The Death of an Italian Island

August 2018 was the end of my third summer living on an island in Italy. I was still excited about the new life I'd found and wrote a piece with snippets of what had first attracted me. I kept its name a secret, but planned on sharing more details over time.

The two and a half-hour trip which includes a (convertible) drive, two walks and a boat ride never seemed too long. The final stop is the cemetery. In Chicago, living near a hospital depressed me. And now my bus stop (albeit a boat) is called cimitero (cemetery) and I get off smiling.

When I first wrote about the island my intention wasn't to share 'one of the last hidden gems' or invite readers to 'step back in time 100 years'. That's what guidebooks and travel videos do. I wrote to remind readers of an oft-forgotten life....evening chats in the lagoon for lack of air conditioning, doors with dangling keys in the locks, a sea of rusty bikes in front of the grocery store, old washing machines turned into grills for the fresh catch of the day, and the cheese truck, fruit and veggie truck, fish truck and ice cream truck parked in different places on different days. Daily life brings the islanders together.

The summer I wrote that piece there were a few more tourists than usual. When I complained, some of the residents grumpily agreed while others welcomed the fresh faces and exposure to the outside world.

Post Labor Day always drew a handful of visitors, mostly tolerable, vacationing retirees. But that September the ferryboat never stopped bringing families, couples and groups of 30-somethings, 40-somethings and 50-somethings. I thought I'd get back to writing about the island when the kids got back to school and life got back to normal. But since that summer, the island has never gotten back to normal.

In November of 2019 things got worse. "One of the last hidden gems" was flooded----twice. First by acqua alta (high water) which made the evening news. And then by tourists who'd discovered the island on the evening news, waited for the high water to recede and then reflooded it with bikes, shiny boats and cool sunglasses.

In 2020, the pandemic forced the whole world to stick closer to home and Italians began their search for something new in the land of La Bella Vita. People with expensive cars and fancy watches started baking bread and talking to their neighbors.  And what better place than a forgotten island to discover and appreciate a life where time stands still?

It's true that I was once a tourist on the island. But only once. Because on my second visit I became a house shopper. And not long after, a homeowner. Then I became "La Foresta" (dialect for a person from the outside), "L'americaaaaaana" (said with a smile) and "Ten" (which makes me feel at home). It didn't take long to lose my tourist status. The islanders don't give tourists pet names and tourists don't remember the islanders' birthdays or deliver handmade Christmas cards.

Sadly, in the past few years my behavior has changed. I've become a person I would never like. It's impolite to look away when a tourist smiles. It's rude to say I don't have time to help with directions. It's immature to say that I hate tourists. I don't like being impolite, rude and immature but I also don't like being invaded. People don't understand why it bothers me so much and I could never really explain it. But after two years of rental bikes, sunset-selfies and long lines at the gelateria I might finally have an explanation that works.

Try this. You love your living room. You love how you feel in it. The colors are right. The layout of the room is right. Everything feels good. Maybe sometimes you don't fold the afghan on the back of the sofa or your kids' toys aren't put away and you feel a little unsettled so you straighten things up. Then you look around, light a candle (it's really time you start lighting your candles!) and feel good again. You like being there because you like how it makes you feel. It makes you feel good.

Now imagine that the wall you'd painstakingly painted Sea Breeze has suddenly been painted  Bittersweet Shimmer. And the pastels you had done of the kids at the county fair (does anyone do that anymore?) have been replaced by a wall sized poster of Times Square.  These things can't be folded up and put away like the afghan and toys. This is your new space and you have to live with it.

You start complaining that it's changed. It's not how it was when you fell in love with it. Your friends hope to help by reminding you that it's actually the same place.  You can still do everything in your living room that you used to do. It offers what it's always offered....great light and a beautiful view from the big window, comfortable furniture, and lots of memories.   

It's true. The living room is still the same place, but Bittersweet Shimmer doesn't make you feel the same as Sea Breeze. And you prefer the calm of the kids pastel faces looking down at you, not the chaos of Times Square.   

That explains how I feel on the island. It's the same place, but the sea breeze has a different feel and arriving at the cimitero comes with a bittersweet shimmer.