Illustration by Alex Deadman-Wylie
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I fell in love with Italy decades ago in Florence when I spotted a peach-coloured swing coat in a shop window. It struck me then that a country capable of producing something so exquisite must also know something about how to live. Yes, the Duomo was magnificent, Tuscany’s hills were breathtaking and Rome lingered in my soul long after I had departed, but it was that coat that sealed my fate.
My next inevitable step was to marry an Italian. They were dark, handsome, and stylish beyond any North American’s dreams. This goal has now been achieved, for my husband, David, is Italian. Prior to meeting me, he was adamantly Canadian, but I saw this as a mere technicality.
David learned early that being Italian came with expectations. Not the glamorous kind either, but the 1980s stereotypes: Camaros with fuzzy dice, slicked-back hair that required industrial-strength product and suburban bungalows guarded by concrete lions.
David could have modelled for Made in Italy magazine yet he maintained that he was Canadian. No explaining. No assumptions about his relationship with garlic. Just a nationality that comes with apologies and sensible footwear.
But I had captured my pure-blooded Italian prince and I had a plan: I took him to Italy. Its grandeur was not lost on him. Suddenly, he was molto Italiano. Apparently, all it takes to reclaim your roots is standing in front of a 600-year-old cathedral and realizing your people built it. Everything became his. His ancestors. His architecture. His culture. I’d like credit for that.
One trip wasn’t enough. I dreamed of living there. Then, thanks to restructuring at both our workplaces, we found ourselves unemployed, armed with generous severance packages. Italy was calling and we answered.
We began in his family’s home in Abruzzo, where we quickly learned we weren’t touring Italy; we were touring relatives. After seven months and countless second cousins, we made our escape to Tuscany.
Tuscany felt like freedom. Each vista was more beautiful than the last – vineyards rolling into the horizon, cypress-lined roads leading to stone villas. Best of all, there were no nightly family drop-ins. We finally had time to explore. Our postal code made us popular. Guests arrived. A not-for-profit bed-and-breakfast/tour-company was born. We saw every inch of Tuscany and we loved it.
Eventually, we rented a large farmhouse near Florence. I noticed that the closer we lived to a city, the more I fit in. Apparently, there’s only so much discussion about prize-winning tomatoes and zucchini I could take in small towns.
Italy was not without its flaws – the very ones it’s famous for. The bureaucracy. The selective enthusiasm of shopkeepers. The mysterious opening and closing hours. And the military precision around meals. Miss the lunch window, even at a restaurant, and that’s it. You’re on your own until dinner. Make a sandwich. Reflect on your choices.
Once we pushed through the paperwork and stopped fighting the system, life became rather paradisiacal. I saw the beauty in it, found humour in the chaos and chronicled the experience in several books.
Before long, the idea of eating without sitting at a proper table felt barbaric. Our days revolved around mealtimes. Paper cups for coffee? Assolutamente no! Dressing up for the supermarket became second nature. Driving five hours to visit David’s parents in Abruzzo instead of taking a vacation felt normal. That’s when I realized that, in Italy, la famiglia comes first.
It was this concept that eventually landed us back in Toronto.
Each visit home, my mother seemed a little less steady on her feet. My sister, her primary caregiver, needed back surgery. The question became unavoidable: could we, in good conscience, continue sipping Chianti under the Tuscan sun while my family needed us?
My sweet husband decided it was time to go “home.”
We sold two decades’ worth of furniture, packed up an impressive collection of Italian designer shoes and said goodbye to views most people only dream of, and to our neighbour’s three cats, who had quietly adopted us. It was heartbreaking.
I hear your gasp. I hear it every time someone learns we left Tuscany. While many dream of the life we walked away from, I had to learn not just to live in Toronto, but to love it. The city had changed. We had changed. Grace was required, and I wasn’t entirely sure I possessed it.
I had to hide my expression when friends suggested burgers and then pulled into a drive-through, fully intending that we eat with our food in our laps while the car swerved and coffee sloshed. Sunday lunch was no longer sacred.
Still, we looked for the good: a clothes dryer, proper air conditioning, cottage country with private beaches, a city that remained open in August. Stores and offices that operated all day. Barbecue sauce. And we no longer had to eat pineapple on pizza in secret.
I also kept coming back to the No. 1 lesson Italy taught me, after pasta and designer shoes: family matters most. Tuscany will always be there. Time with my 79-year-old mother, however, is precious and irreplaceable.
And the fact that my husband suggested returning to help his mother-in-law?
Well, he is more Italian than he will ever know.
Ivanka Di Felice once again lives in Toronto.