Ciao from Puglia!

Ciao from Southern Italy!

It’s a little after six in the morning, and the sun is just creeping over the olive grove surrounding where I’m staying. Up before the rest of the house (and the cicadas!), I’m sitting outside a traditional trullo, reflecting on the rustic beauty of this corner of the world.

We drove here from France, winding up and over the Alps, twisting around the mountains alive with wild flowers, and spots of ski villages taking a breath before the winter season returns. Crossing from Switzerland into Italy was where it hit me.

I teared up the moment we crossed the border into my ancestral homeland, a feeling that grew even stronger once we finally reached Puglia, the region my grandfather was from. His spirit feels so present here from the flavors to the facial expressions. Being here is giving me a whole new depth of connection to where I come from.

This trip is a series of firsts. It’s the first time my son finds himself in a country where he isn’t fluent in the language. Despite months of preparation, he’s discovering that classroom lessons don’t always translate seamlessly to real life. His frustration, though, motivates him to practice his lines, and to not rely on his native English to rescue him. Needless to say, a kid speaking Italian with a French accent is winning over hearts.

Then there’s me. It’s been years since I’ve had to search for words, but I’m finding my way to some form of communication using the Italian I grew up with and what I brushed up on before arriving. Still, there’s something wonderfully humbling about stumbling through a language that feels like it belongs to you, even as the tongue trips comically over itself. My brain, however, is so dominated by French that just when I think I’m in a conversational groove, Georges nudges me and whispers, “You’re speaking French, Mom.” Merde!

But the big first is, this is my first time in Italy. Ever. I’m often asked how that’s even possible after having lived in Europe now 17 years, but time, money, and competing family obligations have been factors. I also knew coming here wouldn’t be a quick weekend getaway, but rather a monumental trip that demanded emotional energy and space. So, I put it off until Georges was old enough to appreciate it, wanting to align his first visit with mine.

Together, we are discovering our ancestry, and it moves me deeply to see that it’s just as important to him as it is to me.

Here are some observations we’ve made in our short time here:

• Speed limits are apparently optional, or rather, suggestions (the Italians are getting very annoyed with Aurélien and his French license plates having the gall to respect the speed limit, so there’s lots of hand gestures directed at our car.)

• Italian men (at least where we are) like to make prolonged eye contact. I hate generalizations like this, but it’s been happening everywhere to the point where I am rubbing my face wondering if I have shit on it. I’ve quickly learned that smiling back (my nervous New York tic) freaks them out, so it’s been a comedy of cultures to say the least.

• I guess I’ve grown so used to the French reserve that I am charmed by how expressive people are here. In my observations, I also see a lot of my own genetics, like my resting bitch face, and how quickly a simple gesture of warmth can melt it. Or when an elderly woman chatting with me in the produce aisle casually took my hand as we spoke, it made perfect sense to me. (I was speaking Fritalian here.)

• And my favorite: Italian men don’t love French men (and vice versa), so poor Aurélien is not getting the same reception as Georges and me. His French comments and observations have made for its own side comedy.

• We went to a caffè for coffee and the unsmiling woman—who I thought was going to be kind of mean—slid over a plate with a huge slice of chocolate cake and said, “Gift for Baby.” The “Baby” here is Georges, reminding me of my own Italian family, who still calls him “the baby,” too.

Yesterday in Bari, we had pasta all’assassina—a pan-fried pasta dish my great-grandmother used to make for us that we simply called “Nonna’s pasta”.

Today, we’re heading to my grandfather’s village of Corato for orecchiette con cime di rapa, a standard Monday night dish I ate growing up. The greens might not be strictly in season, but the idea of sitting in his hometown, eating the exact meal that built my childhood, feels less like a vacation and more like a quiet return home.

Sending love from Puglia!