by C. D'Angelo
Chapter 38
After yesterday’s fantastic church outing, I needed to recuperate before venturing to Grandpa’s childhood home. Even good energy is energy for this introvert. Plus, all scenarios must be thought out and all of my questions need to be in order for this possible meeting with Great-Aunt Angeline. I spent the night in what I call ‘planning ecstasy,’ after our second delicious Italian dinner. I just hope she still lives there.
This morning I feel refreshed and ready to see his old house. My journal is in my purse and ready to be filled out if needed. I even have extra pens, just in case I write so much, ink runs out of one—or two or three.
Leaving the hotel room, I say, “Brian, you know we need to bring something to her home, right?”
“Oh yeah, your rule. What are you thinking about?”
We start descending the stairs.
He always thinks a gift is an unnecessary “rule” of mine when I visit someone’s home, he’s told me. I was taught never to visit someone’s house empty handed—always bring something to eat and if not food, at least something to add to their home decor. As Brian and I are together longer, he seems to understand my values aren’t going to change. My rule feels like the right thing to do, so maybe he is not just giving in via defeat, but also agrees with it at this point in our lives. Fingers crossed. But what to buy her…?
“I don’t know what a typical item to bring would be food-wise here, and I don’t want to offend her. Maybe—”
He cuts me off, “How would you offend her?”
“I don’t know all of the ins and outs of a culture sometimes. Even though I know a lot about being Italian, what if there is some weird thing about American strangers claiming they are family members who come to your house bringing candied fruits? Like, it means lock the doors because they’ll steal all your valuables.”
“Okay, Rachel. I do not think that cultural standard exists, but just in case, let’s think of a non-offensive gift that doesn’t scream ‘run for your lives.’”
“Sounds good.” He gets me, or at least plays along.
Walking out of the hotel lobby and down the main street, we stop at a bar to buy cups of espresso while we ponder the big decision. We act as true Italians by standing at the counter of the bar. It’s funny that bars in Italy aren’t necessarily for alcohol.
All the serving sizes for coffee are smaller in Italy than I’m used to, but espresso is the same size as the amount typically purchased in America. The size is the only aspect of similarity, however. And taste? Well, that’s a million times better than at home. The typical Italian dark roast has a hint of bitterness but is also smooth and sweet. How can that be? The strength of its aroma sends warmth throughout my entire body, like a blanket placed on my shoulders from my grandma. Maria B.’s Coffee Café down the road from our apartment can’t compare one percent of their blend to the blends we are sipping in Genoa. Sorry, Maria.
After a few minutes of standing at the counter, I still draw a blank for the gift choice. “I hoped the jolt would stir up an image of something to bring, darn it. I want to find the ideal gesture of ‘hello,’ ‘thanks,’ ‘hey I’m your family,’ but I don’t know what would be acceptable. No, scratch that; it must be perfect. Nothing but the best for my family.”
“Rach, why don’t we just ask the guy over there?” He discretely points to the man behind the counter, currently wiping up spilled coffee on the floor.
“He looks too busy for us to bother him with this issue. I feel weird asking him this foreigner question.” My breathing rate increases with the thought of looking incompetent in front of, well, a stranger in a strange town. Such is a usual feeling from yours truly.
“Come on, Rachel. It’s fine.” He doesn’t talk further about it with me before he calls out “scusi,” and waves his hand to get the man’s attention.
I want to cringe. Let me sink down onto the floor and under the counter. Rachel has left the building.
“Sí, signore?” the kind man says as he drops his rag and walks over to us. We are always stopping people from cleaning, I guess.
Brian starts, “In Italy…”
No, he’s not… I cover my eyes with my hand and look away from him.
He continues, unaffected. “Do people usually bring gifts when they visit another person’s house?”
“Sí, signore, sí. They would not make a visit without a tiny present to show the honor of being at the person’s home.”
“Great, so what do people give as gifts here in Genoa?” Brian says in response to the confirmation of the validity of my rule.
“Oh, well you see, people bring everything. They can bring food, pastries, flowers, wine… Those are the most customary gifts. But do not give red roses. Those are the flowers of love.” He grins, while looking between both of us.
Brian smiles, says, “Grazie for your time,” and nods his head.
He turns to me as the man goes back to work and says, “See, now was that so bad?”
My knee jerk reaction is to scream the obvious answer, “Yes.” And I do.
“Oh, stop. Now we know what to bring.” He jabs my shoulder lightly.
“Yeah, but where do we choose any of those presents from? And I don’t think I want to bring alcohol. What if my family member is the one Italian who doesn’t drink wine? That would be my luck.”
“Even though you are being, well, very Rachel-like, I think maybe we can stick to chocolate or pastries. Something like that can’t go over wrong.” He seems confident when he suggests these items, which calms me a notch.
This idea is on the right track for me. A small box of pastry or chocolate will be easy to slip in my purse and to carry to Via Figura today. “Sure, let’s find some sweet treats. Ready?”
As we walk through the narrow alleys, on the same path as the day before, we smell the strong bakery scents whirling through the air once more. We follow our noses to a shop just around the corner from the main alley. I hadn’t noticed this place yesterday, but today am called to it directly, upon the recognition of the sweet fragrance releasing from the store.
Our noses are correct. This store has two counters, one on each side for the length of the tiny room, each with three tiers of pastries of all kinds. Tortas, biscotti, and a variety of colorful cookies’ beauty shines under the ceiling lights like diamonds. As if a spotlight goes straight to the sfogliatella pastries, I know that is my choice. Simple, easy to carry, and delicious. Sfogliatelle it is.
Now we have caffeine coursing through our veins—which I don’t need being so nervous, but whatever—and we also have our gift, so our mission is afoot. Continuing on our now familiar trail, we walk toward the protruding cathedral that provided us with so much family information yesterday I feel like I should bow down to it in tribute. Just past the building, a dirt road continues into the hills. That is our path to take today.
Good thing I put on my new black walking shoes. All the gravel, dirt, and clay would have done a number on my light-colored shoes from yesterday. I can’t meet my relative looking like a cavone. You know, I mean like a no-class fool.
As soon as we start on the inclined path, I realize these hills do not look as steep as they actually are, jeez! A tad out of breath, embarrassingly so, I look over at Brian, who is gliding along as if he was born for this terrain. He must feel my eyes glaring into him because he looks back at me and smiles before picking up his pace. Pure evil.
“Come on,” he yells to encourage me. “We are getting there. Just a little bit more.”
“Coming,” I respond, swinging my fist like a champ. Of course, he doesn’t see that or my eyes rolling.
Three fourths of the way up the hill, we finally see Via Figura. There are not many roads up here, so it isn’t hard to find the street. The village is made up of tiny homes on large, spaced out green grass filled lots of land. Maybe there used to be farms here. There is
enough room for them.
We are at number ten and need number three, so we keep walking on the route to Grandpa’s old home, allll the way down the winding road. I gasp for air now and make a deal with myself to start exercising when I get home.
This is quite a trek from his church. How did Grandpa do it and how did the older people, like his parents, handle it? Or Great-Aunt Angeline recently? My gosh.
People are outside of their homes along the way, and they are friendly as ever. A woman hanging her clothes on a line smiles and waves as we walk by. Another woman tidying up a flower bed full of budding purple beauties calls out “Buongiorno,” and we reply with the same greeting. Italians are always saying “good morning,” “good afternoon,” and “good evening” to us. So polite. So formal. So un-American.
After passing number four, the tip of Grandpa’s tiny house’s red clay roof shows itself, far in the distance. My heart leaps and my feet glide as easy as Brian’s all of a sudden. The contrast of the house’s white stucco walls and its forest green wooden door and window shutters feel relaxing in a strange way. Did it look this way when Grandpa was a boy? Would he have had this image in his mind while he crossed the large Atlantic Ocean with his family, never knowing if he would ever see it again?
Standing right in front of Via Figura 3, I stop to collect my thoughts. “Brian, do we just go up and knock?”
I’ve thought of every possible interaction once meeting my family, I think, but not this starting moment. There was no way I could bring myself to knock on a stranger’s door in Philly at Grandpa’s old home but will have to be brave now. I didn’t travel all this way to chicken out. But eek.
“Well, that is usually the way it’s done to have someone open their door.” He puts his arm around my shoulder for support, with a sprinkle of his playful mocking laugh.
Speaking rapidly now through short breaths, “I’m nervous to meet her. Great-Aunt Angeline has no idea we are here, or even maybe has no idea about me at all. I don’t know what she knows. What do we do?”
Brian doesn’t respond with words. They won’t calm me down so it’s useless and he must know that by now. He walks to the front door, and I robotically follow, in a half slow and surreal, half fast and totally aware of the anxious moment state. I smooth out my hair that I bet is a mess and frizzy as ever as we approach the front door. I take out my box of sfogliatelle so it is ready to be given as a sign of goodwill and pray that it may help ease any awkwardness. This must happen, no matter my comfort level. Just as I am about to knock, the door flies open and a dark-haired boy, about seven years of age, runs out past us.
“Roberto, torna dentro adesso!” a woman screams from inside but doesn’t appear in view. The boy continues to run to a shed-like building near the side of the house. He appears to be finding it humorous that his mom, I assume, is repeatedly calling for him because he keeps laughing to himself as his tiny feet carry him along.
He slips inside the shed for a moment then runs back to the house with a cannister in hand. The door is left wide open, so we watch him take the lid off the cannister and dump out toy figures all over the floor. Still unaffected by us, toys going everywhere, and a woman calling for him, he continues his plan. He did say “Ciao” upon passing us, so it’s as if this is a common occurrence, to have foreigners on their doorstep.
Although he left the front door open, I figure I should still knock and maybe call out to the lady inside as well. Softly, I say, “Ciao,” with increasing loudness over three times, until the woman comes over. When she appears, I realize the boy looks just like her.
She speaks in Italian, which of course we don’t understand. It is so fast, but so beautiful. The blank stare must be sinking in because she pauses and asks, “Parli Italiano?”
I say, “No, sorry. Parli Inglese?”
“Sí. How can I help you?” she replies, smiling and giving a sense that we are not inconvenient to her at all. “Sorry if my son was rude to you. He does not always obey his mother.” She looks at him to give him a disappointed look, but he still seems like he couldn’t care less.
“Oh, no. We are fine. Do not worry. I just want to introduce myself to you.” Knowing this person can’t be Great-Aunt Angeline because of her youth, my anxiety dissipates, but my voice is still shaky. I continue speaking though. “I’m Rachel Granza and this is my boyfriend Brian Holden. We heard that Angeline Santoro lives here. Is she home right now?”
“No, I am sorry, miss. She moved a few months ago.”
“Oh. That is too bad.” Looking down, I am at a loss for more words, when Brian picks up where I leave off.
“That’s okay. Do you know where she lives now then?”
“No, again sorry. I never knew the Santoro family. But you may try asking that neighbor over there,” she says pointing to the house to the left and across the street. “They may know. I think they have been friends for a long time, so they probably have the new address.” Her face shows true apology for not knowing where to direct us.
I want so badly to be able to see the inside of my grandpa’s home. This is the first thought that comes to mind when the woman tells us she didn’t know my relative. Oh, the hell with it.
I blurt out, “Ma’am would you mind if we saw the inside of your home? See, my grandpa lived here as a boy and it would mean a great deal to me to be able to see it. We traveled a long way to find out information about my family and also to witness some of his youthful experiences.” I am going to go on explaining, but she stops me by placing her hand on my shoulder.
“Of course. This is no problem for me. Come in. My name is Cella and it is nice to meet both of you.” She turns around to lead us inside, and as I look at Brian his eyes are wide with surprise at my courage, I assume.
I whisper to him, “Hey, I couldn’t leave here without seeing it.”
He shakes his head in agreement.
The house alerts my sense of smell upon walking into the small family room in the front of the house. It isn’t the smell of food, which is familiar to me in a home, but rather a smell from an old library. Older homes often have that sort of musty aroma, I’ve found. It is pleasant to me, whatever the smell is in this particular Italian home.
She proceeds to allow us a minute to take in the family room’s scenery, with its two tan cloth recliner chairs and a small circle shaped side table holding an in-progress puzzle. Adjacent to this room, I see the kitchen with its royal blue tiled walls, only breaking in their pattern for a small yellow wood bordered window above the sink. The mountains and a rather large private vegetable garden appear in its frame, from what I can see at this distance. Viewing the bright green of the outside in contrast to the deep blue tile is stunning. The appliances look older, which may mean they were Great-Aunt Angeline’s property. A dark wooden four seater table is in another small room, off of the kitchen. Maybe that was her table too.
Cella kindly guides us through her entire house. The narrow hallway off of the room with the table leads to two more rooms and a bathroom. All walls are freshly painted white, with yellow wooden window frames and windowsills. This is like another scene from a book, for me. Which room was my grandpa’s when he lived here? Maybe it was the room the little boy moved to play in now, which looks like his bedroom according to the toys everywhere.
As Cella takes us back to the kitchen of her new home, she talks about how she plans to decorate. “The furniture was sold with the house, so these colors and the decorating style aren’t my choice. This is the reason no pictures are hung yet. I want to buy new furniture before I hang anything.”
“That makes sense,” I say. But, this has to mean the furniture and style was Great-Aunt Angeline’s and possibly some of Grandpa’s parents’ items and decor choices as well!
“Would you like anything to eat or drink?” she asks.
“Water would be wonderful,” I say.
“Yes, please, water.
” Brian agrees.
It would be offensive not to accept something to eat or drink, I know. And speaking of offensive, I forgot all about the box of pastry I am gripping tightly in my nervous hands. I hope there isn’t wetness from my probable sweat. I awkwardly grin and give her the box with a heartfelt “Grazie” and continue by saying, “for showing us your home.” She accepts and thanks us.
Cella puts the dessert on a plate and brings it to the table in the side room, motioning for us to sit. Even I can’t eat at a time like this. Brian continues a conversation with her. I fade away from the moment.
Grandpa was here. In this home. I look around at the rooms in view. Many hopefully happy memories were made there, right there, and over there. He was taken here as a baby, and he left as a teenager, his home for all of his childhood. This is where he maybe last saw his mom and sister. The thought would be glum if not for it feeling gratifying to be sitting in the same room where this may have occurred. I’m closer to him this way.
I am near enough to the wall to touch it without being seen, so I reach out from under the table. I want to experience all that I can while I am here. Taking a mental photograph in my mind, I breathe in the smell of the old musk, make sure to remember the floor plan and colors of his house, feel the smooth, cold walls with my fingers, and become aware of my feet firmly planted on the ground. Remember this, Rachel. I know that I will.
I pop out of my daydream just in time to hear Cella ask if we want to see her back yard area, where the garden is located. “I was told the garden existed for many years,” she says while leading us out the back door seconds after our obvious agreement.
This could mean it was tended to by Grandpa as a boy. He enjoyed growing fruit and vegetables when he was older, so maybe that was a joy instead of a chore for him. Maybe he wasn’t made to do it, but offered.