The Long Trip Home: Archives

I am walking to the train station from the center of town. It just finished raining, and the streets have a dull shine to them, mirroring the grey sky above. I stop at an ATM first, pick up some euros and take the cobblestone paths to the Scalette, a long medieval set of stairs that descends from the main piazza. All of the stores are closed. It is a bit past 3 in the afternoon, and proprietors have already gone home for lunch and, after eating, a short nap to rest themselves before reopening at 4 or 5. The streets are empty. No one is there, except an older woman walking back to her apartment and two lovers, holding hands, savoring the silence.

Coming back to a city that holds deep memories is always difficult at first, especially when returning alone. This is true here, in Macerata, for me. My four-year-old memories are alive again walking down the angled cobblestones of the Scalette, and on the rain-slicked streets heading toward the city walls. There is the Pizzeria da Silvano, where my brother and I ate tiranisu, thick like pudding, and baked tomatoes filled with bread crumbs and oregano. There is the bread shop on the corner, where my roommate Erin tried her first pizza bianca--focaccia topped with rosemary and oil. The air is thick with the smell of anise, coming slowly up the steps, and I stop for a moment. I close my eyes. This is where I was four years ago.

I continue to walk, eyes open, past the Greek Café where my roommates and I would run to buy dolci--sweet hazelnut chocolates and ice cream bars and sodas--and would practice our Italian with the cashier. We lived right across the street, and I see the apartment now. I find the door in the front and shake it to open, but it is locked. So I look up, three stories above, to see the windows pulled closed--maybe no one is living there now, or maybe it is just closed for a fear of rain, which has been an odd constant each day I have been back in Italy. Nonetheless, the street is silent, and the laughter and memories are only echoed in my thoughts.

The train station is five more minutes downhill. Inside, it is much more active than the rest of the sleeping city. A girl waits on a bench for her train to come and looks up at me as I walk by. "Ciao," I mumble, in my high pitched nervous voice, the one that comes out when I am alone like this. I check my euros and stand, next in line, practicing what I will say. "Buona Sera," I think. "Vorrei comprare un biglietto a Milano da Civitanova." In my mind it sounds perfect--I would like a ticket to Milan--but as soon as it comes out of my mouth, the words stumble into each other, getting lost in my attempts at an accent. I don't even think about purchasing my return ticket--it is enough to just explain the journey there. Luckily, the man at the counter is patient, and he slows his speech for me to understand. But he already knew I was a foreigner, I think, just by looking at me.

On the walk back, I pass by a lookout point near the Socopad grocery store where Erin and Cassie and I used to go shopping. Here you can see the countryside sprawling westward, and on clear days even the mountains are in view, their white caps lasting most of the year. I take a deep breath, vividly remembering staring past this fence with Erin, both of us so aware of the beauty of Italy that, alone now, it is painful to look for too long. I remember having thought then that this was all luck--somehow the gods had smiled down at me, blessing me with this view, these friends, this life. And, then, I had hoped I would never leave.

"See?" I had said to Erin. "Here it is--Italy. Right here the whole time." Without her, though, it is almost a different view--the way the trees bend, or maybe the light--and I can't help but feeling as if I have lost something. I shy back and turn away.

Walking on, the sky slowly begins to blossom with sunshine, and I pass by stores that open their doors, the smell of pizza on the verge of assaulting the dew-drenched air. Cars pass by, speeding and honking, their chaotic language interrupting the once silent city. Macerata is rubbing her eyes, waking up. I look down at my ticket: the dates, the times, even the train number and seat written out specifically in black ink. I pick up the pace. Tomorrow, I am going to Milan.