La Dolce Vita in Sicilia

            I honestly thought that with the lack of exams and trips, I’d be able to finish all late blog posts before I left Italy. Clearly, as I am sitting at my kitchen table in Virginia Beach, that is not the case. However, I refuse to let this blog go unfinished. So while the title of this page says Postcards from Bologna, you’ll just have to stretch your imagination a bit and pretend it says Postcards about Bologna, seeing as now, I am no longer in my red and orange-hued city.

            In my Italian Cinema course, we studied the directors Fellini and Pasolini and it wouldn’t have been a true cinema course without at least two weeks spent on La Dolce Vita. A lot of people hear about La Dolce Vita or see the occasional clip from it (Silvia’s nighttime swim in the Trevi Fountain, for example), but they’ve never actually seen the film in its entirety. I hadn’t seen it either until this class and I really enjoyed it, but having had no experience with Fellini in the past, I did not get what I was expecting. I expected a flashy portrayal Italy in the 1950’s, but I was pleased to learn about how the film was actually a critique of this shallow society and how it was too idealistic and self-indulgent.

            Well, “flashy”, and “self-indulgent” pretty much sums up my trip to Taormina, Sicily this May. We spent four days in the coast-side village—me, Rebecca, Lydia, and Kyra. We rented an apartment with AirBnb and for the price, it was amazingly situated right in the center of town. The city itself is a blaze of pastel-colored houses, whitewashed churches, and trellises of vines and purple flowers. There is a piazza called Piazza IX Agosto that is out of a picture-book, with its cliff-side views, tall white church, and violins and guitars playing stereotypical Italian music late at night. And, inevitably, we were inclined to look around us and yell out that cliché, “This is la dolce vita!” And it really, really was.

            We also explored the crumbling Greek amphitheatre—built in the 3^rd Century B.C.—that is on the hill above the city, looking out over both Taormina and the waters below it. It is the second-largest Greek amphitheatre in Sicily and is considered to be the most dramatically situated Greek theatre in the world. And there are no other words to describe it other than stunning. We went late in the afternoon and it’s those little moments—or maybe they’re actually the big ones—when you’re overlooking turquoise waters from the eroding steps of an ancient Greek theatre that life becomes a little unreal. La Dolce Vita indeed.

            We later managed to make it down to those turquoise waters, which was one of the best beach days I’ve ever had. We reached the beach by taking the funivia—a tram connected by wires that led us down the mountain. We had a few difficulties finding the public beach, since most Italian beaches are dominated by a thing called a lido, which is essentially a beach cabana. Usually, local Italians will rent an umbrella and the two chairs that go with it for an entire summer, so that they always have a place to come to. Luckily, us peasants were allowed to rent one for just a day. I originally was all for trying to hunt down that public beach, but Rebecca and Lydia have fair Scottish and British skin, so they advocated splurging the 15 euro for a spot on the lido so that they could use an umbrella. The water was so clear. Other than the jellyfish sting that kept me out of the water for twenty minutes, we spent the day relaxing in the sunshine, reading the Italian equivalent of Cosmo, and slept. It was wonderful.

            Obviously, an essential component to any vacation throughout Europe: food. Luckily, I was traveling with girls who had their priorities in order. We made sure to go to a tiny hole-in-the-wall that made “artisan” arancini. The place was run by a family with three generations of women who had a tendency to yell at the men in the kitchen while juggling three trays of arancini and a platter of pasta. Arancini, for those who aren’t as obsessed with Sicilian food as we are, are these fried orange-shaped rice balls, filled with rice, cheese, and any number of different fillings. My personal favorite was melanzane: mozzarella, tomatoes and eggplant; or sugo: ragu’ sauce, mozzarella and peas; or spinaci: spinach, ricotta and mozzarella. Well, let’s be honest…it’s almost impossible to pick a favorite. We ate about two a day, which is not the healthiest way to go through life, but when you’re vacationing in Sicily, healthy is not really an option.

            We also discovered cannoli. I’ve never liked this particular dessert before now; while in Taormina, I ate my weight in them. We found a bakery that used to be frequented by Bill. Clinton. and it was delicious. We also found a famous granita place, which we frequented…quite often. And by quite often I mean every day. One of my best decisions that trip was getting an orange and strawberry granita to go (with fresh cream on top) and bringing it to the gardens that overlook the cliffs of the town to read my Medieval History textbook in preparation for my exam.

            Taormina was not, in my opinion, a complete and true representation of Sicily. The island just off the tip of Italy’s boot is known for its rustic and sometimes rough-around-the-edges population, but Taormina is a tourist breeding ground. Its streets, lined with ceramics shops and little restaurants, are made for the average, middle-aged American couple. I loved it, though. For four days, we lived in a gilded world of extravagance and arancini. At night, the sounds of the restaurant below our apartment would drift up to our windows: the clinking of silverware on plates, soft laughter, and a man’s voice accompanied by a guitar, his singing made somewhat indistinguishable by his thick Sicilian accent. But it sounded familiar, somehow, like a lullaby you hadn’t heard in a while. It was all so incredibly perfect that it obviously had to end…after four short days, we returned to Bologna with tan lines and probably ten pounds each in ceramics. And maybe about a half a pound of mozzarella, since Lydia and I decided it would be a good idea/not messy at all to attempt to eat a ball of mozzarella in Catania’s airport (false: we ended up making a huge mess and there were at least ten nicely-dressed, normal Italians judging us as we split the mozzarella, dripping over the trash can). 

            Once we got back to Bologna, I had one day. One day to study for my exams before I left the next day for London. The dreamland of Taormina came crashing down around me as I scrambled to cram as much history and Italian literature into my head as quickly as possible. I was kicking myself for those twenty-four hours, wondering why I had ever thought this rigorous travel schedule was a good idea.

            But regardless of my rising stress levels, the next day I was on a flight to London and that trip cemented what I had started to realize on my first weekend out of Italy in Paris: that this “traveling thing”, jetting off to different places and experiencing different cultures and food and people…it wasn’t just an entertaining way to fill a weekend. It wasn’t just a cool status to post on Facebook. Traveling, as I realized when in London, was something that I couldn’t just let go of. It’s something that is starting to shape what I’m planning to do after graduation and everything that will follow after.  

© Copyright Danielle DeSimone. 2013.

Bouncing around Barcelona

            Before I talk about Barcelona, about Sicily, about London, about the beautiful sunshine in Bologna and about the fact that I have just about a week before I leave forever, let me just say—with all the joy in the world—that I AM DONE WITH EXAMS. When I explain how my exam week went, the usage of all-caps will be completely understandable. Now, however, I want to take a break from thinking about medieval history and go back to thinking about the colorful days and late nights of Barcelona.

            So there was a bit of confusion when we first got to Barcelona. We originally thought we had rented an apartment to ourselves for twelve people (you heard me right: TWELVE) but it turned out that the place where we stayed was a sort of mix between a hostel and an apartment, just on the edge of the city center. This meant that we had three rooms in this large apartment, sharing a common room and two bathrooms with the other people in the apartment. Also, the apartment owner thought that there were only eight of us, so we had to be a little sneaky while he was there (not to mention doubling-up to get everyone a bed). The reason we had so many people was because aside from the ECCO Bologna gang (Me, Lily, Sami, Krystal, Skyla, Megan and Raquel), there were also five of Lily’s friends who had been studying abroad in France and Spain. The most exciting part of these new faces joining us? BOYS. How strange is it to say that? And yet, sadly, so true. There are no guys in our program and being with American guys for a few days reminded me of why I often have difficulty making friends with Italian guys here, who typically are just trying to flirt with you.

            We spent the three days we had in Barcelona mainly just walking around and enjoying each other’s company. Lily’s friends were great and we had a lot of fun with them—especially since the Spain kids helped us through any interactions we had with native speakers. Sadly, the eight and a half years of Spanish that I’ve taken has seemingly completely disappeared from my head, although I’m sure when I’m not under a constant influx of Italian, I might remember a little bit more. I also felt better about the fact that I didn’t understand everything people were saying because Catalan is spoken extensively through Barcelona, which is not Spanish. At all.

            Barcelona was a wonder of architecture. With Antoni Gaudí having designed and built multiple buildings throughout the city, in addition to the famous Sagrada Família church, most of the entertainment was simply walking down the streets. There were just so many unique buildings! The city was much more modern and very different from anything I’ve seen thus far—in Europe or otherwise.

Eyeball building?

Sagrada Família

            We spent the nights eating tapas and drinking sangria; the most popular tapas were the patatas bravas: potatoes fried and covered in a sauce made of olive oil, red pepper, paprika, chili, tomato and vinegar. And even though we stayed out late, Megan, Raquel and I forced ourselves to wake up early in the morning to explore more of the city. We went on a tour of Barcelona’s Cathedral, which on the inside was very dark and gothic, but had a spectacular view of the city from the roof. It also had a beautiful courtyard that was a mix of shadows under ancient arches and sunshine dancing on the surface of green pools, disturbed only by the paddling of geese. It was so quiet in there—a nice change from the bustling streets near Las Ramblas. That little courtyard became one of my favorite places I’ve ever visited.

The Cathedral

            We also explored the famous food market, which was amazing. There were o many colors and smells and smoothies and different types of chorizo! We got paella there and it was some of the best I’ve ever had.

Las Ramblas

FRUIT AND SMOOTHIES: please come to Italy

Accurate

            We found the time to go to the Palau Musical, which was a choir house back in the early 1900’s. It too had the unique and mesmerizing architecture that so much of Barcelona seems to embody and its most amazing quality was definitely its use of natural light. There was an entire ceiling piece that was made to look like the sun, that when illuminated appeared to be a chandelier but was in fact just allowing as much natural light into the space as possible.

            At the end of the tour, our guide informed us that the hall was still used today and that, in fact, there would be a flamenco show performed there that very night. The other girls wanted to go along with the group’s plan for the night, but this was my only trip in Spain, so I bought myself a ticket, got dressed up that evening, and went to the flamenco show by myself. Such a good decision. The show was amazing and it was a lot of fun, having to navigate taxi rides in Spanish by myself.

            As a group, we climbed up to Parc Güell one afternoon to have a picnic. This ended up being sort of difficult, as it was less of a park and more of an extreme tourist attraction with very little grass to camp out on. That’s what you get for expecting to picnic in yet another one of Gaudí’s famous creations. Regardless, the park was amazing and definitely worth the hike.

            The weather was perfect throughout the time there. Our last night was beautiful in its simplicity: we searched out a tapas bar that was in a much more local area. We knew it would be authentic food based on the stares we got when walking in and sticking out like…well, like a crowd of ten Americans. But it was worth it. The meal at that last tapas bar was some of the best food I’ve had in my entire time in Europe. I loved sitting out in the warm air, laughing and joking around with new friends and an endless supply of patatas bravas and chorizo and sangria, trading stories about our respective countries and making plans to see each other when we were all back home in America. It’s strange. At the time, making those plans to see each other seemed so far off—as if this wonderland of travel and adventure was our current reality, and that of home was just a dream, a distant idea that we had forgotten. But now, with just a week left in Italy, it is Spain that seems like the dream, as the prospect of returning to America looms ever closer. And that makes me a little sad…if only because I really miss the chorizo. 

© Copyright Danielle DeSimone. 2013.

Exam Cram

So Lily and I have taken up a permanent residence in a local café called ItIt. It’s a cozy little place just down the street from ECCO’s office and the beauty of it is that it has solid, consistent internet. Other pros include delicious blueberry muffins, huge cushioned chairs that you can sink into, English Breakfast tea, Americana-esque music (think Elvis, Bill Haley & His Comets, or—randomly—the occasional indie-rock lullaby) and, most importantly, staff that does not mind that we live in their café. I am not exaggerating. The patience of the ItIt staff is kind of legendary. There have been a few days in which the two of us have camped out in a dark corner of the café, strategically placed by an electrical plug to keep our computers charged, from around 10 a.m. until closing time…at 8 p.m. We only leave to go buy food for lunch that is cheaper than ItIt’s organic sandwiches. The ItIt staff not only lets us stay for this long period of time without questioning us, but they also say nothing as we smuggle in kebabs or large hunks of foccaccia that clearly did not come from their kitchens.

            There actually haven’t been too many of these days, overall, but in these few days that we are in Bologna we must make the most out of our time to study. Just before April ended, I realized that I had a grand total of eight days to study for my five exams. Yes, you heard me right. 8 days for 5 exams. Also, these days are broken up, so it’s not like I have one, huge block of time to study. How did this happen, you ask? Well, to be honest, I’m wondering that myself. It seems that Past-Danielle had very little concern for the study schedule that Future-Danielle would face in May. As such, Present-Danielle is sort of stressed out and is scrambling to figure out a way to do this. Obviously, everything will work out. But there is no doubt this is a challenge.

            The issue is that as soon as I got back from my weekend in Gaeta, I had three ItIt-filled days of studying before my wonderful four days in Barcelona. I currently am on the last of three more days of studying before I go to Sicily with Rebecca, Lydia and Kyra (tomorrow!!) and today I took Ivan’s Writing Workshop exam. When I get back from Sicily, I will have ONE DAY before going to London with Michelle. And upon returning from London sometime in the early morning of Saturday the 18th of May, I will have the rest of that Saturday and then Sunday to study…before exams begin on Monday.

            So. Things are busy. Things are exciting, but they are certainly busy. I know that at home, my parents are nervously wringing their hands, remembering the promise I made them at the beginning of the semester: I will return to the States with 15 credits of classes. This will happen. Not only am I determined to achieve these 15 credits, I also (obviously) want to do well in my classes. I know semesters abroad can turn into vacations abroad for a lot of American students (and I’ve certainly had my fair share of vacation) but I also have really enjoyed my classes and I don’t want to let myself or my professors down right at the homestretch.

            So I will be studying and traveling traveling traveling. I have no time left to write about my four-day-Barcelona-extravaganza, but that will come soon. I promise. After my exams, I’ll have more than a week to play catch-up with blog posts and to enjoy Bologna before heading back home on the 31st. Ahhh! It’s so soon. I’m excited for this summer and for my upcoming Senior year at UMW (yikes—how am I a Senior?!) but I’m also devastated that this whirlwind semester is coming to a close. I went into this knowing that it would go by quickly. Every time I told someone that I would be studying abroad for a semester, I got that same response: Wow. That’s going to go by so fast! I kept this in mind every day, every week, every month that I was here. Every meal, every opportunity for travel, I leapt at. Even my full five months didn’t seem like a very long time…and now that I’m here at the end of it, I’m constantly wondering how this all went by so fast and yet how long ago that first plane ride to Italy now feels.

            But I can’t think about leaving too much because it takes away from the moments I have left here. For now, I’ll just call it a night and head to bed in preparation for Sicily tomorrow, where I’ll be exploring a seaside-town called Taormina. I am beyond excited...but I will also be lugging along my Italian Medieval History textbook. It can't all be fun and games.

I’ll leave you all with the knowledge that tonight, when trying to discuss the horrors of McDonald’s usage of preservatives and chemicals in its food, I used the word preservativi and was very confused as to why my roommates burst out laughing. This just proves that every day, I am learning new things…or at least forgetting old things that I had already learned. I just informed my roommates that McDonald’s French fries are disgusting because they remain looking unchanged for over a month, due to the fact that they are made out of condoms and chemicals. What can I say? Every day is a new adventure.

Motivation

Casually listening to Italian/Europe trashy pop music to get myself through studying and writing blog posts and packing for Sicily tomorrow (WHY AM I SO BUSY?!).

Enjoy a little "culture" all the way over here from Bologna



This guy is basically Italy's next American Idol winner.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZvrJafIrgIA


Club music always gets me through studying Dante, how about you?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3P06kyFpIQU

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.