An Italian-American Writer & Poet with a Yankee Outsider Perspective
The last time I saw Venice I was older than 10 and younger than forty. What I remember: houses standing up to their doorways in water, boats navigating canals, a hotel room with incredibly high ceilings and windows draped in … Continued
Reading about Venice, before going for a visit, I discover in Jan Morris’ book (named for the city) that the Venetians have a dialect distinctly their own. Not only do they elide standard Italian–removing the ll’s in bello to become … Continued
Three or four time during my years of visiting Florence/Firenze, I’ve been driven by friends out of the city. There are places unreachable by train, bicycle, or easy autobus. The restaurant called Bibe’s is one of them. In the direction … Continued
When my grandfather, Giovanni Battista Fortunato, entered the United States in 1900, he probably came through Ellis Island in New York. I imagine he spoke enough English to insist that the official inscribe his correct name on the ledger. Also, … Continued
I did not go to Dachau that first time in Germany. When I entered the air-conditioned office in the Munich train station, the clerk informed me with great solemnity: “Madame, Dachau is closed on Monday.” I felt as if I … Continued
When my beautiful, German-American daughter agreed to guide me to Germany the first time I would set foot in the country, we decided to contact her former host-mother in Nuremberg. This was “the other mutti” who had befriended Gelsey on … Continued
For years I didn’t want to acknowledge that I’m a quarter German. Had I ever been to Germany? No. But I knew my mother’s dictatorial tendencies. These two words–dictatorial tendencies–cancel each other out, I know, but perhaps they should because … Continued
Resistance, that powerful guard of the status quo, of the loved prejudice and favored ignorance, stands guard like an upside down angel over our writing. I’m watching an osprey hover over the surface of a lagoon between the coast of … Continued
What makes a perfect motel get-away? On our family jaunts when I was a kid in South Carolina, the family car deposited us on the edge of turquoise pools and my sister and I raced into the motel to change … Continued
We hardly ever received messages on Isla. We had no cell phones then; nothing ever collapsed at home, except once, during our late February vacation, 2003. Then I returned from strolling to town and found that the “Office” at Posada … Continued
