Stay true to the dreams of thy youth

It’s amazing to me how listening to a familiar song can transport me to a different time and place, a place associated with a catchy tune or an emotion-stirring beat. I associate Baba O’Riley from The Who’s album Who’s Next with Vernazza, Italy. The first time I really started listening to that CD was during a trip with my Dad to Italy in the summer of 2001. Italy still used the Lira for its currency, and Cinque Terre still had more Italians than tourists.

Arriving by train our first day in Vernazza, we wandered the streets until a little old lady named Signora Baranca invited us to stay in an extra room in her house. The room was small and cozy, with a double bed reserved for the larger of the two travelers… Old Man Helms. Attached to our room was a little balcony with steep metal stairs leading up to the rooftop garden where our signora grew plants and did her laundry in the morning as she sang melancholic Italian songs in her decaying voice. Our balcony looked over a little alleyway where chubby Italian children played soccer in the morning in between bites of pastries.

Our first night there, I decided to sleep on the roof as the bed was too small and its occupant a bit too gassy. Hiking up the steep stairs against the wishes of my father who envisioned me sleep-walking over the rail and into the alley four-stories below, I grabbed my sheet and settled into a lounge chair on the roof. This is where my music-induced memories begin.

Warm summer Italian nights, swirling masses of starts in the Italian sky, century-old church bells punctuating the calm of the night, and the warm sea breeze drifting in from the nearby shore. As the song ebbs and flows in my ears I see the dewy sunrise, and smell the delicious scents of baking pastries and freshly ground coffee beans. Signora Baranca nearly has a heart attack as she arrives to do laundry in the morning unaware of my presence. The din of breakfast utensils hitting ceramic plates drifts my way punctuating my morning dreams along with eccentric songs of an aging Italian man.

The slower melody of the song picks up again as the song nears its end. Beats swirl faster and faster and images hold pace; hiking the surrounding countryside, butterflies in my stomach as I leap from the cliffs into the sea, strange Italian women putting their toe in my ear, parades, soccer matches, loud music, anchovies, quicker and quicker.

And then the end of the song… silence, only the sweet sound of church bells ringing in my ears as I return to my desk in rainy DC.