Dear Friends:
One year ago I moved All Things Italy to Substack. I’m happy to have had so many of you follow since then. Of course, I’m also grateful for the longtime supporters of my rambling musings. As this post goes out, I’m in transit to Italy from a conference of the Communal Studies Association at the Ephrata Cloister in Pennsylvania.
Last October the organization met at New Harmony, Indiana, and I wrote in All Things Italy about Robert Dale Owen’s origins there and his connections to Italy. This month I bring Owen in again—not because he and his father were mentioned at the conference as Utopian reformers but because the title of one of Owen’s books struck me as I was contemplating my travel to Tuscany. More on that follows.
Holding Signs
Two weeks ago on a brilliant fall Friday, I sat outside with friends at our neighborhood’s corner cafe. The locale is as close as we can get to an Italian vibe, as we sit smack-dab in the middle of the US, more specifically, in the Ozarks, where we dream about other places. We chat with friends, wave at neighbors, and pet a few canine friends as they pass. This afternoon the conversation circled around my impending departure for Rome’s Fiumicino airport. One friend, less familiar than the others, did his part to contribute to the conversation. He asked a question with polite curiosity:
“Is there going to be someone waiting for you outside customs, holding a sign with your name?”
Perhaps he drew from personal experience, recalling fond memories. Likely he was not so interested in my answer. I remember a slightly strange feeling, as I tried to figure out how to respond. I hope my face didn’t offend—I’ve been told I don’t hide my emotions. But I wrestled with how to say in a modest way that I didn’t need someone to meet and escort me. During the past decade I’ve negotiated Fiumicino Airport a few times. As I sat mulling over my response, I could visualize my plan to thread my way through the throng of those holding signs, rolling my luggage along, heading straight to the Leonardo Express train to the Termini Station in central Rome. If I needed, I could take a taxi. It would be easy.
But I actually may not have shared that answer. The conversation over our aperitivi zigzagged quickly from one topic to another. The question had been a blip among the circuitous path our words took, as we roamed from Rome north to Pisa and other Italian airports. With a few sentences about travels, we jumped across the Atlantic and then entirely across the US. Suddenly we were on the Pacific Coast, discussing sea lions and the beauty of Monterey, California. It seemed we wanted to be anywhere but the Ozarks on this Friday with friends—even as we appreciated the sparkling sunshine and this familiar spot that fosters friends and neighbors to stop and chat.
That evening and in the days that followed I held onto the little blip about looking for a person with a sign. It would be a moment to come back to later, as I considered my upcoming trip and what it means to return to the familiar, so different from the journey on an unknown path.
The first time I arrived at Fiumicino airport with a group, I DID look for that person holding a sign with my name as I came out of customs. It would have been a comfort to see—had I seen it. After some minutes of confusion about meeting points and a few cell phone calls later, the driver and I finally connected.
The second time I tried the technique, it went without a hitch. But I also was familiar with the airport by then. I knew how to thread my way from my plane, through passport control, pick up my checked luggage, make my way through customs, buy a ticket for the train, and then travel to central Rome and my final destination.
Now I’m headed to Pisa, where I’ve been many times before. Familiarity breeds comfort. I’ll even be lodging in a familiar spot. I’ll be teaching as a visiting professor, in a department where I have lectured in the past. But there will be newness as well. And that newness actually stimulates me. I’m looking forward to meeting new faculty and students and to teaching new materials. I, too, will be threading my way as I figure out what it means to be in Pisa for two months, to meet with students and faculty more than once, to become more familiar with the city.
A Utopian Dreamer Finds his Way
I take my title this month from utopian dreamer Robert Dale Owen (1801-77), leader at New Harmony, anti-slavery advocate, statesman from Indiana, co-founder of the Smithsonian Institution, fighter for women’s rights in marriage and for voting, diplomat to Italy, and avid spiritualist.
In his later years Owen published not only his autobiography, Threading My Way (1874), but also years earlier The Debatable Land between this World and the Next (1859) and finally Footfalls on the Boundary of Another World (1872).
What fascinates me about Owen is exactly how he threaded his way through life, always open to new ideas. He was not afraid to follow his visions, even as they changed.
My first knowledge of Owen and his father came when I visited New Harmony in the mid-1990s, learning a bit about the socialist society of reformers known as Owenites on the banks of the Wabash River in southern Indiana. Then many years later in 2013, as I began to study and write about US women in 19th-century Italy, I crossed paths with Robert Dale Owen again. Reading about Philadelphian Anne Hampton Brewster, I saw that she had a letter of introduction from Owen when she first crossed the Atlantic in the late 1850s. After several months in Switzerland, Brewster headed south to be near Owen and his family in Naples. Her experiences there, including the seances he hosted, found their way into Brewster’s second novel, St. Martin’s Summer.
Owen’s relationship with spiritualism and with Brewster pushed me to read his autobiography, Threading My Way. The book opens with his memories of arriving in Scotland, searching for his family’s roots and his father’s friends in a town he had not seen since childhood. He seemed fearless as he trekked along Glasgow’s streets, looking for the familiar in a place that also had become unfamiliar, due to the inevitable changes brought by time and an adult perspective. He had no GPS in his hand, no Google maps on his phone. Yet Owen threaded his way, talking with those he met, open to learning and adapting. The opening chapter becomes a metaphor for his life and the source of his autobiography’s title.
Owen’s life certainly differed from mine.1 Perhaps that was part of the attraction. I’ve always been drawn to those who seem unafraid to venture out. They visualize a new path and choose the road less taken. I tend to follow the familiar.
It’s a matter of perspective, I suppose. Friends sometimes tell me that I seem unafraid. They say that I take paths they would never take—at least, not alone. But those who know me well know that I have my share of fears and anxiety.
I confess, there’s comfort in the familiar. I will thread my way in Pisa with some confidence and some trepidation—the bedfellows I have lived with throughout my life. Like Owen, I find myself “between this world and the next” as I prepare to board a plane.
I’m headed to a city in Tuscany where I’ve been a few times before. Familiarity breeds comfort. I’ll even be lodging in a familiar spot. I’ll assume a role as a visiting professor in a department where I have lectured on American literature in the past. But this time there will be newness as well. I’ll be meeting new faculty and students and teaching new materials. Such newness usually stimulates me—even as it elicits some anxiety. I will be threading my way through the familiar as I figure out the unfamiliar: what it means to be in Pisa for more than a quick visit. I hope my two months of getting to know students, faculty, and the city enhance my love of Italian culture, present and past.
Until next time, when I write from Pisa, keep dreaming and reading of All Things Italy.
And remember, it’s always a plus to read your responses and see you share them and/or this post!
Etta
AND . . . Some new information:
Last month a few readers sent me some suggestions:
· write less (shorter posts)
· write more frequently (at least every two weeks)
· write more about yourself and your insights (not so much about others).
These suggestions align with what Substack gurus advise. I’ve read and heard the advice for a year now, as I’ve threaded my way through posts. This month may be the time I heed the advice, especially because being on the ground in Italy will no doubt stimulate me.
I hope my more frequent and shorter musings will engage rather than annoy you. (When I began this newsletter years ago I promised no more than one post per month). As always, I’m open to your suggestions and advice. I love hearing from you! And a reminder: simply clicking the heart will help me keep going and help other likeminded readers find All Things Italy.
I also picked up an Owen biography, to see how others described him.
I think Substack is best when we write about what is inspiring and moving us. Write about what you love, and readers feel that love. I’ve said this before, I know. You love Italy, and we love hearing about that!
Looking forward to hearing about your life in Pisa, Etta! I think it's a beautiful city - so much more than the tower that seems to grab all of the attention. (And for the record I hate the "write less" advice - write whatever feels natural to you!)