June 1968, when the adventure began…
We said our goodbyes to our neighbors, the Riegels, in our tiny back yard, while Dad parked the car in the alley and started loading it up with our suitcases. Rosanne and I were dressed like twins in the matching outfits mom made for us: white with multi-colored, mod polka dots, and the boys wore shorts and tops. We were all thrilled to be finally leaving for our long-anticipated trip to Italy. It was a hot, muggy day in Norristown, the kind of day where the tarmac goes soft and bubbly and the sun is so bright it makes you squint. We started the long drive to JF Kennedy airport in our usual fashion: parents stressed out and kids complaining; “mommy, he’s looking at me!”, “no I’m not, she’s pinching me!” and the like. Mom and dad, after several feeble attempts to try reign us in, finally resorted to their traditional way of calming us down and grabbed their rosaries, although I don’t know if they were praying that we’d behave, or for God to give them the strength to keep their patience. While we didn’t appreciate it much at the time, looking back I must say that the “road trip rosaries” were among my most serene childhood memories. Whenever a trip lasted more than an hour, we would pray, and I don’t believe it was only to keep us under control. It was an integral part of the faith values that my parents passed on to us. Much eye rolling went on in the back seat, and of course, our ‘calm’ was only apparent…Mario would always do something to make us laugh, and as much as we tried to hold it in, somebody would always end up getting slapped upside the head from the front seat.
I don’t remember much about the airport or boarding the plane, but I do recall quite a few things once inside the cabin. The plane smelled acidy, the food was served on real china, they gave us water in a tin can, similar to a can of tuna, and it tasted strange (it was probably mineral water). Rosanne, who was only three, was cranky and ultimately threw a temper tantrum and finally fell asleep. I vaguely recall my mom not being well…I think she had a very bad headache and that seems logical considering she was travelling alone with four children. We were quite entertained by the cool knobs and gadgets on the plane. I think we must have turned the air and the lights on and off about fifty times (times four), so it must have looked like a Christmas tree to the other passengers. There were game packets for each of us, with Flintstones decals and other pastimes. I think the boys got to meet the pilots (I know they were given wing pins) and the girls…got nothing. That was foretelling of what my summer was going to be like on so many levels. I recall that the plane wasn’t crowded because we each were able to lie down across the seats, and it seems to me we were in first class, because I have a clear image of a curtain that separated us from other passengers. It was night by the time we settled down and were content to just gape out the windows; we were fascinated by the city lights below and the moon and the stars that seemed to be following us. As I settled down to sleep, it was frightening to see my white sweater light up with static electricity whenever I moved.
The next morning, as we landed in Ciampino airport in Rome, we were so excited to see the tiny cars whizzing below us. Once we landed, we realized the cars were truly as cute as they were petite; the old style Fiat 500 and especially the Ape cars, miniscule motorized tricycle pick-ups beeping away, reminded me of the tv show “To Rome with Love”. Besides the palm trees all over the place, my biggest surprise was the sight of machine gun- wielding soldiers on the terrace roof of the low building where the baggage claim was. They looked like they meant business, although it wasn’t excessively menacing a scene: the machine guns, too, were minute. In my subsequent life-long experience with Italian engineering and style, I would grow to appreciate the combination of small + practical + elegant.
The baggage claim area was located in a room below ground level, but with windows up high where we could see the people waiting outside. At one point we heard repeated knocking on the window nearby and saw a group of people frantically waving at us. Mom was so emotional to see that they were her aunt Antonietta, her cousin Rocco and his wife Enrica. Rocco was a familiar face because he’d been to visit us in Norristown a few months earlier. He was a witty guy who sported black horn rimmed eyeglasses and I remember his visit most of all because one day we had to walk with him to a camera shop on Main Street from our house on Tyler Street. We must have walked a mile and a half! Zia Antonietta, with her wrinkly face, looked like an old woman, but now that I think about it, she was only about 55 years old at the time. Enrica, an elegant and statuesque blue eyed, home-town version of Sofia Loren, was very friendly and seemed to really enjoy Mario’s hilarious attempts at speaking Italian. Once out of the terminal, we went to the parking lot, to Rocco’s classic Fiat 500 and Enrica’s 128. We had to split up because we couldn’t all fit in one car, so Francis, Mario and I rode with Enrica, and Mom and Rosanne with Rocco and Zia Antonietta. Thus the caravan was on its way after our driver had stuffed the suitcases into the trunks, (which on the 500 was under the hood) on the roofs, and even in between the seats of both cars.
After a last pitstop to the bathroom, we were finally on our way to Abruzzo! The autostrada didn’t exist yet, so we took the Tiburtina Valeria, a road originally built by the Romans (one of the many “all roads lead to Rome”) that headed due East from the Eternal City. It took us over 6 hours to drive across the dramatic Appenines to the turquoise Adriatic coast, which was purple hued by the time we approached Pescara at dusk. For some unknown reason, we decided to stop in a town called Francavilla, where my mother’s aunt Ernesta lived. I found out years later that the pit stop, which to us children seemed impromptu, had actually been planned ahead of time by Zia Ernesta, and had almost caused a family feud that was never forgotten or forgiven. In fact, we were only about 30 minutes from Fossacesia, where my grandparents and the rest of the family were waiting impatiently, with dinner ready for hours. They hadn’t seen their daughter in eleven years! During our sojourn, which was supposed to be brief, but ended up lasting a couple of hours, we had a little snack. I seem to recall cookies and the best orange soda (San Pellegrino) I’d ever tasted, as well as another clear, bubbly soft drink called gassosa – sort of like 7up, but much gassier and not as sweet. Since there was no bathroom in that house, we also had our first experience with an out-house. That was very unpleasant! The stench was stifling and there were huge, meaty spiders that were probably meaty precisely because of that unhealthy environment!
When we finally made it to my grandparents’ house, we were totally wiped out. It was midnight and we’d been on the road since early morning, or rather, more than 24 hours and a few time-zones earlier. What took place from that moment was like a surreal hallucination. We walked hesitantly into the house, down a long corridor to the kitchen, where what looked like a gaggle of toothless, mustachioed, black-clad witches was waiting for us. They grabbed us, cackling stridently, smacking us with wet, slobbery kisses. Eeewww! And Eeeeek! We all retreated towards mom, one hanging on her leg, the others hugging her at the waist until we felt a bit more at ease and were presented to each of the ancient women (our great aunts) and our grandparents. We had some dinner (I remember there was a delicious chicken soup) and then we children were taken straight to bed, where one by one we started crying, lamenting that there were big daddy long legs in the corners of the ceiling, and that reminded us that we missed daddy and wanted to go home.
Rosanne’s bed was an old crib that had been made by Zio Nino when our cousin Joe was born. They had emigrated a number of years before, when he was a toddler, so the crib was just right for a three year old. Francis and I slept in the big bed with mom and Mario had a single cot to himself. Besides all these beds, the huge room contained a hope chest, an armoire, a large dresser and two night tables. We were so tired, we didn’t take long to fall asleep, although it took a bit of time to get used to the church bell tower chiming the hour every fifteen minutes. Finally our long day had come to an end, and the house was hushed and peaceful after the exhausting trip.
The next morning we were awakened by the sporadic rumble of cars and motorbikes, children shouting, birds chirping, bells ringing: the picturesque sounds I suppose one would imagine to hear in a small Italian village. In the distance I could hear a cock crowing and the muffled bleating of what I presumed was a sheep, as I’d never seen a real one before. Those barnyard noises came from the neighbor’s courtyard behind nonna’s house (the neighbor whose son one day I would marry). They had a sort of in-town farm with some sheep, chickens and roosters, and the odd rabbit. This was before zoning laws decreed that court animals could no longer be raised in the center of town, which is where we were in reality: on the edge of the center of town, near the “fosso”, a deep, lush valley that ran from the sea, which was just three kilometers away eastward, towards the west and Rome. One of the main thoroughfares, with busy shops and a church was about 100 yards from us, so we were in a very fortunate position, where the beauty of nature was as close as the fulcrum of human activity.
Besides the barnyard scene and my grandmother’s amazing, prickly cactus plant, which was as tall as the second floor window I was looking out of, my eyes were enraptured by the image that made me fall eternally in love with Italy: the majestic, snow-capped, gently sloping Mt. Maiella. I’d never seen a mountain before and I was speechless at its beauty. I had no idea how many amazing discoveries I’d make that summer and during three other vacations in this magical country, which ultimately I would choose to be my forever home, but I was anxious to experience them all: the white, pebble-beached seaside, the serene Abbey of San Giovanni in Venere – “the sentinel of the Adriatic”, the sunny, lush vineyards and olive groves and the colorful farmyards amassed with tobacco-drying racks and old rickety tractors, the myriad stray cats and dogs, the slow-moving flies that hover in the center of the room, the slithery lizards and snakes, and menacing scorpions and spiders. The fashionable sandals and handbags, silky scarves and dresses. And gelato. Ah, yes, gelato…that was the most amazing discovery of all. And cappuccino….and….Read part 2 here
Beyond the Horizon 