Va’ dove ti porta il cuore · by Lisa Smith

I moved to Italy—a 20-year old mono-glut. To know. To explore. To learn. To play.

If Italy is a boot, then Puglia is the province of the heel. It is the land of mezzogiorno, the mid-day sun. It is famous for sun, wine, tomatoes and olives. A province of the poor south, Puglia is seldom visited, except as the superfluous space between Naples and the port from which to make the crossing to Greece. Yet it is Italy in it’s undiluted form: passionate, real and timeless. My destination.

January 2002

Alternate travel arrangements had to be made when I arrived with my entourage at the Calgary airport and presented an empty ticket folder to the lady at check-in. oops. I’m shocked at my new level of absent-mindedness, despite my tarnished track record regarding other important documents. My mother was very good, saying little and smiling, albeit apprehensively, when I left two days later, a new ticket carefully stapled in.

March 2002

I watch the Adriatic every morning from the landing in my apartment. Always changing, the sea: the colours, the waves. The beach is long and lined with stubby palm trees that are unbending in the warm wind. The harbour is in the distance, and the mountains further up the coast appear and disappear in the ghostly mists that surround them. Padre Pio lived out his life of servitude, healings and stigmata there, and his picture is over every doorway and taped to car windows in this fervent Catholic region.

I go up to the roof terrace; the sun is blinding, beating down as it has for centuries here, bleaching the stones white with its intensity. Down on the beach, a mother and child meander, the waves lap gently at the shore and flocks of seabirds are just white specks in the distance. The timelessness of this land is amazing. It is as if everywhere else went into the realms of advanced technology, while here, a horse and cart still rattle down the street every day on the way to the market.

The market! Roughly hewn wooden tables wobble under the weight of the rich produce: piles of tomatoes, lettuce, peppers, oranges, onions, apples, eggplant, lemons, pears and zucchini. Umbrellas above canopy the crowds of tiny Italian housewives, loudly clamouring in dialect. The ground below is littered with organic scraps, and I squeeze through the throng searching for the best vegetables. The fruttovendoli wave their arms and call to me, extolling the qualities of their produce: “Fresh, beautiful tomatoes! Look here miss! Beautiful zucchini! Come! Fresh peppers!”

I think I could spend a lifetime in the evenings in Italy. As dusk gives way to darkness, the streets become alive with people. The main road through the center of town is closed to cars, and instead is flooded with the traffic of pedestrians: children run about kicking a ball and teasing parents for gelato, old couples stroll arm in arm, vendors of toys and treats ply their trade and the rolling, exuberant voices fill the air. The way the lights play off the sand coloured stones and cast shadows on the cathedral and old apartments, the music from the bar where we drink a late night espresso, and the fresh sea breeze enmesh my soul into a hopeless net. My mind may never escape from my sojourn in Italy.

December 2002

I’m loaded down, backpacks front and back. My life is in a bag. As soon as I get in the long ticket lineup at the train station, I realize that I may not be much more intelligent than when I left Canada a year ago. I’ve forgotten my cash, credit card and train pass at the house. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Life can change me in many ways, but I may never grow out of my absent-mindedness. Two hours later, I am on the last evening train to Rome and my flight home. The lights of the cities flash by. I give myself up to tears and fortunately there aren’t many in the train carriage to wonder at my watery confusion of the soul.

April 2003

I found an Italian novel in a used
bookstore back in Calgary called
Va’ dove ti porta il Cuore, meaning,

“Go where your heart takes you.”

Indeed. Live! Go!