“An Italian woman came into the store today while I was working … then she answered her phone. "Salvo!" Chattering on and on, "Sono in un negozio, aspetta, ti chiamerò dopo, a dopo, si, va bene, ciao. Si, ciao." And my heart just broke. I had no idea how much I missed Italy until that moment. I wanted so badly to stop her, and say, "No so dove tu vai, ma devi rimanere qui perche ho bisogno di parlare italiano con te." I wanted to beg her to stay and talk to me, my mouth was forming the words silently, "Mi chiamo Gianna, sono Italiana." … only Grandpa Drew, I think, can fully comprehend how much my heart ached with longing for Italy this afternoon when I heard her speak. I'm still sad.”
Excerpt from posting by granddaughter Gianna
You are young, Gianna, with many years ahead for returns to Italia. I hope you’ll have the opportunities I had, to live there, not just visit, for extended periods; to study and work there, among the cittadini of that extraordinary peninsula. Yes, I fully comprehend how you heart ached with longing for Italy, but that was a mere pang triggered by your first brief stay, the few weeks you spent there this past summer. Once you’ve known more time with her, cara mia, every leave-taking won’t just inflict an ache—it’ll break your heart.
At my age, with the days dwindling down, I know that heartbreak on a daily basis. The thought that persistent physical setbacks and diminished energies could mean trans-Atlantic travel is a thing of the past, that I’ll never again look on paese dearly loved—italia ,italia mia!—is hard to bear. Never again, when every time I alighted on Italian soil was, despite love for and loyalty to my native USA, a homecoming: Sono qui, ho tornato a casa mia…sono Andrea ,mi chiamo Andrea, not Andrew, not Drew, more myself, truer to myself, here than anywhere else I’ve ever been.
You share my love of the language, Giannina mia, and I know you’ve already embraced Italy’s scenic and artistic treasures, her cuisine and rich cultural heritage. As I embrace them. But I’ve long acknowledged that these incomparable tesori are not what bind me so strongly to her. It’s her people, gli italiani, from whom I’ve learned whatever good I know of the human condition and how best to savor allotted years. Never one to romanticize Italy—my introduction to her was as a graduate student during the post World War II period, il tempo della miseria—I’ve known harsh times there and inevitably encountered a few individuals best forgotten. But, oh, the beloved friends and joyous, memorable times I’ve had among them. Or alone, exploring cities and hilltowns, wandering valleys and coastal plains, laboring in bronze foundries at Pietrasanta and Napoli. The dinners at family tables in villas where practically every word spoken, in many languages, was not trivial. Nights, following days of incomparable discovery and beauty, when I could not refrain from lifting my voice to the Mediterranean: Voglio restare qui.
Recently I’ve been remembering a gentleman encountered one Christmas day on the isle of Capri. At the time I was merely middle-aged, he an advanced senior, though likely not so old as I am now. The weather was a bit nippy when one was out of the bright sun, and the old man exited the gate of a handsome walled villa attired in a heavy ankle-length coat, bright scarf, and a hat topped by a clutch of colorful feathers. But though certainly decked out in style—that fare un bel figura I’ve known so long in Italy—his days as a jaunty giovanotto were long gone. His walk faltered, his cane tapping erratically along the cobbled narrow strada. We were both headed to the same site, a belvedere which I knew looked over the island’s famed vertical rocks rising from the sea, I Faraglioni. I stationed myself at the railing of the circular piazzetta, marveling at the spectacle of crashing waves against those fabled pylons jutting from the depths. The old man was seated on a bench, his face lifted to the sun. A slight smile was on his lips. I thought what a wonderful way for him to be spending Christmas afternoon—following the festive, and no doubt very lengthy, family dinner; with the senora if she were still alive, certainly with children and grandchildren, invited relatives and friends. Like so many family gatherings I’d attended in Italia. And now he’d opted for a respite from lusty domesticity, sought out solitude and meditation on a favorite bench commanding an exquisite panorama which he’d long known and loved.
That was years ago, and one might think that today, in this bludgeoning 21st century, even in Italy the elders can’t know such serenity. But the frequent communiqués and photos I receive from loved ones north and south, young and old, belie that. Their words and their images testify that they remain true to their environment and culture, its splendors sustaining a philosophy of life triumphant over whatever the times or personal destiny bring. Yes, granddaughter Gianna, distance from Italy, lontana d’italia mia, can break your heart. No matter. Torna, as often and whenever you can. And for as long as you can. Surrender to the song of the offshore sirens, Vieni, resta con mi.
Excerpt from posting by granddaughter Gianna
You are young, Gianna, with many years ahead for returns to Italia. I hope you’ll have the opportunities I had, to live there, not just visit, for extended periods; to study and work there, among the cittadini of that extraordinary peninsula. Yes, I fully comprehend how you heart ached with longing for Italy, but that was a mere pang triggered by your first brief stay, the few weeks you spent there this past summer. Once you’ve known more time with her, cara mia, every leave-taking won’t just inflict an ache—it’ll break your heart.
At my age, with the days dwindling down, I know that heartbreak on a daily basis. The thought that persistent physical setbacks and diminished energies could mean trans-Atlantic travel is a thing of the past, that I’ll never again look on paese dearly loved—italia ,italia mia!—is hard to bear. Never again, when every time I alighted on Italian soil was, despite love for and loyalty to my native USA, a homecoming: Sono qui, ho tornato a casa mia…sono Andrea ,mi chiamo Andrea, not Andrew, not Drew, more myself, truer to myself, here than anywhere else I’ve ever been.
You share my love of the language, Giannina mia, and I know you’ve already embraced Italy’s scenic and artistic treasures, her cuisine and rich cultural heritage. As I embrace them. But I’ve long acknowledged that these incomparable tesori are not what bind me so strongly to her. It’s her people, gli italiani, from whom I’ve learned whatever good I know of the human condition and how best to savor allotted years. Never one to romanticize Italy—my introduction to her was as a graduate student during the post World War II period, il tempo della miseria—I’ve known harsh times there and inevitably encountered a few individuals best forgotten. But, oh, the beloved friends and joyous, memorable times I’ve had among them. Or alone, exploring cities and hilltowns, wandering valleys and coastal plains, laboring in bronze foundries at Pietrasanta and Napoli. The dinners at family tables in villas where practically every word spoken, in many languages, was not trivial. Nights, following days of incomparable discovery and beauty, when I could not refrain from lifting my voice to the Mediterranean: Voglio restare qui.
Recently I’ve been remembering a gentleman encountered one Christmas day on the isle of Capri. At the time I was merely middle-aged, he an advanced senior, though likely not so old as I am now. The weather was a bit nippy when one was out of the bright sun, and the old man exited the gate of a handsome walled villa attired in a heavy ankle-length coat, bright scarf, and a hat topped by a clutch of colorful feathers. But though certainly decked out in style—that fare un bel figura I’ve known so long in Italy—his days as a jaunty giovanotto were long gone. His walk faltered, his cane tapping erratically along the cobbled narrow strada. We were both headed to the same site, a belvedere which I knew looked over the island’s famed vertical rocks rising from the sea, I Faraglioni. I stationed myself at the railing of the circular piazzetta, marveling at the spectacle of crashing waves against those fabled pylons jutting from the depths. The old man was seated on a bench, his face lifted to the sun. A slight smile was on his lips. I thought what a wonderful way for him to be spending Christmas afternoon—following the festive, and no doubt very lengthy, family dinner; with the senora if she were still alive, certainly with children and grandchildren, invited relatives and friends. Like so many family gatherings I’d attended in Italia. And now he’d opted for a respite from lusty domesticity, sought out solitude and meditation on a favorite bench commanding an exquisite panorama which he’d long known and loved.
That was years ago, and one might think that today, in this bludgeoning 21st century, even in Italy the elders can’t know such serenity. But the frequent communiqués and photos I receive from loved ones north and south, young and old, belie that. Their words and their images testify that they remain true to their environment and culture, its splendors sustaining a philosophy of life triumphant over whatever the times or personal destiny bring. Yes, granddaughter Gianna, distance from Italy, lontana d’italia mia, can break your heart. No matter. Torna, as often and whenever you can. And for as long as you can. Surrender to the song of the offshore sirens, Vieni, resta con mi.
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