What is it about the sound of the beach…the breeze, the drone of the ocean and the occasional squawk of a seagull that is powerful enough to make (almost) all of your worries melt away? And certainly powerful enough to motivate you to look slightly absurd holding a seashell to your ear once in a while, searching for that sound that can teleport you back to that beach where you can relax worry-less once again…at least for a few seconds.
Venice, Italy (photo by me)
I mean, certainly we don’t choose our vacations based on sound. But these sounds are rather powerful. Or a least more powerful than I had ever given them credit for.
Cinque Terre, Italy (photo by me)
It was an on an afternoon stroll on a quiet winter day in Venice’s Dorsoduro district on the last day of the Biennale, with not a soul in sight, that the unmistakable sound of small waves lapping against the sides of the canal and the repetitive thud of the boats shifting with the water that it finally hit me: I’m in Venice.
You would think this obvious fact would have hit me when I was walking through Piazza San Marco, watching the pigeons and the tourists (or more precisely, the pigeons playfully attacking the tourists), and perhaps some pretty notable architecture. Or at the very least when I was schlepping across the Grand Canal with motorboats whizzing by and gondolas drifting peacefully along.
Instead, it was on this nondescript canal, alone, that the reality of my environment hit me. And as I was walking along this canal in Venice, listening to these sounds of the boats and the waves, I thought of my second most unmistakable city sound. Waking up in Brooklyn, New York, to the echo of a car driving down narrow 4th St. and the familiar bump of the manhole lid as the tire rolled over it, voices shouting in the distance, and an inevitable car alarm sounding.
New York, NY (photo by me)
And then I thought of Bologna, Italy, and the sound of the rolling suitcases of the students bumping along the cobblestone streets on their way to and from their family homes in villages outside Bologna every weekend.
Bologna, Italy (photo by me)
And then Florence, and the overwhelming sound of American English speakers.
Florence, Italy (photo by me)
The indescribable and almost soundless sound of fresh snow falling in mass in the Italian Dolomites…
The echoing rolling wheels and clattering fall of a skateboard in San Diego…
San Diego, CA (photo by me)
And last but not least, in my hometown of El Centro, California, the peaceful receptive chirp of crickets follows you for months during the never-ending summers.
El Centro, CA (photo by me)
The more I think of these sounds, the more I am transported to these places. More than my usual memories of people or moments on vacations. The memories of these sounds have a way of attaching themselves to all the nuances of these places that you only really observe when you are alone. What are your favorite sounds? I’m curious…
This is my summer of re-love. I have returned to the United States for a mere two months, as I have done each summer since I relocated to Bologna, Italy three years ago. And I have been gifted a unique opportunity to be a tourist in my own country in the places that I once took for granted – places that I visited often for my whole life, and places that I lived. New York, Pittsburgh, Washington DC, and Southern California to be exact.
My father always told me that if I wanted to understand my relationship with a place I lived or a place I loved, I need to leave that place for some time before I can really have a good perspective on that place. Boy, was he right. Every year that I have returned to America I have had a new perspective on it. But this summer is different. This summer is the summer that I have finally understood and accepted these places into my heart and how my connection to these places is forever embedded into my hard-wiring. And I am returning and truly appreciating everything, even the bad.
My first stop since arriving in America this summer is New York. My father’s side of the family immigrated to New York in the early 1900’s and lived in Brooklyn. My godmother and godfather moved out of the city decades ago to a tiny city along the Hudson River called Ossining.
The snapshot above is my favorite on my trip this far. Taken on the bank of the Hudson river, I am at left with my godmother Suzanne on the right, who is a second mother to me. In the picture below, thirty-three years ago, my godmother is holding me in almost the exact same spot where we are standing above on the bank of the Hudson River.
Me and my godmother enjoying the Hudson sunset in 1980.
To think of everything that has happened in the 33 years since this picture was taken is pretty overwhelming. But this beautiful place is the same as it has always been, to me at least. Just an hour’s train ride from Grand Central Terminal, this other world of rolling hills and majestic lake views is sometimes easier to get to than Brooklyn. I realize I am lucky to have this beautifulness in my life, a place my dad has gone back to for decades, and a place my godmother still calls home. But I think we all have these beautiful places in our memories and in our hearts that are part of what makes us who we are. Sometimes it just takes some time to re-love them again.
My English students in Italy often ask me to explain the difference between “home” and “house.” I usually stumble through my answer. The best I have ever managed to muster up is that a house is a building, whereas a home is your place to be.
This is by no means a textbook definition, and I could definitely do with some good input in a major way. How do you define a home?
Our subway stop.
I am really interested to know. As I rambled about in a previous blog entry, my travels through the United States this summer have uncovered the depth of my ongoing quest to answer this very question on a personal level – what is my home?
Predictably, the answer hasn’t come easily. Welcome complications have arisen from recent life adventures that sent me from my long-time home in San Diego, CA to a new beginning in Pittsburgh, PA, followed by Bologna, Italy, where I am now. I’ve spent this August on a break from work gallivanting around the eastern United States with old friends, family, and coworkers. My most recent stop was Park Slope, Brooklyn, a sort of homecoming after being away for many years. My visit incubated a little voice that has been nagging me, and has become annoyingly loud over the last few days. Park Slope, always a “taken for granted” second home for me, might actually be home.
Park Slope, Brooklyn is, at face value, a lively, diverse, and wealthy community in Brooklyn, NY. Sporting every imaginable cuisine within a ten minute walk, ornate churches, overpriced boutiques (is that redundant?), and the most diverse families I’ve seen in the US, some scoff at the sky-high real estate and the gentrification of the area. But don’t judge a book by its cover. This community has an identity that most certainly is more than meets the eye. The history and complexity of Park Slope could fill a thesis or two, and there are tons of people that can explain it better than I.
Ironically, Park Slope was my first home in the US after my family moved me from my birthplace in Lomé, Togo across the ocean to my father’s childhood home, a beautiful brownstone (although not made of brownstone), in the heart of the Slope on 4th street and 7th avenue.
My grandma. 🙂
It is this very history, and the history of families like mine in the neighborhood, that has made this community feel like home. As even with the Starbucks and the boutiques that have crept into 7th avenue over the years, the community’s rich past is still evident in staples like Pino’s Pizzeria,
mentioned in an earlier post as the best pizza I have eaten outside Italy. While easy to overlook, this food culture is a steadfast part of the immigrant population of the area.
My family’s home of 50 years in Park Slope, Brooklyn.
I was lucky enough to be born into US citizenship, but I am fiercely proud to share something in common with the thousands of immigrants of every imaginable origin whose parallel paths finally crossed when they found their home in this community, binding cultures that rarely overlapped outside of the US. Like many new immigrants, my great grandparents on my dad’s side, from Ireland, settled in Brooklyn. My grandparents moved my dad and my uncle to 4th street after purchasing their brownstone in 1955, which stayed in our family nearly fifty years. At that time the neighborhood was affordable – my grandpa sold subway tokens and taught my dad the ins and outs of riding the subway as if he were one of the architects of the subways, details that my dad has tried to pass on to me, but now seem insignificant as this once coveted information has been replaced by your latest iPhone app.
4th street and 7th avenue in Park Slope, Brooklyn.
It is hard to separate my dad from his roots in Park Slope, crossing 4th street every night to have his second dinner at his best friend Michael’s house, who was a second generation Italian American and the oldest of seven brothers. He later became my godfather. And although my dad has lived in California for much of his adult life, every time he says “faarest” instead of “forest,” I am reminded of stories of his days playing ball on 4th street with Michael and the other guys that are still his best friends.
My dad and his buddies, a long time ago. 🙂
Park Slope still feels like home because of its magical, enduring ability to remain constant in its dynamic identity where people from other places, and people who don’t know where their homes are, find their homes here.
This is a place filled with people searching for – or finding – a home. People like my fabu friend, Steph, proudly representing a new generation in Park Slope, after making the big move from DC to start her new job at the NYC Department of Education last week.
Lunch with Steph.
And just last night I crashed a wedding rehearsal dinner on the roof of a new apartment complex in Park Slope, recently purchased by a fabulous lesbian couple that are friends of my childhood neighbor.
View from the rooftop.
All at once it feels surreal and perfectly normal to be surrounded by these people – the new pioneers in Park Slope, whose grandchildren may one day be writing a blog entry on this very topic.
For me, no matter how many deluxe baby carriages, Starbucks, and purebred dogs currently fill the streets of Park Slope, the democracy of its roots are unmistakable.
The people who made this history and the people who are only now discovering the Slope are crossing paths, just as the immigrants of my dad’s generation dad, to add to its identity and make this place incredible.
And maybe now I can do justice explaining the Slope to my english students the next time they ask me the difference between “house” and “home.” Not a house, but a home – this home, this place, is Park Slope, Brooklyn.
I’ve put together some of my favorite shots from my last trip to Park Slope, as most of our pics are on film and are buried in closets. One of these days, I will dig them out. I did include a few old pics of Park Slope taken my dad and other family members.
