Italy at Last — Finalmente Italia

Post #2 in a series of how an Italian-American girl discovered her roots in Bari, Italy, the heel of the Italian boot. Please click here to read Finding Famiglia Part One.

The first half of The Heritage Trip is spent in the frenzied fabulousness which is Italy in the summer, experiencing it all with the people I love most in the entire world. Know that our days were filled with pane (bread), pasta, gelato, sunshine and laughter. Also it was really hot.

Together we conquered Rome and its ancient offerings; savored the peace and beauty of the villa in Montespertoli, nestled 20 miles from Florence within a family owned grove of olive trees; ventured to Florence, Siena, Pisa. Biked the walls of Lucca, scaled the walls of Monteriggioni and discovered there my most favorite church; explored the monastery of Fiesole in the hills overlooking Florence; climbed to the top of the Leaning Tower with my boys on my father’s birthday, and so many other little details of which we all cherish most vividly.  It truly was the trip of a lifetime for our little family.

Alas, comes the day when our driver, Daniele, who, after five days together, now a dear friend, settles us on the train heading south from Santa Maria Novella station in Florence.

“I feel I must warn you, going down to Bari…” he explains in his lovely and dramatic English, “that you must beware of the octopus in the sea. They sting.” Oh Dio. My stomach drops. I’m scared enough about germs and heat, and now I have to worry about dangerous stinging octopi? Did he say poisonous too or did I add that part on my own?

The train departs nonetheless, with our family aboard. Ciao Daniele, oh wise one, speaker of English and Italiano, with your comfortable car and your air conditioning. Ciao territory familiar to tourists. Ciao Firenze, that beautiful city — quella bella citta’ — which keeps a little piece of my heart at each farewell.

First is the short ride from Florence to Bologna. The train runs a bit late and I fear we’ll miss our connection to Bari. All five of us, wrangling our baggage, run through the station with me shouting, “nove! nove!” (nine! nine!) lest we miss the platform needed for the next train. With the help of the locals (they are so kind and warm here, probably due to four-year-old blonde daughter who is irresistible to the Italians) we find binario nove with time to spare. Because the arriving train also runs late. Which allows me the chance to show off the longest phrase I committed to memory before leaving the states, “E’ questo il treno per Bari?” (Is this the train for Bari?) The darling young ventenne (twenty-something) to whom I proudly addressed this question responds, in her perfect English, “YES, this is the train to Bari.”

Here’s some things I learned on the six-hour train ride from Bologna to Bari:

• There’s not much food or water available on the train. Note to self: bring your own panini next time like everyone else.
• The train stops randomly, for long stretches, for reasons unknown. Also, sometimes the air conditioner is faulty.
• The scenery, rather than ancient ruins or manicured groves, is pastoral and lovely. Until you come upon the Adriatic coast, with umbrellas for miles lining the beaches of different summer clubs. All of it is beautiful in its uniqueness, and unlike the Italy that often comes to mind.
• My American-ness is apparent in just a single word of spoken Italian. Accidenti. Darn.

I’m almost surprised when the train arrives with a halt at the stazione which is Bari. Luggage tossed out, kids off (hurray, we’re all together, no one left on the train as is breezes away without warning!), blast of hot, heavy air, frenzy of travelers finding their loved ones who have been waiting for them on the platform in the summer air. I recognize no one.

I know panicking would be very unhelpful right now, but it’s really tempting…I start thinking unlikely thoughts like, maybe there are two Baris in Italy, and I booked tickets to the wrong one? Perhaps someone is waiting for us on a platform in a station hundreds of miles away?

And then, there she is — cousin Maria– coming at me in a burst of energy with tight hugs and kisses for us all! She scoops us up and dashes us off to the front where, dodging city traffic which swirls dangerously around us, deposits us with her husband Michele, who is waiting in an SUV which seats us all and accommodates our luggage. I can hardly believe it, both the size of the car and the sheer weight of this moment. All my life I’ve heard details of Italy from my grandfather in his thick accent, about how one day, we’d travel there together, and suddenly, here I am, with my little family in Grampa’s homeland. I catch a glimpse of lungomare, the beautiful walkway lined with street lamps and touching the sea. It reminds me so much of my home city, I’m stunned. I wonder if Grampa ever noticed that?

Soon, away from the confusion of the city, we pull into a gated property which is home to Maria, Michele and their two college-age kids, Maria’s sister Milena, and their parents Rosa and Domenico, along with an impressive collection of cats and dogs. We are welcomed with love by all.

But it’s Domenico, my dad’s first cousin, who really puts a stitch in my heart, because here is the face of my grandfather, gone 20 years now, looking at me. I hug him tight, overcome with emotion and gratitude. I have so much to say to him! But on this trip, I cannot. Italian is just too new to me. (I will remedy this, and when I return to this spot in two years, I will receive the ultimate compliment, when Domenico tells me my Italian is much better! And I understand him!)

We dine together outdoors, starlight over us and soccer on the little tv outside. There is so much exquisite food, course after course, all hand crafted with love by Rosa, that I’m grateful for no food on the train. Thankfully Maria’s English is much better than my Italian, and because of this, and our enthusiastic charades, we understand each other, if not perfectly, then abbastanza, enough. It’s clear that we are connected by something deeper than conversation.

I look around the table, overflowing with food and family, and somehow, amazingly, us five foreigners fit right in. It seems that our places at the table have been waiting for us here all along. In this moment, I know that Italy has changed for me forever, that this beautiful country holds something more important for me now than ancient monuments and priceless artwork. I have found my own treasures here.

In the balmy summer southern Italian air, among all these new faces which also feel so familiar, I feel my grampa and my dad smiling down upon us.

To be continued… Finding Famiglia Part Three coming soon!