As a teenager, I dreamt of the romance that is Italy. I was enamored by the notion that love was ingrained in every blade of Italian grass, believed that the morning dew kissed every petal of every Italian flower, and could hear the sweet poems whispered on the breezes that caressed 17th-century Italian villas. I was nourished by the bubbles of love sprung forth from cool springs and warmed by the Italian sunrises and sunsets — lovers that reminded me that mornings and evenings were created for loving and for being loved.
Perhaps it was the mural on my Grandparents’ living room wall that stirred my adoration for Italy — an everyday scene of a Gondolier caressing the waves on the Grand Canal in Venice. I remember wondering what touched them so deeply about this scene that they had it immortalized in their home. We were of Irish stock — perhaps the Cliffs of Moher would’ve been natural to have in our midst, and yet there was the most curious depiction of life in the “magical Italian city” on water.
What makes Italy so “magical” my inquisitive mind was yearning to discover. My Grandmother smiled and replied, “Go seek that answer out for yourself.” I spent the following years pursuing that challenge, diving into Italian films, magazines, and books. I devoured everything Italian that I could find. Though it was all emotionally engaging, I still craved an understanding of my unbridled attachment and adoration of Italy.
What is it that compels people from all over the world to climb its northern Alps, toast with bountiful glasses of Italian wine, explore the winding Tuscan hills on bicycle, immerse themselves so fully in the culture that when they return home a piece of themselves is somehow missing? What is it about Italy that inspires people to create masterpieces of art, to fall deeply and passionately in love, to dream the dreams of fairy tales, to risk it all, to aspire to be better than they ever imagined they could be?
When I arrived in Italy in 2012, I remembered my Grandmother’s challenge… seek out the answers. One nervous January morning, I packed up my 2 year old’s things in one suitcase, mine in another, and moved from our comfortable space in Philadelphia to join my Italian partner in his country with only a handful of Italian words in my vocabulary and a heart full of dreams. The first months in that southern Milanese neighborhood were frightening, even for a world traveler with the French language under her belt.
I remember how challenging it was living in France (as I had back in 2006), the language, the culture, even daily activities were overwhelming initially, and I was single and childless back then. Now, I was much older (perhaps not wiser) with a toddler, and going to live in Italy for the duration, no escape plan nor return ticket as I had in my pocket while in France. Italy or bust I thought, or at least until I discover that the answers to my questions weren’t as romantic nor as “magical” as I had envisioned them to be.
Milan, as historical and as architecturally rich as it is, was never my cup of tea. I’m an introvert by nature, an advocate for the path less taken, and dusty books less read. Crowds make me nervous, and bright lights and loud noises inspire me to retreat to dim rooms with soft tones and warm tea. The months preceding the expiration of our apartment lease, I asked my companion if he’d be interested in a change of scenery. He smiled, winked, and in his ever-so-Italian way replied, “Delight me.” That was the catalyst that ignited my search for “my magical Italy”.
I spent the next few weeks virtually exploring northern Italy through Google Maps. I walked down endless dirt roads, strolled through countless towns each holding its secret treasures, gazed longingly from the shores of lakes, and savored the diverse landscapes that make Italy the delightful celebration that it is. Though I had exhausted myself looking for our new home, I had yet to discover the space that made my heart flutter. Instead of withering into the folds of our couch, I clung to my Grandmother’s spirit that the answers would come if I sought them out. Sadly, I had sought out the answers to my questions for 2 years, and yet the replies had aggressively eluded me.
One morning, close to the date we were to move out of our apartment in Milan, my partner hugged me tightly before leaving for work and whispered in my ear, “Today you will find our new home”. It was as if he was listening to the inner yearnings of my soul, yet again. I shrugged and wished him well on his adventures. Then with a warm cup of coffee next to my laptop and our toddler on my lap, I jumped once again into Google Maps. A few minutes in, I noticed a large patch of greenery that I hadn’t noticed before. It was just slightly east of Milan, out in the Italian countryside. I mused, “Me? In the Italian countryside, imagine that. A bit far removed from that Venetian mural in my Grandparents’ living room though.” Yet, something intrigued me about that little patch of green.
I clicked on the “satellite” option and discovered that the greenery was in fact hundreds of acres of farmlands, a reserve, and the Adda river. There was a single road heading south in between the farmlands and the river towards what appeared to be a small village. A village with only three streets, a handful of houses scattered between those three streets, and more dogs than people. I was curious about this little area, isolated from the commotion and calamity of the city, and nestled so comfortably and unapologetically between earth, water, and sky. Five minutes later, I had explored the three streets with their brick walls, 14th-century castle, and rustic farms where I could almost hear the chickens clucking and the cows mooing, and where the elders spoke in dialect.
All of the sounds and sights came rushing in, and I knew I had found some magic within that tiny village. A few days later, we answered a few property openings and scheduled a tour with a local real estate agency. As we drove from the southern road into the village, I grabbed my partner’s hand and with tears in my eyes and apartment sight unseen whispered, “This is our new home.”
We’ve been blessedly living in Corneliano Bertario for 7 years now, sharing espressos in our kitchen while the sunrise greets us. We share our dinners on our back balcony with rainbow sunsets to bid us a good evening. We still smile when the roosters call (even at 4 am), always wave to the kids as they play together in their yards and ride their bikes around our three streets. We cherish our long walks through the cornfields with our adopted furry pooch running ahead to scare off pheasants, and giggle when all 500 village dogs bark every time the breeze blows. We wave to the farmers that drive through the village on their tractors, wait patiently for the flock to pass when the sheep move from one pasture to another, and share jeers and heckles with our fellow soccer fans and rivals while clumsily fumbling through the local dialect. Every day, I walk by the Borromeo Castle and feel that “magic” that my Grandmother told me to seek out.
As we journey through life, we’ll have many questions, that our elders before us also sought out for themselves. The answers will often surface only after deep searching, and in my case, through teary-eyed desperation. Yet, when the answers are ready to be revealed, they will show us aspects of ourselves and our existence that we never considered. Magic is a different sensation and gift for each of us. For my Grandmother, the “magic” of Italy was found in the canals of Venice. For me, the “magic” of Italy lies within the loving embrace of a tiny country village and its people. When Italians discover that I’m American, they always ask me “Why are you here?” I always pause, smile, and reply “Because Italy is magical.”
