La Familia

One hot summer day, on a sandy playground, my destiny changed. My four years in Italy could have been the generic experience of a military kid—attending a military school, playing with military kids, safely staying within the military community. Fate changed the trajectory of my life, however, by placing me in contact with the wide-eyed, smiling face of an Italian girl mixed in among the Americans. We were drawn to each other through a type of curiosity. Maybe it was her brown bobbing curls or the strange language she tried to communicate to me, but for some reason when she gestured for me to follow her I did. It is strange to me now, that I sought interaction with another human being I couldn’t understand. I am not sure what was going through my mind at that moment; but I imagine, it was open like all childhood minds.

After that day we met every day and she pointed at things and spoke words and I shook my head yes or no. “Bevi?” – she points to a glass, I nod yes, and she gets me water. Imagine my horror when she gets the water from the tap! My parents expressly telling me that the tap water wasn’t good to drink. I see her drinking it with a big smile. Surely it must be safe. I imagine my parents were just exaggerating. I will later find out over two weeks of the worst stomach sickness in my life, my system was not prepared for that water. “Angela” - she points to herself. “Laura,” I reply pointing to myself in return. I became a normal staple in Angela’s home. We run in and out, hot and sweaty, grabbing water or food, or stopping to play some made-up game in the confines of her room. A small room she shared with two other sisters.

Millions of visitors come to Italy every day. Cruise ships spill people out on the shores like marbles while others fly in and stay awhile. Tourists view the historic buildings, the art masterpieces, and the sprawling coastlines and it seems like the romantic dream of Italy they always envisioned. Tourists see the people—waiters, guides, lovers, beachgoers—but unless you see the Italian family you don’t see Italy. Seeing Italy without seeing the Italian family is like seeing a beautiful book cover but never opening it to see the substance inside. Inside the book is where the heart and soul of Italy actually emote itself, inside is where the family lies, and I was lucky enough to get a glimpse.

My story of the Italian family consists of sights and sounds and smells. A TV always on in the kitchen corner, while fresh pasta is left to dry on broom handles suspended between two chairs. Nonna and Mamma preparing the midday meal not long after the morning caffè and biscotti. The acidic smell of Marzano pomodori, olive oil, lemons, and le vongole di mare sweetening the air in the afternoon. A large sit-down lunch or dinner on the balcony with the extended families of the campaniliste joining on surrounding balconies. Everyone eating, drinking, and laughing at the same time in what sounds like a thousand parties from the street below. It’s the sound of clanking dishes, a shout, a laugh, a dog barking, kids yelling and laughing, permeating throughout the sky. If you close your eyes it sounds like a soundtrack—like a type of music. Family nights out are out on the town, the parents dancing in the discoteca while the kids hit up the arcade around the corner. Running out of money the kids pop over to get a little more from their parents, eager to pay, as drinks relax their pocketbooks. If the region is dangerous, the neighborhood feels close, secure, always under the watchful eyes surveying from balconies and café tables. At night it’s nonna making warm milk with vanilla cookies for the children, tricking them into thinking it’s a treat. It’s really the nightly sedative.

For Angela and I, it was nights crammed into her bed, in the room she shared with her two sisters, as she teaches me the alphabet – “ah, beh, che, deh, eh” or “lunedì, martedì, mercoledì…” I had no understanding of the historical buildings or the art masterpieces, but I knew the sights, sounds, and smells. I knew the Italian family. I knew it.