An Italian Story

Sometimes you invent a story and step into it as though it were real. Forty years ago, I conjured up a family in Italy, and I found them, and maybe it was crazy, but they welcomed me and claimed me as their own. I returned to them again and again over the years, and we became very dear to each other, transcending the barriers of language, distance, and reason. There is still so much we don’t know about each other’s daily lives and contexts. We see only flickers of the dysfunctional dynamics, mundane problems, and personal sorrows. We lean heavily on a certain reverence for the past, ancestral connection, and a willingness to float in the realms of mythology, desire, and imagination. Despite our differences, we perceive similar proclivities and affinities, and there is a sense of kinship even beyond genetics, because we invent it, and we go through the trouble of acting out the story, and the story is a blessing…and it’s real.

They are the nieces, nephews, cousins, and descendants of my grandfather and his siblings: Zio Pinuccio, Zia Titina, Luca, Gianni, Luisa, Nello, Michele, and a little girl named Martina who likes to draw pictures… Anyway, that’s the core remaining group, and their very names are musica to me. I visited them last week.

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Now it was an overcast day and we were walking with my cousin Luca on the slopes of Mt. Vesuvius. A fire burned through here a few years ago. We walk along a muddy path lined with dense shrub—I think Luca says ginista is what dominates—and except for hazy mountain silhouettes and the charred remains of trees, there isn’t much of a view. Now and then a portal opens in the clouds, and the sky gives way briefly to blue, and at one point, a round white disc of sun appears, hanging like a lantern upon a black treetop. It’s a strange and mystical place. 

A word about Luca, whose grandfather and mine were brothers. He is always in motion, an enthusiastic and kind-hearted guide who has never lost his sense of wonder. He is interested in everything, and full of advice and commentary. Since we’re in the neighborhood, Monte asks him about the likelihood of a future volcanic eruption. “It’s a real risk,” he replies. “But to be honest, nobody wants to think about this.”

That’s kind of how it feels to be here: cognizant of the dangers and precariousness of life, but diving in head first nonetheless and fully immersed in the living of it. There is something fatalistic and defiant about it, something both resigned and exuberant, simultaneously skeptical and passionate.

We have come to the mountains in search of la tranquillita, but plenty of others have had the same idea. It turns out we are not allowed to go up to the top without having secured a special permit online, but there is no internet access until you get to the top, although various taxis and vans are at the ready, for a fee, to carry folks up to register, then down again so they can walk back up. I know I’m not explaining this Catch-22 situation clearly, probably because I didn’t fully understand it, but Luca summarizes succinctly: “It’s just another way to get more money.”

I have ancestral and cultural roots in this place, but I never learned the language, and I’ve lived in rural California far too long to grasp the rhythm and the codes here. Luca explains that you have to be aggressive and quick. Make your move, take your position, don’t waver. (This is the basic approach to driving too.) Also, figure out what it is the other guy wants from you, take the measure of his game, be ready. Voices are loud, but a lot is said with hands. I feel oddly reassured when Luca flashes a middle finger at a speeding motorcyclist who comes pretty close to grazing our car in the course of an ill-advised pass. A familiar gesture, no translation needed. 

And yet, there is so much warmth and vitality and joy. The previous day we had walked through the Quartieri Spagnoli in Naples with Luca and his friend Alfonso, who strikes up conversations with everyone. The streets were clogged with people in spangled sparkly holiday garb, crowds clamoring at outdoor markets to procure the freshest seafood for their New Year’s Eve feasts, paying homage to the mural of Maradona, dodging the scourge of motorbikes on narrow cobblestone alleys. There are holiday lights and decorations, street art and graffiti, poignant and kitsch little altars and shrines, and an endless procession of cacophonous humanity. Then, like a deep breath in a still room, at the Gallerie d’Italia, we behold a gorgeous exhibit of the art of Baroque masters such as Caravaggio, including a remarkable female artist named Artemisia Gentileschi (1591-1653) whose work more than held her own in a male-dominated world. Later, outside, Luca points to the crumbling concrete wall of an old building, where a framed picture of Jesus hangs above an image of Marilyn Monroe, surrounded by random wires and pipes.

“This is Napoli,” says Luca. “The sacred and the profane mingle endlessly.”

When I decided to take this trip to Italy, I was initially apprehensive: the pandemic, various complexities, and my own frailties had coalesced into a cloud of uncertainty. I understood that my beloved Zio Pinuccio, now in his 90s, was not doing well, and I really wanted to see him again, but I also know that caring for an elder is exhausting and difficult, and I didn’t want to add to anyone’s burdens with the needs and presence of two seventy-year-olds with bad colds and no Italian. But we were in Oxford, practically local if you gloss over the three-hour bus ride and two-and-a-half hours on EasyJet. I had to go, and I figured it would be my last trip there. Monte agreed to accompany me, and that really helped.  

But I was underestimating the abundance of my family’s love and generosity. Oh, this beautiful fantasy! Such kindness, such generous hearts! I am real to them, and welcome. And we would be there for New Year’s Eve.

My typical New Year’s Eve is ranch hermit style, a contemplative evening, in bed by 9 p.m., a walk in the morning. But I become someone else in Italy, a woman who climbs to a rooftop to watch fireworks, who dances and sings and stays up late, who consumes eight courses and then, moments after midnight, a dish of lentils for luck with a toast of Prosecco. Eight courses. I kid you not.

“Are you scandalized by the way we overeat?” asks my cousin Luisa from across the table via text and a translation app. “No,” I reply. “I am awestruck.”

And the fireworks! Luca led us up a steep narrow stairway to the rooftop and we stood and watched in amazement as spirals and starbursts and rivers of light erupted and whizzed all around us, with the noise of explosions and hissing and loud startling cracks that sounded like gunshot, and the world was glowing in bright colored flashes while a waxing chunk of moon looked on.

I began to appreciate the celebratory joy with which the Italians imbue this holiday, and I believe, too, in its significance. Let us dance and free-fall into a new beginning. Let us be spectacular and amazed to the very end and start anew with a defiantly epic stance.

There was something particularly full-circle about being here for this. I wrote the following words on a notebook page, and my cousin Gianni read an Italian translation aloud:

“Here I am, one hundred and eighteen years after my grandfather left this place, with family members who share his spirit and DNA. It has been so important for me to see Zio Pinuccio, the last of my own father’s generation, and to meet the little artist Martina, and to have time with all of you. I always say that this is the family with whom I have had no pain, but for nearly forty years you have welcomed me, again and again, and made me feel that I belong here. I wish everyone a healthy, hopeful, joyous year ahead, and I thank you with all my heart for letting Monte and me share this special night with you.”

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Sometimes you just invent a story and step into it as though it were real. Forty years ago, I conjured up a family in Naples. I found them, and I visited them many times across the decades, and they accepted me and loved me without reservation.

I thought this would be my last visit, but I may go back again.