IV
Curious about my conversion, I explained to Annalisa how my ailing mother’s sudden decline served as a catalyst for changing my ways and overcoming that nihilistic and decadent period of my life.
In pursuit of self-mastery, I immersed myself in my studies. I aspired, at first, to what later Traditionalist thinkers would call the solar initiation, or the Olympian way—the arduous path of the kshatriya and the eremite, though only with nominal success.
Steeped in Perennialism (Guénon, Evola, A. Coomaraswamy, Schuon, etc.), I eventually stumbled upon The Destruction of the Christian Tradition by Rama P. Coomaraswamy (World Wisdom, 2006), which in turn led me to Salvo, Borella, Rao, and others. Still and all, I was hesitant to set foot back into the modern Church.
Finally, after a vivid dream (I’m convinced it was an apparition) of Santa Patrizia di Costantinopoli urging me to return to the Church on the night of her feast (August 25th), I decided to go back to Mass.
Certain this was the right path, I went to confession that Saturday and attended Mass at my local church the following morning.
Underwhelmed and confused by the changes to the rites and Liturgy that had taken place since my childhood (most noticeably the laity receiving Communion in the hand), I stuck with it for a while.
Uninspired and often annoyed by the mundane and profane sermons of the priests, I eventually started attending Italian-language Masses so I couldn’t understand the homilies but could still receive the sacraments.
This went on until I finally discovered the whereabouts of the Traditional Latin Mass.
On the brink of leaving the Church again (I was tempted to “swim the Bosphorus” and join the Eastern Orthodox), I met, by chance, a Traditional Catholic priest and his friend at a feast in New Jersey, who informed me that the Tridentine Mass was, in fact, still being offered at certain churches throughout New York City.
Forever changed by it, I attended the Solemn High Mass for the Feast of San Giorgio (April 23rd) at the Shrine Church of the Holy Innocents in Midtown Manhattan, and I immediately knew that I had found what I had been searching for all these years. I was home.
To this day, that Mass remains one of the most memorable and beautiful Masses I’ve ever attended.
Fascinated by my story, Annalisa brought me up to date with hers. Between working and taking care of her aging parents, she doesn’t have much time for herself anymore. Not reading as often as she would like—she was a literature major and a voracious reader of Regency fiction (Austen, etc.) and literary verismo (Serao, etc.)—she still keeps a journal and dabbles with her poetry, though nothing she wishes to share.
To my surprise, she kept an old sketch I doodled of her during one of our figure drawing sessions (The girls and I would often model for each other).
Unlucky in love, she dated several men (a couple for long periods), but nothing serious ever developed between them. She wanted children, and they didn’t.
She claimed to be happy, and I hope she is, but (I may be projecting) there seemed to be a palpable melancholy in her eyes.
“I always wondered what life would have been like if my parents had not moved us away.”
I often wondered that myself.
Having done some traveling in recent years, Annalisa visited relatives along la Costa degli Dei in Calabria and finally took her dream vacation to Paris, Nice, and the Côte d'Azur. Fondly recounting her visits to Versailles, the Louvre, and the Musée Rodin, she rattled off the many gardens, churches, and châteaux she had seen.Amusingly, she was ashamed to admit that one of her most cherished memories was in the charming dix-huitième (18th arrondissement) of Paris, famous for the Moulin Rouge and the Sacré-Cœur.
Needlessly worried that I might think less of her, she hesitated to tell me that she went to Café des 2 Moulins because of its connection to the quirky romantic comedy Amélie (2001), starring Audrey Tautou. But when I recognized the café and admitted to liking the film myself, she immediately started recalling the scenes from the movie that took place there with febrile excitement.
Still, as much as she loved France, Annalisa absolutely glowed when she spoke of her ancestral homeland.
“You haven’t lived until you’ve tried the swordfish or tuna in Calabria,” she said. “The seafood is always straight from the sea.”
“Are you unhappy with your meal?” I asked, misreading her tone.
“È sapuritu,” she assured me. “It’s delicious.” I love it when she slips into Calabrese.
“I just miss Calabria,” she continued. “My zie are wonderful cooks, and my cugini took me everywhere.”
Pausing, as if about to blaspheme—“The food is better in Calabria than in France.”
I’ve heard this sentiment often enough from non-Italians to be mere oikophilia.
“I get it,” I said. “Every time I come back from Montreal, the croissants here taste bland by comparison. They’re just not the same.”
She laughed, but I was being serious.
“Don’t get me wrong,” she said, gesticulating. Her body bounced with joyous abandon, every gesture alive with feeling. “I love a good croissant, but how can you compare that to ’nduja, the cipolle rosse di Tropea, or our cornetto?
“The food, the beaches, and the people of Calabria are second to none,” she boasted. “Nothing I say can do them justice; you have to go and see for yourself.” Continue reading
