Summer 1980: Italy in Turmoil, A Life in Transition
Part One
Dear Reader,
Since I’ve been blessed with new subscribers, I want to thank you and provide a brief introduction. When I started writing on Substack a little over a year ago, I “planned” to focus on more creative non-fiction. However, as our world became more volatile, the flammable sparks underground ignited, and everything we knew erupted into a massive fireball. Consequently, the direction of my writing took an unexpected left turn—which, if you know me, you understand how I don’t love left turns, but I felt compelled to follow it.
Additionally, you can take the girl out of the yoga world, but you cannot take the yoga out of the girl. I began studying classical yoga over thirty years ago, and shortly after, I was introduced to Tantric yoga. That’s where the love story truly began.
Now, about teaching. The teacher archetype is intrinsically woven into the fabric of my being. Teaching, primarily through words today, is the air I breathe and the nectar I imbibe. Teaching isn’t preaching. Teaching is about sharing ancient wisdom that transcends time and modern transpersonal strategies to help us navigate our current times.
I’m sharing this to let you know (if you haven’t already noticed) that the content and topics of Because Life Is Messy… naturally ebb and flow. Like you, I strive to face each day with mindful awareness and lean into what is with grace and grit. Today, I leaned into memory and, story, and family.
I hope you enjoy today’s post.
Summer 1980: Italy in Turmoil, A Life in Transition
The flickering lights of Taormina grew smaller as the Peugeot chugged along the narrow, winding mountain road, climbing higher and higher.
Leaning into my youngest brother and best friend, I grabbed his hand, white-knuckling, whispering into his ear, “Do you think they’re kidnapping us?”
Crushing my brother’s slender fingers, what an odd moment to realize how much his hands resembled our mother’s while mine took after our father’s. We drove into the darkness, silent, our deaf driver occasionally glancing back at us in the mirror. Searching each other’s eyes, my brother and I wondered what in the hell happened to the lead car carrying our mom and dad.
In the late 1970s and early 1980s, my life was a mess.
Three days before my Christmas Eve birthday, my husband left me. The love of my life woke up one morning and decided he needed to find himself—sans me.
On a frigid Chicago night, my childhood sweetheart loaded up his Army duffel bag and packed it with two pairs of jeans, three pullover sweaters, three pairs of sweatpants, (I counted) socks, underwear, a toothbrush, and a nickel bag of weed. Without a backward glance, he closed the door behind him, walked down the icy steps, and carefully pulled out of the driveway.
For the first time in my not quite 26 years, I spent a night alone, except for the sounds of the dark hour. Envisioning footsteps echoing on chilled hardwood floors, snow and wind from Lake Michigan rattling and hissing through the bedroom windows, and the old furnace clanking on and off, a ghost haunting the basement's depths. I huddled in our cold bed, jaw clamped tight, body shaking.
As my absent husband embarked on his solo quest for self-discovery, I strayed toward the fringes of darkness, feeling frightened and lost. Engaging in a dangerous gamble, I became weightless—a leaf drifting through the air, my heart and body disappearing.
Ignorant of my dalliance with drugs, my parents understood that something was wrong with their only daughter. Scared as they watched my inner light dimming. Self-distinguishing.
Six months after our breakup, after much persuasion, I consented to a three-week trip to Italy with my parents, their former 5th-grade teacher—believe it or not—my youngest brother, whom I adored, and a bus full of strangers.
Italy in the late 1970s and early 1980s was a mess. A bloody mess.
Honestly, it was a curious time to travel to Italy and Sicily. Political and social unrest caused violent clashes between the far left and the far right. Student protests were increasing, addressing environmental issues and housing shortages. The Italian-Marxist domestic terrorist group, the Red Brigade, was responsible for numerous violent incidents, including the kidnapping and brutal murder of the Italian statesman and former prime minister Aldo Moro. It wasn’t until the late 1980s after many members of the Red Brigade were arrested, that the terrorist group disbanded.
Italy was in turmoil, and the energy of the Italians was intense. I blended in seamlessly. Strangely, I remained naive even after numerous misguided late-night adventures. Perhaps that was part of the issue—innocence attracted to darkness, trying to dull both body and heart. In response, my nervous system went on high alert, and my mind became consumed by chaos. Thank the stars and my mother! Her ability to speak Italian enriched our trip. As a first-generation Italian-American, my mom learned English and Italian growing up. Regrettably, my brothers and I lost this chance since the adults didn’t teach us the language—my grandparents’ generation prioritized assimilation and aimed for naturalization.
When we arrived in the heart of Rome, we dedicated a few days to exploring before catching a bus to nearby towns. The allure of Rome, from its locals to the tourists, combined with the lyrical sounds of the language and the enchanting sights and scents, started to enchant me; gradually, step by step and bite by bite, I felt my spirit being reignited. We visited Positano, Pompeii, Sorrento, and Capri, where we took a ferry across the sea to the stunning and rugged island of Sicily.
Sicily, in the 1970s and 1980s, was also a mess.
Having been conquered many times over, from the Greeks to the Arabs, Sicily was seething with a brand of violence that included the resurgence of the Mafia. Also known as Cosa Nostra, the escalation of the Mafia wars resulted in the slaughter of Mafiosa bosses, their families, and innocent civilians.
Upon arriving at our 5-star hotel in Palermo, the guest services team welcomed and promptly cautioned us when stepping outside the hotel premises. They recommended securing our valuable jewelry in the room safes while we explored and advocated for us to stay alert and aware of our surroundings. There were reports of street gangs stealing rental cars, targeting and robbing unsuspecting individuals, and snatching purses and jewelry from both tourists and residents. Just hours later, a friend from our tour, who missed the warning, fell victim when her diamond watch was snatched off her wrist. My growing confidence and sense of safety started to waver. What was going on? Where was the amore?
Before meeting with our group later that evening, my brother and I strolled down to the rocky beach, where we swam in the sea and cleared our minds. However, the air and our spirits felt heavy, saturated by the sultry August heat. After a late dinner, we gathered by the pool with our new friends, sitting beneath the vibrant purple and lavender jacaranda trees, blossoms soft as feathers falling at our feet and blanketing the ground. We ordered pricey Sambuca, a classic Italian cordial that tasted like licorice and warmly hit your belly. With flair, the server ignited three coffee beans floating atop, symbolizing wealth, health, and good fortune to toast and enhance the bitter, earthy flavor. Raising our glasses, we sipped the sweet, sticky drink, becoming more skeptical about what in the world we clueless Americans were doing in Italy and Sicily.
This is wonderful Paulette, a rich mix of your personal story, intermixed with travel, culture and history, bravo 👏
Love it Paulette!! Scintillating tale w/ the taxi tease at the beginning. Can't wait for next installment.