My husband and I took a day trip this past week. We both took a day off from work and drove into New York City. We make many trips of the sort, usually to Manhattan, at various times of the year. This week our destination was The Bronx. My husband was in the mood to feel his ethnic roots.
The Bronx is home to Arthur Avenue, a wonderful strip of retail shops and restaurants which comprise what many consider to be New York City's real Little Italy.
Several of my husband's Aunts and Uncles hail from the Bronx. When he was a child, his parents packed up the family and spent many happy trips there. He still talks about going to Mass Sunday mornings and on the walk back to his Aunt Jeanette's apartment Uncle Al, her husband, would take him to a pastry shop for a treat. Happy memories for him, certainly. Memories he likes to hang on to.
I get a kick out of how happy he gets as soon as we start the trek across the George Washington Bridge. We talk about what we are going to buy, where we might eat. We talk about our past trips and we talk about the trips he took as a child. This week was no exception. It was a welcome relief after the period of tension and discord that had descended upon our household. A welcome relief to be sure.
My husband comes from a very traditional Italian family. A family, sadly, fractured and decimated by a bitter divorce between his parents. A divorce that occurred nearly forty years ago. One that tore the family apart and the estrangements, rifts and pain still exist to this day. I am always saddened to think about how that divorce affected him, how it still affects him and our life together.
The trip into NYC was pleasant. We arrived early and found our parking on 187th St.. My husband called ahead, on the drive in, to place his order with Chris at Borgatti's (15 dozen cheese ravioli and 10 pounds of angel hair pasta). We planned to peruse the shops around the neighborhood for a few hours and have lunch at a favorite spot. I found a sweet espresso set and a wine decanter with glasses I could not live without. We stopped in Addeo's for pani di casa and bread crumbs. We bought soprasota, mortadela and capicola. We bought a chunk of locatelli cheese, shredded and parcelled into containers. We bought the things we can't get here at home, things that are not quite as good as they have for sale up on Arthur Avenue. Most of what we bought was for our family and friends who give us "orders" to bring such things when we visit. Of course we are happy to oblige.
The ride back home was more subdued, my husband continuing along on his mental stroll down a painful memory lane. I do my best to be understanding. I do my best to understand when he checks out and gets lost in his own head. I haven't had the experiences he's had nor have I dealt with my own family trials in the manner he does. We're different that way. Thank goodness.
Different because for all of the years that have passed and all of the sadness he's felt, he remains entrenched in a past that won't ever change. A past that won't, for all the world, come back. He longs for a family that once was while I watch and wonder if he fully appreciates the family that is. The family I have given him. We're different because I live in the here and now. I look around and see what I have. We're different because I look ahead at what is to come for this family, my family. The family we created.
If he isn't careful he could someday find himself looking back with longing at that family as well.
Indeed.
The Bronx is home to Arthur Avenue, a wonderful strip of retail shops and restaurants which comprise what many consider to be New York City's real Little Italy.
Several of my husband's Aunts and Uncles hail from the Bronx. When he was a child, his parents packed up the family and spent many happy trips there. He still talks about going to Mass Sunday mornings and on the walk back to his Aunt Jeanette's apartment Uncle Al, her husband, would take him to a pastry shop for a treat. Happy memories for him, certainly. Memories he likes to hang on to.
I get a kick out of how happy he gets as soon as we start the trek across the George Washington Bridge. We talk about what we are going to buy, where we might eat. We talk about our past trips and we talk about the trips he took as a child. This week was no exception. It was a welcome relief after the period of tension and discord that had descended upon our household. A welcome relief to be sure.
My husband comes from a very traditional Italian family. A family, sadly, fractured and decimated by a bitter divorce between his parents. A divorce that occurred nearly forty years ago. One that tore the family apart and the estrangements, rifts and pain still exist to this day. I am always saddened to think about how that divorce affected him, how it still affects him and our life together.
The trip into NYC was pleasant. We arrived early and found our parking on 187th St.. My husband called ahead, on the drive in, to place his order with Chris at Borgatti's (15 dozen cheese ravioli and 10 pounds of angel hair pasta). We planned to peruse the shops around the neighborhood for a few hours and have lunch at a favorite spot. I found a sweet espresso set and a wine decanter with glasses I could not live without. We stopped in Addeo's for pani di casa and bread crumbs. We bought soprasota, mortadela and capicola. We bought a chunk of locatelli cheese, shredded and parcelled into containers. We bought the things we can't get here at home, things that are not quite as good as they have for sale up on Arthur Avenue. Most of what we bought was for our family and friends who give us "orders" to bring such things when we visit. Of course we are happy to oblige.
The ride back home was more subdued, my husband continuing along on his mental stroll down a painful memory lane. I do my best to be understanding. I do my best to understand when he checks out and gets lost in his own head. I haven't had the experiences he's had nor have I dealt with my own family trials in the manner he does. We're different that way. Thank goodness.
Different because for all of the years that have passed and all of the sadness he's felt, he remains entrenched in a past that won't ever change. A past that won't, for all the world, come back. He longs for a family that once was while I watch and wonder if he fully appreciates the family that is. The family I have given him. We're different because I live in the here and now. I look around and see what I have. We're different because I look ahead at what is to come for this family, my family. The family we created.
If he isn't careful he could someday find himself looking back with longing at that family as well.
Indeed.
1 comment:
http://www.ArthurAvenueBronx.com
http://www.LittleItalyBronx.com
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