A Cappuccino in Lucera

The first thing I thought when I stepped off the train in Lucera was: I can’t believe I’m here. I had finally done it; I booked a ticket to Italy. Alone. In January. And I only knew a handful of words in Italian.

The cold seeped through my clothes and settled onto my skin as I rubbed my hands together and studied my surroundings. I was at a train station that, to me, felt more like a bus stop. A few curious eyes started landing on me as I got myself in order; the first rule of traveling: always pretend like you’re meant to be there. I left the station and walked up a hill to the village entrance. Once I reached the top, there was a hive of activity as cars circled a roundabout. I could see my hotel on the other side, but before I went there, I stumbled into the coffee shop: full of confidence, full of enthusiasm, until all eyes turned on me at the shutting of the door.

I felt like a character in an old western movie. The one where a stranger wanders into a saloon. I was anticipating the Italian translation of “You aren’t from these parts, are you?” But no one said anything. They looked, then turned their attention back to the counter, where they threw back a cup of espresso like it was a shot of vodka.

I casually made my way to the counter, with my luggage in tow, and studied the menu; my first mistake. If they didn’t already suspect it, that definitely sealed it. Not only was I not from Lucera, but I was not from Italy. My skin prickled with suspense at the simple task of ordering a cappuccino. So I observed how people ordered in an attempt to parrot them earnestly, telling myself, anytime, Felicia, anytime.

“Un cappuccino per favore,” I choked out to the beautiful girl working the counter. She had a snow-white complexion and a smile that assured me she was friendly. She made me a cappuccino, and I looked out the window as the roundabout outside spun in a small frenzy, Italian voices murmured behind me, and the taste of caffeine touched my lips.

I couldn’t believe I was here. My grandmother had left this village in 1946 after falling madly in love with an American soldier, and here I was, 73 years later, wanting to learn their story; only I was alone to discover it. My kids had gone with their father for winter break, and instead of being alone at home, I decided to go on this little adventure. I had decided to write this story, but I wasn’t sure where to start. I just knew that I couldn’t have done it at home. I couldn’t pretend to know the feeling of a place without setting foot in it. I needed to take in the smells, the temperature, the people, and the lessons of being someplace new.

I sat in the coffee shop, lingering longer than necessary as everyone before me drank their espresso quickly and left. Nearly a dozen people rotated through before my shoulders relaxed and I smiled at anyone who looked my way. The barista said something in Italian, and my response: Sono Americana. Meaning I didn’t speak Italian.

I thought she would drop it then, but I could tell she was curious about why I was there, especially alone. It was winter, and from my observation, it appeared that only locals moved through Lucera. It wasn’t like the big cities of Rome, Florence, or Milan. I stood out.

So I pulled out my Google Translate and explained why I was there: that I wanted to learn and write the story of my grandparents. That ten-minute coffee break transformed into a three-hour crash course in local life: tips, directions, and village stories from every guest who wandered in and joined the conversation. They were more fascinated with me, the American girl who had traveled from Los Angeles to learn about their village. Little did they know that I was utterly intrigued by them as I took notes and began my journey.