother, beautiful and speaking Italian, one of the many languages she spoke, learned at Juilliard toward her operatic career. I have a photo of the four of us — my mom, dad, sister and me — at the Ice Palace at Jungfraujoch. My mother is stunning in a black leather coat with cuffs, lapels and hem in white curly lamb. My dad hunched over with his ever-present Super-8 camera slung over his shoulder, a sparkle in his eye. No wonder: he was making a movie at Cinecittà, the studio of his beloved Fellini. Our lives appeared glamorous. My sister and I wore matching jackets, our hoods tight over our heads with bangs poking out, colorful flowers splashing our jackets as we held melodica cases that touched the tops of our cowboy boots. We were skipping into the seventies, unaware that our parents’ marriage would hit a rocky patch far too soon.
Looking into a mirror
And now, this year’s gift. A return to Switzerland. Far from the Ice Palace at Jungfraujoch, but, oh my, the beauty. As Gary and I ascended to Zermatt, the trip from fifty years ago leapt into my heart. Despite the distance between the two places, I felt transported back to that time with my mother, dad, and sister: the train from Interlaken. The cog train up, up, up, the hot chocolate. My father filming every moment. My mother being handed a “golden spoon” for being the most beautiful woman in the restaurant. Our foursome searched for cows with bells, visited an ice palace, watched our breath come alive in front of us and returned home, me carrying a red velvet dress with floral embroidered suspenders. Upon our return, it had snowed in the San Fernando Valley, and my parents were edging toward separation.
If you feel joy, don’t hesitate
This month I wanted to tell the story of my family’s trip to Monza, Italy, to see the Formula One race. I also wanted to remember another trip I enjoyed with my father: Formula One at Long Beach. Cars and F1 were among his passions, and many of the drivers today are sons of the drivers my father and I watched back in the day — Fittipaldi, Sainz, Schumacher, Andretti, Verstappen. I feel a kinship in their alignment with their fathers’ career paths, but this is enough for today. Next month I can regale the delights of that part of the trip, or the birthday celebration that included jumping off an antiquated bridge in Nesso, on Lake Como. For now, the Swiss Alps and movie-making have claimed the story. As Mary Oliver says, “If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy, don’t hesitate. Give in to it,” and as the Matterhorn appeared to me for the first time, the memory of that magical first adventure to Europe put a song in my heart and pen to paper.