The Road Linds Travels

Do I begin with the food in Italy? The wine? Do I write about one event out of many? Focus on one city out of dozens? Write about the many train excursions and adventures? It’s difficult to narrow down exactly what to write about, so I thought I’d just start writing and see what comes out. What came out was centralized around my Italian roots and a bit more personal than I intended. If that sounds good, keep reading.

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Back in 2009, I was planning a trip to Italy solo. I had recently lost my job, my relationship was circling the drain, and I needed inspiration, something to uplift me. And anyone who has ever said that traveling to another country won’t solve your problems has clearly never been to Italy.

I had my finger on the mouse, ready to “book,” when my phone rang. It was my mama calling to tell me that my dad had stage four terminal lung cancer. My dad – who gave me my Italian roots and who lived in Italy and spoke the language for years. My dad – who I didn’t have the greatest relationship with at all, and My dad – who was going to die. Needless to say, instead of booking a trip to Italy, I was booking a trip to Kansas City, where I remained for months, seeing my dad through treatment.

ITALY 14 YEARS LATER

As I was packing for this trip of a lifetime, I rummaged through a Rubbermaid bin full of half-filled journals, looking for one to take with me. I chose a red, velvet-textured, and paisley print-covered one. To my surprise, when I opened it up, there were some of the preliminary plans I’d jotted down from my solo trip to Italy fourteen years ago. I don’t believe in coincidences.

Fast-forward a week later, and I was walking Rome’s streets at five in the morning before all the locals and tourists were even awake. It was such a beautiful way to experience Italy’s capital. Piazza Navona by myself? Yes, please. Trevi Fountain without rubbing elbows with other sweaty humans? Count me in. James and I used the same method of exploring Florence one morning, too.

As we wandered through narrow, cobblestoned alleys and around charming ivy-covered corner cafés, I couldn’t help but feel my roots. They were buried deep in an archaeologist’s uncovered dig and in the Campanian breeze off the Gulf of Naples. My roots were lying dormant at the bottom of an unmarked espresso cup and along the branches of the mighty Cypress trees framing the busy city thoroughfares. They were in the “Buongiorno” of the friendly shop clerk and the ruins of places on most peoples’ bucket lists.

In many ways, I felt at home. I felt at home the way one longs for and misses someone. In this case, I missed my dad and my nonna, who have both passed away. But I felt their presence and their pride. I heard their passion in the Italian song being belted one evening in Piazza del Popolo in Rome and in the animated exchange between two old friends at a neighborhood café.

ITALIAN ROOTS AND FAMIGLIA

For me, family has always been a complex and sore subject. On one hand, I feel like I don’t need it. On the other, I wish I had the aspects of it I never had. Italy is a postcard-perfect image of familial love, and most Italian Americans I know exude this energy, too. Unfortunately, this was never my case. Most of my youth was my mama and me against the world.

I believe traveling to Italy came at this time in my life because there are simply things I understand now that I definitely didn’t understand fourteen years ago. Knowing myself better than ever before presents new, more postive perspective.

I wish “Sunday dinner” was a thing growing up, and that I still had my parents to confide in, call, and buy an Italian souvenir for. I wish I had a sibling who gave a damn and had my back no matter what. And on the flip side, I’m doing just fine on my own.

CONNECTIONS IN ITALY

In a nutshell, what resulted from the almost three weeks I spent wandering Italy from the south to the north was new connections and reconnections. I put the phone down (except to take a plethora of photos), I talked to strangers in broken English and Italian, I exchanged WhatsApp messages with friendly tour guides and bar owners, and I had delicious and memorable dinners with old friends in beautiful places. As a result, I wasn’t ready to leave.

The longer I live and the more I explore, the clearer it becomes that my family is chosen and memories are extremely valuable. So, while I may not have had those Sunday family dinners, and while I may not be able to regale my travel details with my Italian father, I’m doing just fine on my own because I have the concept of family in my heart. Traveling to the other side of the world showed me that.