Rumbling out of Roma Termini with the September sun low on
the horizon, I walked the aisle of the packed train with the evening commuters.
A single seat by the open window, in a quartet wedged between three chatting
businessmen. As I cordially motioned to the seat, one of the men danced to his
feet, offering the seat in the song that is Italian.
I dove into my notebook to document the excitement of the
day; the highlight was surely stumbling upon the giant indoor mercato nestled
in the outskirts of an unlabeled Roman warehouse, tucked between railroad
rubble and ancient crumbling monuments. Ripe tomatoes, a basil stalk, plump peaches,
and fresh country bread to serve as dinner were safely stowed for later. The
downfall was surely the two hour delayed departure of this Eastward-bound
train. I fingered the forty-year old picture tucked between the sheets of notes,
a photo my mother took of a man in the bright Molise sun. Just like my uncle. To meet this
man I might not recognize, without notification of the late arrival would be a
miracle, though my only chance.
Small antique villages, propped on rolling hills between cultivated
pastures, stood as gestures of beauty to the passing trains, each with breathtaking
charm. Through my reverie I overheard my seatmates attempting to deduce my
situation, having noticed the scribbled writing on my lined pages. The brave
one, Sergio, made the first attempt. They spoke no English and my Italian was
near tragic at that point. After a few introductions, a series of gestures and
my pocket dictionary served to expedite our extended conversation. They were
baffled why a young American traveling alone would travel to the rural Molisese
countryside, just like the Wild West, the said. An immediate sigh of
recognition resounded when they discovered I was intending to meet family for
the first time. Yes, I explained, my grandfather was from Saepinum, the house he
was born in now serves as a museum within the ancient ruin site, the most fully
preserved in the whole of Italy.
The train came to an abrupt stop and an announcement was
made overhead in muffled dialect. Passengers were exiting frantically. The train
was splitting in the half and heading on tracks in two directions, Campobasso
riders must transfer. My new comrades joked about the rail employee strike, the
second that week, as they helped me fumble with my luggage out and into the
last car. I would have been less humored if I hadn’t had the company of these
convivial men. The landscape faded to silhouettes of passing hills and I felt a
pang of regret to have lost this aesthetic experience of my grandfather’s
countryside to the light.
I bid adieu at Isernia to the last of my new friends. As the
train pulled into the Campobasso station, a knot of anticipation welled to my
throat. A warm blast of dry summer air overtook me as the electric doors sprung
open. I searched for a sign of familiarity in the men waiting on the platform,
slowly at first, then more frantically as parties began to disperse. A man, the
right age, turned, our eyes locked, and we felt an immediate sign of
recognition. Just like my uncle. A miracle.
