I've just arrived from New York City at the airport in Rome and already I'm lost, wandering left and right and searching for the right exit. I'm supposed to meet my wife Elvira, who lives in Italy now, and then drive to Guardia Sanframondi, the little town where we own a house, to meet our newborn granddaughter Lucia, now all of 11 weeks old.
But I takes a wrong turn, and then another, all in vain. I'm lost for 15 minutes, then 30, and finally about 45, unable to get my passport properly scanned and pick up my luggage. This is more than mildly inconvenient. After all, I've just flown more than 4 ,000 miles, a flight into my future.
But suddenly I see Elvira, who is holding baby Lucia in her arms. I'm found.
I stay in Italy for three weeks. It's impossible for me to get enough of Lucia, and so I follow a strict agenda. Hold Lucia in my arms. Kiss Lucia all over her face. Wheel Lucia in her carriage in the most public places available. Make faces at her and even sillier gestures and sounds.
Today, at 70, I'm a permanent resident of Italy, with Lucia living a five—minute walk away. We visit her at her house and she visits us at ours almost every day. In most American families, adult children with grandchildren live in different towns and states far away. Italian families, on the other hand, are more likely to live near each other. Sometimes three generations here even stay together in the same home. I've happily turned my life upside—down to be a grandpa Italian—style. Lucia is just what I need right about now. If I'm lucky, I'll be just what she needs, too.
