The kindness of Karen Lembo convinced me that in the right circumstances, one of my lifelong goals of speaking another language could be realized.

Before departing for Europe, good friend and mentor Karen Lembo handed me the keys and a hand-drawn map of the mountain-village Montecorice, in the Campania region of Italy. Especially interested in Italy because of my Italian heritage, my first year abroad included two months exploring the many sides of Italy. I thought it would be enough to grasp a beginner’s understanding of the country, but yet again, I was proved wrong.

My first trip to Italy began where every first trip to Italy should: Rome. Besides all of the architecture, historical significance and beautiful people, it was Rome where I was first exposed to the pace of Italy. The length at which people lingered over meals. The kindness people showed to strangers, as a restaurant became a living room by the end of the night, over songs or a glass of chilled limoncello. My first night in Rome, a kind man from across the room sent my travel partner and me glasses of limoncello to finish our meal. On a budget, we happily accepted. Before our glasses were finished, the next round arrived. By the end of the evening, we were sitting in Campo de’ Fiori with his daughter as English translator, laughing like old friends.  

After trips to Florence, Cinque Terre, Siena, and Venice, we turned our focus further south and from deep within my backpack I found the key to our home for the next two weeks. During any long trip, it is essential to find a ‘home’ every few months, where touring can be the last thing on your mind, and days can take on a semblance of normalcy. Although Montecorice was accessible to attractions such as Pompeii and the Amalfi Coast (which of course, we visited) we also spent days at a time in the village. We learned to wash our clothes early in the morning, so when the light first came over the mountain, the laundry had enough time to dry.

I would study Italian in the morning, and see if I could use my new vocabulary during my trip to the small store, or with the butcher, or the man who drove his produce truck up to the town square twice a week. We were invited into neighbor’s homes for an espresso, and glimpse at family photographs and memorabilia. We took long walks up into the mountains or down by the sea and perhaps most importantly, I had time to write. I read a book on the contemporary history of Italy (The Dark Heart of Italy, Tobias Jones) a few novels, and an all important anthology of poetry to fill the television-free evenings.

We turned the evening meal into a ritual, often beginning the preparation early in the afternoon. We made use of every spare morsel of food, learning what to do with yesterday’s bread. The kindness of the villagers was not only in their smiles, but in the donated bottle of olive oil, warm blankets to make the March nights more comfortable, and one electric space heater that I often sat by on a rainy afternoon, pen in hand. The value of this writer’s retreat might not ever be fully explained to my good friend, who offered over a key with faith that her family home would become the location for things we both love: reading and writing.

When we closed the door behind us for the last time, we waved to our new friends and shouted ciao as we hiked down the hill with our backpacks firmly strapped on. We had only one more day in Italy, to be spent on the isle of Capri before I was to head to my future home, Dublin for a few weeks. When in Italy, there is a sense of recognition in everyday life I haven’t experienced anywhere else. A combination of the smells, laughter, interaction and cuisine strikes something deep within my subconscious, as if not only I recognize it from my childhood, but somehow, from further back as well. Heritage is a powerful thing for Americans, knowing where we came from and why our ancestors left places behind. 

As a famous Italian soccer player was chased in the Naples airport, I got on a plane to leave Italy, the closest place to home I found in my entire first year away. I knew it wasn’t my last trip to the country, nor my last attempt to grasp tidbits of the language. 

Thank you, Karen and Gus Lembo, for your generosity. It is within your home I wrote the first pages of the memoir that would become, ‘The Great American Travel Dream.’