More questions than answers. And that, coming from a world and a time when so many thought they had the answers right in front of them. And then the unimaginable happened.
The question, for so many of us, is how do we find our way through the fog? Will we ever get back?
It’s a conundrum. Who doesn’t want to go forward? That’s the way time works in this world. But so many of us are looking in our rear-view mirror, if only to assuage the fear and the loneliness, the uncertainty and the general unknowingness of what lies ahead. I don’t want to be one of those people who dwell in the past. But so much more of my life lies there than in the future.
I’m sure it’s only a momentary lapse. A synaptic stall. Take a deep breath. And another.
Better.
Now what?
Italy – who doesn’t want to go back? America – who doesn’t want to come back? We had such a good thing of it. We would go there. They would come here. Italian wine would grow in America. Good times. The flow of progress, success, material gain, maybe even glimpses of happiness. Is that somewhere in front of us, waiting for us to catch up? I certainly hope so.
I haven’t lost hope. But time is gaining on all of us. I see the tunnel approaching in the distance. I just want to go back to the places I’ve come to love and cherish. My Italy. Our Italy.
Places. Wines. People. Food. That feeling when one steps onto the soil from the plane, and it all feels different and wonderful. Oh, I know I’m romanticizing it just a little bit. Humor me, just for a few hundred more words, please?
The ancient castle in Calabria. The purr of the waves from the Adriatic. The smell of fresh pasta in the warm kitchen of a vigneron. The taste of pungent Caciocavallo in the feral hills of La Sila. The greeting of a winemaker. The timeworn cobblestone passage, right as the fog is lifting and dawn is breaking. The aroma of a freshly brewed espresso and the just made cornetto which is still releasing nascent steam. I admit it, I miss it. And I don’t know when (or if) I’ll ever see it in the future.
Until then, I have a closet full of wine and a pantry full of pasta and tomato sauce, and a cooler with plenty of Parmigiano and Pecorino. Until then, I’ll have to recreate Italy on my little island I call home. One thing I've learned about Italy has been that anywhere you are in the Italy, or the world, you can make it come alive with creativity and a little elbow grease. Oh, and some olive oil, too.
So, with my Verdicchio and Barbaresco, my Torrette and
my Gaglioppo, I’ll keep moving forward, with the hope that, when this fog does
lift, it will reveal a world that will still have a familiar resemblance to
that which so many of us have become accustomed to and in love with.
