Word: dad
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...dispiace! Uhh sono Gilberti…mia famiglia, ça va?” my dad managed in his cacophonous dialect of English, French, and Italian...
...This trip was a shot in the dark: no plans, all instinct. Despite the fact that this escapade was one of many Gilberti family Italian road-trips in which my dad hugged the ancient hillsides at sickening speeds while I doled out peaks of Toblerone we’d purchased at the Autogrill, it takes the award for craziest. Since my grandfather had arrived at Ellis Island on a boat from Naples in 1925, the goal of this reverse voyage was to locate Papa’s birthplace, tool around the town, drink a caffé, and say we?...
...were headed to the City of Brotherly Love, we might have saved the airfare and hopped the commuter rail downtown from our house in northwest Philadelphia. After an hour of nausea-inducing driving, I shot an eye-roll at my mom that implored, “Please tell dad this is getting absurd.” Little did I know, we were almost home...
...friend quickly forgot our traffic transgression and, assuming the role of chauffeur with my dad squeezed in back, continued in the wrong direction on the senso unico narrow street to the Gilberti residence. He rapped on the door, and out came a woman named Zia Theresa in a housecoat...
...padre è Michele,” my dad said, and instantly hoards of other relatives poured out of the house exclaiming “Santa Maria!” and smothering our cheeks with kisses. They ushered us into the kitchen where the women were preparing the Ferragosto lunch, comparable to American Thanksgiving. Half an hour later, more food had been made, extra chairs were fitted around the table, and my brother and I were instructed to sit at the kids’ table with a cousin whose name was Maria Grazie—forever “Maria...