by C. D'Angelo
Continuing to take in the sounds of the Italian language on the radio while in the cab, I’m strangely reminded of being home in the city. There are often times where I’m surrounded by people speaking another language, be it people on the street or owners of a store I enter. Sometimes it would take a while to hear English, which is wild, right? Lately, people speaking in their native tongue has led me to think of my ancestors living in their new land of America. Maybe I had a fleeting thought before this year-long journey, I don’t know. Foreign languages are just the sounds of the city, so they weren’t something that stuck out to me most days. But now, everything is different.
In my favorite Chelsea Italian market, I enjoy the Mazza family’s communication with each other every time I’m in there lately. I never paid attention before my mission. There were countless times I was picking up ingredients for Brian, or getting a quick snack, and heard them squabbling in the beautiful Italian language. I always thought their animated gestures and speech were humorous, though. And if Brian’s with me, he’s quick to say I’m the same way when I’m irritable, except that I express myself in English. Can you believe that? Ugh, I guess he’s right.
As we drive, I witness the most majestic snowcapped mountains in the distance, transitioning to lower rolling hills. They form an elegant frame around the cityscape of buildings, homes, and businesses in the foreground. We haven’t even been outside of the airport for five minutes and I’m awestruck. I think I would be shocked by Genoa’s beauty even if I didn’t have ties to it. It is that breathtaking.
The main road we’re traveling on from the airport is a large highway, along the coast and the old Genoa ports. Scooters and cars whiz by us from all angles in a mass rush to get to their destinations. Thank the Lord I am not driving. Talk about anxiety provoking situations. I am sure my wide eyes are giving away my fear of crashing into a car and plunging into the sea, over the cliffs. I hope the cab driver doesn’t see them and keeps his eyes on the road, though. Eek, he better be!
So far, Genoa looks like a typical big city, but with a feel of aged elegance. How strange that it’s boisterous with all the traffic, drivers honking their horns, dogs barking, ship noises, and faint live music, yet is also tranquil. The juxtaposition is a mix of the old and new world.
I wonder what it’s like on a non-holiday because today’s the day after Easter, a major national holiday called Pasquetta, or Little Easter. I read that Easter is the second largest holiday for Italians and that on Easter Monday people are not obligated to be with their families. They are free to be with friends and to venture away from home, unlike the actual holiday of Easter. Often, the major cities in Italy hold festivities with egg related games, picnics, and food, food, food. Oh yes, the festas occur in the homeland too. Well, that makes sense for how they began in the US then.
As we drive, I want to keep an eye out for stores selling chocolate. I saw some mouthwatering pictures of the largest chocolate eggs I’ve ever seen in my life online. Do I have a Pinterest page for the holidays of Italy and Genoa specifically? Of course. A small human could fit inside one of those eggs so I had to pin them. Oh, and there are prizes inside the eggs too. How much fun that would be for a child…or an adult named Rachel?
Driving by a few parks, it looks like people are enjoying the sunny spring weather. I put down my window more and breathe in that Genoese air again. I want to be on that picnic blanket, by the colorful blooming tulip patches. If this door wasn’t locked, I can’t promise I wouldn’t escape to do so.
I fight my urges and we’re at the hotel before I know it. A tinge of exhaustion rolls over me as I get out of the car, but the next wave is a surge of a second wind. No time to rest, we are finally here.
Wow. I look up at the four story hotel and admire the sun soaked yellow painted stucco, age cracks and all. “Brian, look at our gorgeous hotel,” I say and point.
He pays the cab driver and pushes our suitcases toward me. Looking up a second, he says, “Um, yeah, it is nice. What’s nicer is that it has a bed. I’m exhausted. Can we relax in the room for a little bit before we go out?”
I see the fatigue in his drooping eyes. He has done so much for me over the past year that I can’t ever say “no” to him again for what he wants. Well, that’s an exaggeration, but this time I can definitely give him what he needs.
A couple hours later, with a nap and some snacks recharging our batteries, nighttime is upon us and we’re ready to explore this great city. “Brian, are you ready for our first proper Italian dinner?” I say as we step outside the hotel lobby doors. Italy may be an energetic hot spot for me because I don’t remember the last time I felt this alive.
“Yeah, let’s do it.” He grabs my hand, fingers intertwined.
We walk a short distance from Hotel Pace and I’m hit with the aroma of true Italian food. “We must be walking in the right direction. It’s going to be hard to choose where to eat with all of the choices.”
“My stomach can’t take much dilly dallying with the decision.” He rubs it with his free hand.
“I know what you mean.” Mine responds to his by rumbling and growling. “I am glad that places are even open on this holiday.”
“You got that right.”
As we walk by a couple apartment buildings and down narrow alleyways toward the scents filling the air, I notice a group of four older men playing cards. Trying not to stare, but allowing curiosity to surface, I look closer, slowing my walking pace to a near stop and leading Brian to give me a “What the hell are you doing now?” look. Staring into his eyes, I say, “Sorry, one sec.”
I recognize the game by their motions and appearance of the card patterns they are making. The men are playing Scopa! That Italian card game is something I have completely forgotten about in my adulthood. A memory of Grandpa and Grandma playing the game pops into my mind, with those strange looking small Italian cards that I see again in front of me. They don’t have numbers, just symbols, unlike American playing cards. They were so tiny for Grandpa’s big, strong hands. I want to hold all of the suits of cards and shuffle them through my hands. I always thought the pictures of the swords, cups, coins, and clubs were adorable and cartoon-like.
I’m trying to sneak a peek, but uh-oh, the men catch me gawking. One of them says something I don’t understand, but he sounds welcoming, so I creep closer.
“Buonasera,” multiple people say one right after the other, smiling and making eye contact with both Brian and me.
I reply with the same greeting, which I know is traditional for wishing others a good evening in Italy. They must know by my one word and awkward smile that I don’t speak Italian. So, thankfully, they switch to speaking to me in English, with their dense, yet adorable accents.
“You like to play?” one man asks. I’m not sure if he is simply asking if I like to play Scopa or if he is wondering if I’d like to play with them.
Trying to look normal, I reply, “I’m sorry for interrupting. I just noticed you are playing Scopa and it reminded me of when my grandpa used to play it with my grandma, when I was a little girl.”
Their warm smiles grow even larger.
“Well, your grandfather must have been a good Italian man,” one man says while making the Italian hand gesture where the thumb and fingers are pinched together and shaken. “All Italians play Scopa. And the best people even play Briscola.” He has the hint of a wink. I love the ease of bodily expression with my people.
“Oh, I’ve never heard of Briscola, but maybe he played that too. I don’t think I ever played Scopa with him, but seeing you play makes me want to know how.”
“Well, you are welcome to sit down and learn. It is very easy. Come on, sit,” another player encourages while getting up and walking toward extra chairs behind the group.
I look at Brian in yearning, but nod because I know our stomachs need food. I’ll have to look up information about the game later. W
e aren’t even in Italy a day yet and I am already finding a connection to my grandpa. It must be a sign.
“Oh, that’s okay, but thank you so much. We are on our way to find a place to eat dinner right now. But it was nice talking to you. Have a good game.” I wave for some reason and feel ridiculous.
“Ciao,” each of them call out, then get back to their game.
“Ciao. Grazie.” I walk away with Brian as I thank them.
“That was a game your grandpa played? Nice.”
“Yeah, it was wonderful to see. So unexpected. What a gift.” Is this place real? I may have to pinch myself.
Walking further down the alley and turning right at a fork in the cobblestone path, we find a restaurant that can be a possibility for dinner. “This place looks good,” Brian says while he eyes a menu on the restaurant window.
“Sure, fine with me,” I reply. “I don’t think any food will be bad here.”
As soon as we are seated and given menus, we are asked about our water choice. “I want to try sparkling water,” I reply to the waiter, which I read is the standard preferred choice in Italy.
Brian chooses the same type of water.
Almost instantly, the waiter brings our own individual bottles and exits again. We glance at each other with confused expressions. “How strange,” I say.
“Yeah, it sure is.” Brian picks up and examines the bottle.
“Well, I guess they can’t keep sparkling water in a pitcher to refill glasses, like restaurants in America do for the flat water. It would lose its bubbles within minutes. But what’s ironic is that in America, this water would cost more money than flat water, however, in Italy they’re about the same cost. Well, at least at this restaurant. But see, I am blending in as an Italian.”
“Spoken like a true Italian woman.” Brian smiles and drinks his special water.
Scanning the menu still, I say, “The first meal I order in the homeland has to consist of pasta. It is a must.”
“Agreed. All of their pasta is made fresh in house the menu states, so who can resist that?”
“Not us.”
When we finally have the pleasure of eating our meals, I’m taken to another dimension. The mussels and clams compliment the house’s spicy red sauce on the spaghetti. I think there’s a hot red pepper olive oil mixed in there because I see the tasty flakes. I swirl the noodles around my fork and take heaping bites.
Brian’s meal also looks extraordinary, with sausage and peppers in a mound on top of fettuccine piled high on his plate. I have to ask, “Can I try a bite?”
“Of course.” He pushes his plate near me. “Have two or three bites.”
And I do. “It’s outstanding, just as I would have expected a meal to be in Italy.
The portions are not the gargantuan American sizes either, which is refreshing to see. Since pasta is their primi, or first course, that makes sense. They need people to save room for the secondi and most Italians must eat an antipasto, or appetizer, in addition. I need to train my stomach to eat “as the Romans do.” Err, Genoese.
Once the waiter knows it’s our first night in Italy, he brings us complimentary Limoncello to have with our traditional northern Italian Easter bread dessert, colomba di Pasqua.
“Brian, can you believe this?” My eyes bug out.
He takes a bite as I continue to admire it. “Now this is good. I wish I knew their secret.”
I finally dive in, nodding my head and widening my eyes in agreement from the first bite off my fork. I want to swim in this batter. I want to roll around in the almond slivers they use to garnish it. But I guess eating it will have to do for now.
“The almond flavoring tastes especially fresh. They must make it from scratch too.” He holds the bite in his mouth a second and stares into the distance.
He must have sensational taste buds to know that kind of information.
“I’m sure. I especially love that it’s in a dove shape. That’s traditional for this holiday, I read. What a kind waiter to bring us this fresh Limoncello too. It’s sweet, not bitter, like I thought it would be.”
“I can’t believe you never had it.”
“Yeah, it isn’t something I thought I would like, but I was wrong.” I hold up my glass and tear myself away from the bread for a second. “Here’s to new experiences and opening our minds.”
Brian leans toward me. “Rachel? Is that you?”
“Yeah, it’s just the new and improved Rachel. At least, I’m getting there.”
We salute with our drinks for the first time in Italy.
Shortly after dinner, it’s time for bed. We are both ready to drop from fatigue. The time change between New York City and Genoa is six hours and we are up waaayyy past our bedtimes. I’m sure the food coma doesn’t help. But it will help us get a good night’s rest for our first full day of exploration tomorrow.
Our lips meet to kiss good night and before I know it, the pillow feels perfectly soft, and…
Chapter 37
As much as I would like to have an ordinary, touristy Italian vacation, that is not the reason we are here. And who am I kidding? I have never been normal by social standards a day in my life. Why would this trip be any different? We woke up today ready to hit the road for the genetic adventure. Mission Family History is in effect, as official as possible.
Our first stop this morning has to be the church. It doesn’t look that far from the hotel according to the map, so we leave the hotel and enjoy the journey by foot. We are not in the true urban part of the city, so we’ll be safe as pedestrians on this route.
In the bright spring daylight, the friendliest looking tan and red clay buildings on more cobblestone streets appear as we walk, as if they hid last night to get a good night’s sleep and returned to welcome us on our first day of business in their homeland. The green hills and gray mountains appear again in the sun. I missed seeing those beauties last night. Genoa looks like it was drawn in a children’s fairy tale book, imagined instead of solidly in the real world. How can a real place look so quaint?
Vendors are in the streets, as well as many shops along the corridors. The shop owners all have their doors propped open. Little old Italian men and women are taking care of their shops by sweeping the stoops and cleaning the windows. The pride they have in their businesses is apparent.
The smell of baked goods dances through the air, as well as strong coffee. The mix of brisk air and goodies make my heart happy. I take a cheerful deep breath, which is becoming a habit here, and keep putting one foot in front of the other, which I hope will lead me to the point of knowledge I’ve craved all this time.
“Brian, look at those candies in the window,” I blurt out as if I am eight years old again. Looking closer, though, there’s a lack of the large chocolate Easter eggs I hoped to see here in Genoa.
“Well, let’s go in,” he says without much thought, and luckily no judgment since he enters the tiny store right away.
I gladly follow.
On various levels of shelving, there are what seem like thousands of candied fruits. Figs, clementines, apricots, peaches, pears, plums, mandarins—and the list goes on. The artistically placed goods fan out in multicolored glory. Reds, oranges, browns, and purples all glisten with a coat of white sugar under the store lights.
The counter display allows for customers to grab whatever they want to make their own personalized box. This would never occur in the US, since in my experience candy left out in the open is only seen in stores giving away samples. There’s a pureness to this element in the store, a trust that nothing would be tainted. People would do the right thing and refrain from stealing or God forbid poisoning another’s candy. It’s not a concern. The store owner, I assume, goes about his business sweeping, and is unaffected when we get close to the selection.
“Scusi,” I say to the owner as I attempt to try out my Ita
lian. He stops sweeping and looks up at me. He must know I don’t speak Italian because he answers in English. Damn, I can’t fool anyone that I’m not Italian, nationality wise, anyway.
“How may I help you?” He leans the broom on the wall to give me his full attention.
I smile at his friendliness and say, “Thank you. I was wondering how much it would be to buy one piece of candy. Oh, and do you have any chocolate Easter eggs?”
“One piece of candy!” He throws his arms up into the air and frowns. “Nobody comes to my store and gets one piece. Why don’t you buy one and take another for your fellow at least? And, no I am sorry I do not have any eggs left. They were more popular this year than I expected.”
“Oh, you don’t need to give us any. I can buy another one for him. And that’s okay about the chocolate. I just figured I would ask you.”
“I won’t hear of it. Take whatever candy you would like, sir.” He directs his eye contact to Brian this time.
“Grazie, sir,” Brian shakingly replies and looks at me. He seems just as shocked as me with the forceful kindness.
We better accept it because the amiable man is not going to take “no” for an answer, so we both choose our pieces, me a simple apricot slice and Brian a clementine in chocolate that is filled with sweet juice. I can’t wait to eat mine, but feel strange biting into it here and now. Brian, however, eats his while I pay for mine.
Walking out of the store, Brian comments, “I can’t believe how many people have gone out of their way to show us a good time here so far. And we aren’t even here twenty-four hours yet.”
“That’s Italy, I guess! The nicest people on earth.” I say this as a joke, but mean it in truth. I go on, “I agree though,” I say more serious in tone. “I am stunned at the relaxed nature here. It feels like a different world from New York City. It’s so unhurried and as if the people take more time to enjoy their lives here. They seem to care about true priorities here, focusing on the small pleasures in life. And they want everyone to have that joy.” I connect his fingers with mine as we walk down the street further. The physical contact feels more natural again and I find myself loving every second.