ABSTRACT
AT THE FOOT of “Cloudy Mountains,” this is the “Polka,” a California saloon in the days of the Gold Rush. The dimly lit interior, triangular-shaped, rises two stories. Calling “Hello! hello!” and “Whiskey!” the miners shake the room as they enter. Rough and ready customers, their emotions are all up front. They smoke, clink glasses, and shuffle the cards. Some, morose, remember the home folks in lands far away. One sings of his dog, il mio cane. Joe, a young miner, reads a letter that tells how his granny has died. “Nonna se ne andata!” The man sitting beside me murmurs audibly, “Brutte nuove!” Bad news! Clicking their tongues, the English ladies behind him register disapproval. On the balcony, Larkens bursts into tears, wanting his mother. “Vo la mamma miar The audience commiserates. “Ah, foverinol”
