Coming Home

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.