Our first hours in Naples

Two cars came to meet us at the seaport of Naples in July 1960, manned by my uncles Zi’ Federico and Zi’ Mario, and with my four grandparents as passengers. I limped along in the blazing sunshine behind my parents, great-uncle Ernie, and little Maria, since my stitched left shin had just taken a nasty shot from a fellow arrival’s suitcase. When we all met in the parking lot, there were hugs, moist kisses, tears, clasped hands, laughter, a tip to the porter and a windstorm of shouted questions in Italian:

“How are you? Di you get seasick?”

“What’s the matter with your leg?”

“Was the food good?”

“How are Zi’ Achilla and poor old Zi’ Tony?”

The rapid-fire questions seemed to elicit from my parents and Uncle Ernie nothing but questions in return:

“How’s Nannina?”

“Where’s Zi’ Pasquale? Does he still smoke that pipe?”

“Did you come with Federico or Mario?”

“How are you doing with your rheumatism?”

My 5-year-old sister, Maria, and I were soon enveloped in the octopus arms of our grandparents, none of whom had ever set eyes on us. They looked hale and tanned and were easily recognizable from the photos I’d seen through the years.

For a considerable time, nobody budged from where we’d met, as if putting a premature end to that longed-for greeting would cheapen its significance. Eventually, we all meandered toward the cars, while my two “new” uncles helped Dad manage the trunk and suitcases. Then he and Uncle Ernie, who’d sailed with us, headed with Dad’s parents toward Uncle Federico’s snazzy black Alfa Romeo.

Meanwhile, the rest of us sauntered along with Uncle Mario toward his car, a slightly battered Fiat mini wagon. Zio, a strapping, handsome guy in his early 30s with a receding hairline, helped us get in while chattering all the while. He too must have been caught up in the emotional moment, though, because I heard my sister shriek when he slammed the back door shut a bit too soon. His action barely nicked her fingertip, but everyone was horrorstruck. Soon, however, Mom calmed down Maria in the back seat after wiping a smidgen of blood off the grazed finger with her handkerchief.

Relieved, my uncle started the engine and then turned to face the passengers in the back. So did I, who was riding shotgun so that my injured shin wouldn’t get jostled. Grandpa Luigi, scrunched into a corner, was smiling beatifically. Grandma Palmina, fanning her face with a religious pamphlet, displayed her joy at once again sitting next to her daughter after 11 years by repeatedly sighing “O Dio!” Meanwhile, Mom’s expression had settled into her Audrey Hepburn smile, toward which my uncle aimed a quip:

“Better get all your talking done now. Time’s running out!”

Rewarded with laughter, our driver revved the paltry engine and we zipped out of the parking lot, heading for the town of Esperia, 60 miles north.

Uncle Mario grew up in Rome’s tough Trastevere neighborhood but had become an Evangelist minister. Though I was to hear him greet his coreligionists with “Peace, brethren!” and “Peace, sisters!” many times during the summer, he had retained enough of his upbringing to grace other drivers with benedictions such as cafone! cretino! imbecille! and even somewhat worse. Though muttered under his breath, they were audible to 9-year-old me right beside him. I recall that the streets of Naples looked grimy and smelled funky in the mid-July heat, like some in the Bronx, but they were jammed with tiny outlandish cars whose likes I’d never seen. Some were even parked on sidewalks. I also gawked at the palm trees lining some of the main roads.

When we arrived at my maternal grandparents’ gate, my uncle slipped out of the car to undo the latch and hurried back in. As we slowly approached the two-story stone house I saw, on both sides of the long gravel driveway, grapevines trained on white wooden arbors rising out of tall thick bushes. On the left, there was a pergola over a stone table and bench near a large well with its pail dangling from metal cross-posts. On the right stood a hay barn, open to the elements on one side like a stage set for a rustic play. Five or six chickens, bobbing and weaving in front of the house like bantam-weight fighters, scattered as our car came to a halt while a mild-mannered spaniel yapped its moderate displeasure.

Behind the others I entered through the wide open double doors, and there, in an ample dining room, we underwent another round of greetings involving aunts and uncles, great-aunts and great-uncles, a clutch of cousins more or less my age or Maria’s, a few older second cousins and a couple of family friends. That event was followed by a third less raucous but equally fervent reunion when, a quarter of an hour later, Dad, his parents, and Uncle Ernie arrived with dapper Zi’ Federico.

An old song lyric popped into my head: “The gang’s all here.”

NEXT MONTH: What else? Let’s eat!

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