A couple of years ago my sister came back from visiting our family’s village in Calabria — Cirella — and told me something I haven’t been able to shake since.
“You have lost your Italian soul.”
She wasn’t being mean. She was telling the truth.
I grew up in Spokane, Washington with parents who came to America in the 1950s aboard the Cristoforo Colombo. My father grew grapes in the backyard, made wine in the basement, and insisted on pasta every Sunday. We spoke Italian at home and listened to nothing but Italian music.
Then I left for college, built a career, got married, had kids — and quietly let all of it slip away.
My sister visited Cirella and came back with photos of relatives I had never met. She told me I needed to go get it back. So I wrote a novel about it instead. It’s called Stupido Turista and it just hit #1 New Release on Amazon.
Anyone else in this community feel that tension — being called “so Italian” on the outside while knowing something is missing on the inside?
STUPIDO TURISTA: He went to Italy to find his roots. He found the life he left behind. https://a.co/d/0d23OmXB