We went to visit our son, now a sophomore at a university in Rome. He has adjusted very well to Italian life--is renting an apartment this semester, loving pasta pappardelle, riding the city bus. As we followed him over the pitch black cobblestones of Trastevere, heading hither and yon with a Prosecco buzz, I felt a tremendous sense of well-being and accomplishment. For him, and for us. Successfully navigating outside of America, for a year, or for a week.
On this trip, we once again visited one of the friendliest book stores I've ever encountered--the "Almost Corner Bookshop." Last year, the manager had recommended the Elena Ferrante series, starting me off with My Brilliant Friend. I subsequently read all four books, but that first one was the best. This time the she recommended several titles to me, including Home Fire by Kamila Shamsie and Between the World and Me by Ta-Nehisi Coates. I didn't select either of these, because I wanted something more lightly-themed to read on the trip. However, the book I bought, which shall remain nameless here, was a disappointment, and I've since placed the two passed over on my reading list.
I really feel like emailing the bookshop lady, thanking her for her help and the good conversation. I wish I could pop in and tell her, but Rome is so far away now that we are home in Florida. Still, I feel like I should tell her how good it feels to find common ground over books in a foreign country. The "Almost Corner Bookshop" felt almost like home to me.
I should confess the trip wasn't all smooth sailing, but what trip is? For some reason, I had great difficulty with doors over there. The automatic door in our Rome hotel stalled, with me inside. In the Peggy Guggenheim Collection Museum in Venice, I waited outside a bathroom for close to ten minutes thinking the door was locked, until a staffer breezed past me and went right in. Darn it--I had been pulling instead of pushing. Then, I couldn't exit a gallery because I kept pushing on the right door instead of pulling on the left one.
And, even though our family got along well on this trip, there are always those little flare-ups that occur. A son using mobile GPS versus his father with an old school map, both pointing in opposite directions. Me shushing them when they shared the Florida/Georgia game score while a sextet tuned up for a concert. So, of course, they returned the favor by making fun of my door issues and the occasional stumble on uneven pavement (not due to Prosecco, I promise).
Still, we achieved a comfort level with Italy, and with each other, on this trip--skill in finding bathrooms, riding the train, communicating. Buon giornos and buona seras came naturally as greetings. The landscape of palm pines, stone walls, even the graffiti, felt familiar to me from the time we landed until we flew away. Seeing our son comfortable in this environment made us comfortable too, with him, with his friends, with his choice.
I reread my post from last year about dropping off our son in Rome ("Walking Away"). The key theme, that you have to leave a place to truly understand it, rings especially true right now. For after this trip, I can see that is exactly what has happened over the past year to each of us. You see, next semester the college student is coming home to continue his studies in Gainesville, Florida. He succeeded in Italy--learned a language, made good friends, navigated an international city--and now he wants to return. The Sunshine State's heat and palm trees and gators are a bit like a siren call to its citizens, I think.
But Italy has a bit of a siren call herself. The evergreen foliage, sun baked stones, priceless rubble, yellow October light--I can't get them out of my mind. They seem so familiar now, as if I've known them before. Of course, I've known them from previous trips, but the images are stronger in my head this time around. Maybe it's because, as my husband said, we won't likely return for a visit, now that our son is heading home. This trip should be the last for us, so these mental pictures need to last.
Maybe that's the reason the silhouettes of the palm pines and the neon Coop store signs and Neapolitan novels keep cycling through my mind. These fairly new memories continue to connote adventure, beauty, time, choices, success.
And now, ironically, a trace of what I can only call home.
