O Italy. The glorious, unadulterated, mind-numbing smells of Italy. The rich creamy mozzarella, the smooth flirtatious taste of the wine as it cascades down one’s throat, the jaw-dropping landscapes that tricks one into thinking that it’s not real life they stumbled into but a Thomas Kinkaid painting; their surroundings so beautiful, it seems unreal; a fantasy painted in pastel pinks and greens. O the culture, the music, the people of Italy; o the wonder of it all, the magic of Italia. It has been a year since my voyage to this wonderful and too-good-to-be-true location, with its olive trees and Mediterranean landscapes. It was, by far, my favorite trip anywhere, ever. It is only fitting then, to write a tribute to a year anniversary of the best adventure of my life.
My mother’s side of the family was not close-knit; not as close-knit as people who entertain common stereotypes would think it to be. We hardly got together except at the occasional wake (which I rarely attended), where raucous laughter and joviality were frowned upon. My mother also regaled my father and I with stories of growing up in a house that is now over one hundred years old; her grandmother sitting on the porch in the middle of summer in the heaviest sweater she owned. She helped me imagine being seated at the table while the family enjoyed Sunday “macaroni” dinners with “gravy” and salad that true Italians eat before their main course. Fond memories of Uncle Louie and Uncle Tony in the garden in which they took such pride, often surfaced, ones that I could contribute to as well, as I was a young child who woke up excited each Saturday morning ready to “help” my uncles garden.
My grandmother was born here but her parents emigrated to America and ventured, bravely, through the haunted halls of Ellis Island, being humiliated while their identity was altered and culture was diminished. They made a life for themselves and found a way to implement their history and lives into their newfound lives here during a time that couldn’t have been more difficult yet easy at the same time. Those generations dealt with acclimating themselves to an entirely new way of life, yet raised children when doors did not have to be locked or trusting a neighbor when he/she said he/she was bringing little Joey home.
My mom knew her neighbors, she knew when her curfew was and obeyed it and she knew ice cream stores and delicatessens that are no longer in existence as well as the man who was known for his sausages that were created in his garage! Imagine that, a time when food could be cooked where an automobile rested its weary heart and not result in being written up for violating a health code! The times were different and the neighborhood itself was different. People with last names not only ending in vowels but hosting them throughout existed all over, Sunday “macaroni” dinners and no other dinner for Christmas Eve except Baccala. Stories and nostalgic reveries would be unappreciated by me for a long time until one week in what could be argued the most magical and romantic place on Earth, would change it all.
I grew up never really being able to connect to my maternal side of the family. This was ironic considering I had more of a chance of seeing them than my paternal side. We lived in abutting towns and had more than ample chances to see each other; we just never did. Adjectives such as “dysfunctional” and “immature” circled my family like angry, hungry vultures, ready to attack the nearest form of nourishment, which in this case was gossip. My mom’s happy memories were often shaded by dark nuances of her past and made me resent the male species and the male Italian species even more. I was and am grateful for her stories; they provide me with a chance to listen and learn and glean glimpses of what my mother perhaps was like before she became a grown-up with responsibilities. However, despite the story-telling and a recipe for my grandmother’s meatballs and sauce that would make the hardest food critic’s mouth water, I still felt no real connection to my Italian heritage and what was worse, I did not feel the yearning to attain it. All that would change the first week of March, 2008.
On the way to class one morning in the Communication Department, I spotted an ad for a travel study trip to Italy with Marianne Dainton’s class, Non-verbal communication. I had always wanted Marianne as a professor and here was an added bonus, a week in one of the most romantic, beautiful places in the world! The first thought that crept its way into my mind that morning was “I am going to be on that plane.” And then reality set in. Despite the advice I had always been given about aspiring to attain one’s goals, I knew, realistically, finances were going to come into play. I had a lot of planning to do in order to guarantee my behind in that narrow, smelly coach seat.
After many discussions with my parents about various financial options, I was well on my way to Italy, except for one little problem: fitting the class into my schedule for the spring semester; as badly as I wanted to travel to Italy, I also wanted to graduate on time. Three visits to my advisor and several emails later, I was enrolled in Marianne Dainton’s Non-verbal Communication class that would be traveling to Italy in the spring.
The class got underway and as we got to know each other, I realized that not only would my individual experience in this great country be awesome, but as a group, we would be able to really garner different aspects of the culture. We were a melting pot of funny, serious, smart, stylish, sarcastic, shy, eager students that were ready to venture off into unknown territory unafraid for we had each other. The trip was quickly approaching and I was excited and nervous about how I would be perceived in a land that bore my ancestors and had so much to teach me about not only my heritage but about myself.
February, 28th, 2008 was a day that I will always remember. I left my townhouse that morning, all packed and ready to go to a faraway land where chocolate was food of choice and where beautiful men said beautiful things… I attended my morning classes and then headed to the cafeteria to eat. Due to a sensitive stomach, I knew that to inhale eggs and bacon would not be the smartest idea, but I needed to have a substantial meal for I had a long trip ahead of me. We were due to board the bus at 12:30 pm and while eating my hashbrowns, I kept glancing at the minute hand that was taking forever to get to its destination. I finished my breakfast and made my way over to another table with a few of my fellow journeymen and women. We made small talk, and laughed; I just think we were all so nervous and excited that we didn’t have the mental capacity to have detailed conversations. I looked once more at the clock and saw with extreme happiness that it was time to head down to the bus.
I was the first one there, (no shocker) there and was trying not to smile smugly as one of my classmates had to throw some extra clothes in her car because her suitcase was over the limit. Everyone arrived shortly and we were off to Italy. First stop, Sorrento.
Six hours and an infinite delay later, we were on our way to Sorrento…by bus. We were supposed to hop on a plane to take us to Naples from the Rome airport, but you can always count on Europeans to disregard time. But it was ok, I was prepared; we had studied this in class. We are a fast-past culture and while that is ok because it works for us, while in another country, we must appreciate and respect their way of life. In this case, it was respecting the lack of punctuality. We were tired, hungry and cramped on a bus, but while my classmates were complaining, I was digging for my camera cursing myself for not having it at the ready as the mountainous regions and palm trees were passing me by. I finally retrieved it from the depths of my carry-on and tried to get the best pictures I could despite my aisle seat. Off we went on to Sorrento, the land of mozzarella cheese and cobblestone streets with a very exuberant tour guide named Anarita.
I managed to stay awake for the duration of the trip and as the bus climbed the perilously high mountain roads, my classmates roused themselves out of their slumber and were quickly awakened and awe-struck as visions of crystal blue water lapped calmly at the shore a million feet below us and the brilliant gold sun dominated the blue sky. The whole bus was awake now and flashes were going off all around me. I remember thinking that a thousand pictures would never capture the true beauty of this moment.
Arriving at the Michelangelo hotel a half hour later, resulted in lovely cries from the passengers. Our hotel was regal. We unloaded our bus and made our way to the lobby. After managing to abate growing chaos during check-in, Marianne told us to get settled but not to dilly-dally; we had a great dinner awaiting us at a cute little Italian restaurant in town. Marianne had been to this wonderful country many times so we definitely trusted her judgment.
Finding our rooms was like being in Leapin’ Lizards all over again. We were school children in a playground; running from one end of the corridor to the other trying to find where each other was staying. I wanted my privacy, yet I didn’t want to be totally isolated. I was in close proximity to my friends, I was satisfied with my bathroom and I was in Italy! Life was good. My roommate and I met in the bar with Marianne and our other chaperone, Tonya and we waited for the rest of the group to convene.
I had always prided myself on traveling; on seeing different parts of the world due to having parents who believed travel was very important. I often joked with my friends that I had seen more of foreign destinations than I had my own country. Here I was in my element and for the first time, despite my frequent conquests, I felt comfortable, I felt at ease; dare I say at home? Nah, it was just the novelty of being somewhere other than 1900 West Olney Avenue. I was sure it would wear off…
Monday, March 30, 2009
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