In late September of 1998, we took our first trip to Italy. Since August, my youngest son Michael, a junior at Loyola College in Maryland, had been living in Florence studying at the Lorenzo D’Medici Institute, as part of a “study abroad program”. On October 3rd, my wife Frances would turn fifty and wanted desperately to be out of the country as far away as possible when she entered her next decade. Using a visit with Michael and Fran’s birthday as our excuse, we asked our eldest son, Ed, to join us and we packed our bags for Italy.
As a second generation Italian, I considered myself more American than Italian. While I was proud to be of Italian decent, I considered myself an American first and an Italian second! After all, I was born in America. I was educated in New York. I grew-up in Brooklyn. Although I loved Italian food and I knew a few Neapolitan phrases, I didn’t really speak the language. My grandparents were born in Italy. They spoke Italian fluently and knew little English. To me, they were Italian first and American second. But when Continental Flight 937 landed at Fiumicino Airport in Rome on September 29th, 1998, and the Sofia family disembarked, eravamo domestici! Eravamo italiani! We were home! We were Italian!
The Rome Airport was an experience unlike any other. The warm smell of expresso and biscotti immediately enveloped us. The Italian businessmen in Armani, Valentino and Versace surrounded the expresso bar elbow to elbow before hurrying to catch a commuter plane to Milan, Venice or Napoli. The Italian women were una vista bella – a beautiful sight! Pat Cooper aside, we didn’t see a single woman wearing her hair in a bun or sporting a facial mole. Black was the color, but the material was licra and spandex. Una cosa bella! Ed immediately fell in love with Italy.
The overheard airport conversations seemed like a familiar song reminiscent of exchanges between parents and grandparents when I was a child in Brooklyn. While I couldn’t understand what was being said, I could always sense when someone was angry, sad, happy, worried or frustrated. These airport conversations reminded me of my home in another time, in another place. “Buona mattina!” “Come siete?” “Dove state andando?” “Voi gradiscono un expresso o un cappucino?” “Arrivederci!” “Vedali più.” Just below the din of the crowd and between the announcements of departing flights to romantic locations came the melody of “Arrivederci Roma.” Truly, this was a wonderful day - un giorno meraviglioso!
Our vacation plans were to begin in Venice. We had about an hour to spare before catching our connecting flight. Having traveled through the night, Ed, Fran and I joined the locals at the coffee bar where we threw back an expresso and sipped un caffè americano con latte. We people watched until our plane to Venice was ready to board. The passersby, both men and women, shared much of what we saw in our relatives and ourselves - quello sguardo italiano – that Italian look: dark hair, an olive complexion, an air of confidence and a friendly face. Everyone looked familar. Everyone looked like a relative.
The flight from Rome to Venice was short. Like Fiumicino, the Venice Airport greeted us with the smell of expresso and the sound of mandolins playing, “Vicino il mare, facemo amore,” a Neapolitan song adapted by the Venicians. Fran, Ed and I collected our bags and followed the signs, “Taxi Del Agua,” to the end of the airport. As the automatic doors opened onto the Gulf of Venice, we stood awe struck. You can read all the tour books you like. You can see all the travel videos available. Not until you stand on the dock of the Venice Airport, look across the deep blue water, feel the salt spray on your face and inhale the crisp balmy air, can not imagine the serenity that caresses you. We each looked at each other and knew this was something wonderfully special. Ciò era l'Italia. This was Italy.
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The Sofia Family: A Work In Progress!