It's a funny thing about coming home. Looks the same, smells the same, feels the same. You'll realize what's changed is you.
Two
weekends ago I decided to make the long trek down to Gaeta, the little town in
the region of Lazio in southern Italy where I lived for three years while my
Dad was stationed at the Navy base there, just about an hour from Naples. With
such a busy semester, I wasn’t sure if I would actually be able to make it to
Gaeta (it is, after all, a very long trip), but it seemed ridiculous not to make
an effort to go back. So, with shorts, flip-flops, and Viola in tow, we took
the three trains down from Bologna to the place that I called home for some of
the most important years of my life.
When
we arrived in the train station of Formia (the city just ten minutes from
Gaeta—much more commercial and modern), the humidity and sun hit us like a wall
as soon as we stepped out of the doors. Within a few seconds, I had an Italian
running at me and hugging me and it took me a moment to realize that it was
Selene and she was saying my name over and over again and jumping up and down. For
those who don’t know, Selene was my other half for the three years that I lived
in Gaeta; there was rarely a moment we weren’t together at the beach, sneaking
into our neighbor’s yards “searching for buried treasure”, playing with stray
dogs that we found on the street, stealing honeysuckle from the walls of the gardens
around us and—most importantly, it seemed—obsessing over Harry Potter. It’s thanks to Selene that I learned Italian so well
and so quickly: I spent almost every single day playing with her one particular
summer after my first year in Italian school, either at her house or mine.
Selene and her family became very close with my own family. Both sets of
parents became friends and we all vacationed together multiple times. And,
lucky for me, Gianni and Lunnetta (my second parents) were more than happy to
host Viola and I for the weekend for my trip back home.
As
soon as we got back to Selene’s house, it felt like home. Nothing had changed
in her house—nothing. Even the little
knick-knacks lining the shelf under the bathroom mirror were in the same
position as they had been ten years before. One of her dogs was still there
(Sceila!) and the only thing that had changed about her room was that it seemed
a lot smaller than I originally remembered. Our neighborhood is also
interesting in that all of the townhouse buildings were built in the same way,
facing the same direction (towards the bay of Gaeta). So being in Selene’s
house was like being back in my own house, in that its structure was exactly
the same. Viola and I stayed in the bunk beds in Hansel’s room (Selene’s older
brother), which was the room that I had had when we lived there. I fell asleep
to the familiar swinging glow of the lighthouse, stretching across the waters
of the bay and shining through our windows.
Iconic Gaeta view
Gianni
and Lunnetta took care of us for every single meal, which was incredibly
generous of them and, of course, delicious. The weather forecast had originally
predicted high 70’s and sunny, but it rapidly changed, which was the only
downside to the entire weekend. We battled rain and wind and chills both Friday
and Saturday. The Sun only emerged on Sunday, the day we were leaving, which
was too bad, as Gaeta is a beach-town and is really best appreciated in summer
weather. But regardless of the poor weather, I had a great time and I am so
glad Viola came with me—we had a lot of fun together.
The
neighborhood that Selene and I had lived in was actually situated right on the
edge of Formia, on a steep mountain, but my parents and I had always spent the
majority of our time in Gaeta. Although we had a few of our Italian friends in Formia,
the American base, my Italian school, the charming historical center, and the
rest of the Americans all lived in Gaeta when we were there. Gaeta—not
Formia—is where I have most of my memories, and Selene was patient enough to
drive me multiple times to and from Gaeta so that I could indulge my intense
nostalgia that had me begging her to walk just a few more streets in the rain, just
one more store that I once bought a book in a decade before from someone I
couldn’t even remember.
Selene’s
boyfriend Alexandro was with us for a lot of the trip, which was a lot of fun.
He was very personable and was able to pull shy Viola out of her shell, while
also catching me up on everything Selene had been up to in the years that we
had been apart. We went out to a few bars and also got gelato from Il Molo multiple times—a gelateria that was essentially my second
home and also happens to be an award-winning establishment, with approximately
20 trophies on their walls for “exquisite gelato.” When I left Italy, I had
drawn them a picture saying “Grazie per tutto il gelato” and they still had it
on the wall, which was adorable and also really strange to see (sadly, my
drawing skills have not improved in ten years).
Favorite gelato hangout!
On
Saturday, I went back to my elementary school! This was kind of terrifying. I
didn’t call in advance to let them know I was coming, which actually ended up
being a good thing, as they would have probably turned us away. As soon as we
walked through the doors, a very intimidating nun came flying out of nowhere
and demanded who we were. I was an emotional mess, seeing the halls of my
school, so my explanation of who I was came out disjointed and Angry-Nun was
not impressed. She informed me that today there was no school and it was not a
good day for visits—the head nun from their order, a woman from France, was
coming very shortly and they needed to get ready. I’m not sure I really
understand who this woman was…some sort of Queen of Nuns? Selene, Viola and I
all called her la Regina delle Suore
for the rest of the trip, since Queen of Nuns seemed like the only appropriate
name for a French woman who could whip these Italian nuns into such a panicked
frenzy.
I
was so intimidated by the abruptness of this nun that I started to agree with
her and inch away, but thankfully Selene stepped in and insisted that I see
some old teachers, or anyone who would remember me. The nun looked at me for a
moment before demanding if I knew Pina. Pina! Yes, I knew Pina. Pina was a
non-nun (but still an old lady) who was essentially the groundskeeper of the
school. Angry-Nun called Pina over but of course, Pina did not remember me. It
did not matter, apparently. Because I knew someone, Angry-Nun decided that I was
worthy of a school tour. She made some random teacher (who was not running
around getting ready for the Regina delle
Suore) take us about the school. I didn’t recognize this teacher, but she
was nice enough and showed us all of the upstairs classrooms and the “gym” (the
somewhat-dangerous room filled with marble walls and columns used for
recreational purposes) on the bottom floor. Ironically, they now had an entire
computer room. When I had gone to school there, my mom had raised enough money
to buy three computers for the school to use for educational purposes, but the
nuns had hidden them away because they considered them too precious to be
touched. Now they have technology and computer classes. Of course.
The
classroom I had spent three years in was different when I walked in. It was
smaller, of course. They had also painted the white walls a sort of salmon
pink/orange and there were a lot more decorations on the walls, in comparison
to when I had been there and the only thing on the walls had been a map from
the 1940’s of Italy and Europe. The desks were also situated differently, but
the easel chalkboard was still the same, and I couldn’t help but smile when I
saw it. That chalkboard served many purposes—it was often a goal for those
in-class soccer games during snack time, in which the boys would play soccer
with a ball made of bunched-up paper and duct tape. It was where Francesca
proclaimed her love for Adriano, written with a shaking hand in pink chalk and
a heart circled around their two names on the backside of the board. It was
where I struggled through too many math problems and helped with definitions
during our English class (the “foreign language” class). I sat down in one of
the chairs and it was so weird, being back there. Mainly because there were no
children in the school and everything was silent, but also because those chairs
were teeny tiny and I probably broke it.
My classroom!
When
we came back downstairs, there was a nun waiting for us who apparently did remember me: Suora Francesca. She
remembered my name and pinched my cheeks when she saw me, smiling and being
sure to kiss not only both of my cheeks, but also Selene and Viola’s. She kept
a good grip on my wrist, asking me about what I was doing now and how my
parents were, until our teacher offered to show us the gym and Suora Francesca
told me that she would be right back.
A
few minutes later, she came down the stairs holding the arm of the Madre Superiore—the Mother Superior. It
is a miracle, in all honesty, that this woman is still alive. I have never seen
someone so ancient. Even ten years ago she had seemed old, but now she was so
frail that I was afraid that if I held her hand too tightly she would crumble. Amazingly,
she remembered me and was all smiles and blessings as she asked me the same
questions—what was I doing now, how are my parents, why was I here. She
wouldn’t let go of my arm and seemed oblivious to the craziness of the other
sisters and Pina running around her, getting ready for the Queen of Nuns. I got
really emotional at this point and almost started crying…meanwhile, Viola was crying
beside me because, as she told me later, it was like watching a reunion in a
movie. I think it really meant a lot for the Madre Superiore to see me and I really loved going back there and visiting
my school. She made me promise that I would come back to visit, but it made me
sad to realize that it might be a while before I’d be able to return to Gaeta,
and she might not be there by the time I get back.
Hallways (floors were originally Ancient Roman roads)
The entrance
The walkway leading to my school doors
The
rest of our time in rainy Gaeta was spent eating pizza (Roby from Pizzeria Rustica still remembered me!)
and exploring the street that Americans called Piccolo Alley, but everyone else
knows as Via dell’Indipendenza.
There, I also met the owners of the leather store that my parents had been friends
with (and where my mom had spent many hours shopping) and they remembered me
too! This was very exciting. They even pulled out the Christmas cards we still
send them every year and showed them to me, insisting on giving me a discount
on a beautiful leather wallet, which I brought back as a souvenir. I didn’t get
to see any of my old classmates or teachers (they forgot to check their emails
to set up a rendezvous point with me) but I luckily had the chance to see
Roberta—a classmate and a friend—a month or two ago when she came to visit her
brother in Bologna, which was great.
While in Gaeta, we also climbed la
Montagna Spaccata, which is a mountain/cliff in Gaeta that was supposedly
split in three the moment Christ died. Whether or not this is true, it’s a beautiful place, and I used to hike here
with my parents a lot. It was really nice getting outside with trees, breathing
clean air as opposed to city smog.
Climbing down/up to Montagna Spaccata
The split that leads out to the sea
Selene and Alexandro (what cuties!)
Viola, Me and Selene
On
Sunday, before we had to catch our SIX-HOUR INTER-CITY TRAIN (so painful),
Selene and Viola and I took advantage of the Sun (which had finally decided to
show its face) and had a nice walk down on the beach. Selene and Alexandro saw
us off to the train station, where Selene hugged me about fifty times and made
me promise that I would come visit her soon in Perugia, where she goes to
college.
It
was so nice to go back to Gaeta and Formia, but it was also strange. The place
hadn’t changed a lot, other than being quieter with the lack of American base,
but it was very much like seeing an alternate universe. When Selene, Viola,
Alexandro and I all went out to Selene’s favorite bars, she and Alexandro were
welcomed by the owners like family. We met up with some of Selene’s old friends
and traded stories over beers and “Christmas shots” that Selene and Alexandro
insisted that we try. Later we got gelato and walked along the sea, looking out
at the lights across the bay and the boats that rocked with the stormy waves. It
was then that I became incredibly nostalgic for the life I could have had. There was even a moment when Selene said very
honestly and abruptly: “things weren’t good after you left” and I thought…what
if I hadn’t left? I could’ve grown up there, beside the sea, still speaking
Italian every day and traveling throughout the world on spring vacations or
three-day weekends. I would’ve gone to Morgana’s Bar or The Dutchman with
Selene and Alexandro and their friends on the weekend, and it would’ve been me greeting the bartender by name. I
probably would’ve gone to Perugia for college with Selene and we would have
commuted home every month or so to return to the south, where the sun and my
parents and everything I had grown up with still waited for me.
But
the locked gates of the base gave off an eerie, ghost-town sort of vibe. I have
been back to Gaeta three times since I first left ten years ago, but this
fourth time was the strangest, if only because I was so much older than the
other times I visited. I didn’t quite fit there anymore, as much as I wanted
to, and maybe that was the strangest part. Knowing that the place you had
always considered to be “home” had somehow changed—or maybe you had—and it wasn’t quite what you
thought it to be anymore.
But that view of Gaeta early Sunday
morning, when the Sun had just hit the water and everyone else in the house was
still asleep, felt so familiar to me that I stood out on that balcony for
almost an hour, perfectly content in watching the city wake up and remembering
all those other mornings that started exactly the same way, just ten years ago
to this month.
