Italy

This month marks the five-year anniversary of my return from Italy. Haven't been back since then. I've thought about it a lot, and to tell the truth this time of year makes me miss it even more. Whenever I tell people that I've been to and lived in Italy, they generally say the same things. "Oh, I've always wanted to go to Italy!" or "I love Italian food!" or "I'm planning on going to Italy soon!" Sometimes, if they're really oblivious or simply have no sensitivity in their taste buds, they'll say, "My mom makes the best spaghetti in the world with Prego spaghetti suace and sliced hot dogs." Ugh.

Well, let me tell you a little secret: Italy is more than food and architecture and art and gondola rides. From the persepctive of one who has lived there for a couple of years, I will tell you exactly why the thought of Italy is such a strong source of nostalgia.

I miss walking everywhere. Lots of people in Italy have automobiles, but they really aren't necessary unless you want to go to the seashore, and even then it's just as easy to take a bus or a train. When you are in town, everything is so close together that one does not have to drive to the grocery store, to the church, or the downtown/ centro area. There aren 't any hills most of the time either, so it's easy to walk for miles without becoming exhausted. However, what I love most about walking is the attitude of not being in such a hurry to get somewhere that you need to take the car. Of course, that's probably part of the reason why many Italians are chronically late to everything, but which is worse: running around so quickly that you never enjoy anything or never being on time? I would say the former.

I miss playing frisbee by the Mediterranean at 6:00 a.m.

I miss the cafes and the pizzerias and the gelato shops.

I miss drinking San Pellegrino Chinotto by the liter.

I miss talking to the weirdos and lunatics every day. The guy who said Jesus was a fornicator and the Apostle John was a homosexual. The hairy-chested bum who walked around Main Street with no shirt or shoes and slept on a bench. The fellow who quoted the Lord's Prayer to me in Latin for no reason at all. The priest who wouldn't stop putting his hand on my shoulder. The old men who asked me daily if I'd been to the local whorehouse. The codger who was missing teeth and couldn't keep his saliva inside his mouth. The girl who walked by me in the street every day and asked if I would give her my tie (I think she was after something else, but I can't be sure). I miss the crazy man who walked past my apartment and made faces at me. I miss Maxwell and Ayo and James and all the rest of the African immigrants on the bus. I miss them every one of them.

I miss buying focaccia in Bari, pasticciotti in Lecce, and pizza at the little hole in the wall down by the train station in Foggia.

I miss the mountains in Sicily and Calabria.

I miss the dialects and look in someone's face when you say something like "Ciao beddu!"

I miss eating spicy calzones at the Romana Due in Crotone.

I miss the attractive girls on the bus.

I miss riding on trains whenever I have to go out of town.

I miss the salutations.

I miss speaking Italian every day.

I miss the open markets and squabbling with the merchants over the price of their merchandise.

I miss the strange hair styles and clothing.

I miss you, Italy.

Magari ci vedremo frappoco. Ciao, bella mia!