A Journey Back Home

A Journey Back Home

Nicole had always been a city girl. Growing up in the inner suburbs of Sydney, she was surrounded by the hum of trains, the smell of fresh coffee wafting from corner cafes, and the click of hurried footsteps on pavement. Her life was fast, modern, and wonderfully chaotic. Yet, there was one constant in her childhood—Nonna.

Nonna, with her thick, weathered hands that could knead dough like magic, her bright floral aprons, and her melodic voice slipping effortlessly between broken English and a sing-song Italian. To Nicole, Nonna’s Italian was background noise, a language that seemed old-fashioned and unnecessary. She would shake her head when Nonna asked her to help make ravioli or to sit and listen to stories of “la bella Italia.” Nicole, impatient and dismissive, would wave her off.

“English is all I need,” she would say.

Years passed. Nicole grew into a young woman chasing dreams, ambitions, and the illusion that the world was always within reach. Then one day, the phone call came. Nonna had passed away peacefully in her sleep.

The grief was immense, but what lingered most was regret. As Nicole sifted through Nonna’s belongings, she found a tattered map of Italy. Circled in fading ink was a coastal town—Manarola—one of the stunning Cinque Terre villages in Liguria. Beneath the map was a handwritten note: Il mio cuore è sempre qui. My heart is always here.

Nicole decided she had to see it for herself. But first, she made a promise: to learn the language Nonna had tried so hard to share with her.

For months, Nicole practised Italian in her spare time, fumbling over conjugations and trying to master the lilting rhythm of the words. She bought grammar books, joined language classes, and listened to Italian podcasts. Every new word felt like a connection, a bridge to Nonna.

Finally, she booked her flight to Italy.

Manarola was everything she had imagined and more. Narrow cobblestone streets twisted through the village, pastel-hued houses clung to cliffsides, and fishing boats bobbed gently in the harbour. The scent of sea salt mingled with the aroma of freshly baked focaccia.

Nicole climbed to the village’s highest point, a hill dotted with wildflowers and olive trees. She sat on a bench overlooking the glittering Mediterranean, the blue stretching endlessly before her. The warm breeze carried the distant laughter of children and the chatter of locals.

She pulled out a photo of Nonna, taken long ago in a similar setting, her face beaming with youth and hope. For the first time, Nicole spoke aloud in Italian.

"Nonna, sono qui. Finalmente." Nonna, I’m here. Finally.

Tears welled in her eyes, but they were not just tears of sadness—they were tears of reconciliation, understanding, and pride.

As the sun dipped into the horizon, painting the sky with hues of amber and pink, Nicole realised she was no longer a stranger to her heritage. She was home.

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