From an early age, I’ve always had a fondness for reading on stairs. In the home where I grew up in Nuneaton, my favorite spot was a cozy square of carpet nestled between two stair flights opposite a wall-mounted clock. It let me keep an eye on time as I tried to squeeze in a few extra pages before bedtime. Yet, the ultimate reading sanctuary has always been the terracotta steps leading up to my nonna’s home in Puglia. There’s something about those steps; they’re a backdrop for many family photographs, and I can almost feel the warmth of their red tiles even in the heart of winter just by closing my eyes.
Growing up, I often wrestled with a simple but profound question: “Ti senti più inglese o più italiana?” or “Do you feel more English or more Italian?” It’s a query rooted in my identity as British-Italian. Most of my lineage resides in a quaint town in Italy, home to about 6,200 people according to the latest census. My mother, one of five siblings, is the only one who ventured beyond San Donaci, moving to the Midlands motivated by love—before I came along as her only child.
For a long time, I didn’t entirely value my second home or the dual identity it represented. My 93-year-old nonna lives at the town’s threshold, surrounded closely by her children. My aunts reside on the same street, and this tight-knit family setup in San Donaci leaves little room for privacy—doors remain unlocked. Once, Nonna casually entered my cousin’s home without knocking, nearly discovering a boyfriend hidden in the shower. The closeness extends beyond the family; the entire town is interconnected. Strangers who don’t immediately know you will simply ask, “A chi appartieni?” meaning “Who do you belong to?”
During my teenage years, I attempted to compartmentalize these dual aspects of my life. I’ve become somewhat of a family legend for nudging my mom when she spoke Italian to me in England. I set clear borders: English in England, Italian in Italy, never the two shall cross. However, the rest of the family never quite embraced this binary approach. Easters and Christmas breaks would find me immersed in San Donaci’s local schools, being quizzed by kids about English swear words, while my cousins took summer shifts at a Nuneaton McDonald’s, their elegant names getting an English twist—Federica was simply Freddy, and Salvatore became Torey.
With time, the harmony and richness of living between these two worlds became more evident. I spoke Italian with a distinctly local accent, and during nightclub outings with my cousins, switching languages became my party trick. Being southern Italian is an ingrained part of my identity, not just a mere half. In Italy, I had my own space, routines, clothes that stayed year-round, and people who have watched me grow. It’s a heartening sense of belonging.
Despite the scattered family, my nonna often feels the sting of having her grandchildren spread across Europe and asks, “Quando te ne torni?” When will you return—for good? Her home, however, remains a sacred refuge where the positives outweigh the negatives. We don’t dwell on the town’s challenges, like nonexistent jobs and stretched infrastructure. Watching her during family gatherings, I often notice her doing an internal tally, relishing the reunion of her grandchildren, even as we scatter back to Milan, Brussels, or Paris.
For me, London became home, and although I cherish life there, it can sometimes feel isolating—a city where nearly nine million people bustle. In Hackney, anonymity reigns; a familiar face in my neighborhood is still a delightful surprise. My flat is on the first floor, meaning shared staircases, not quite suited for reading. Like many Londoners, I straddle the line between desiring solitude and yearning for community. Unlike me, Nonna basks in local fame in San Donaci, where every outing is an opportunity for warm encounters, her coffee tab seldom her own.
In this vibrant city, I’ve found a piece of my Italian heritage—a large influx of young Sandonacesi have migrated here, including my childhood best friend, whose father now serves as the mayor of San Donaci. The Christmas flights between our homes are scarce, just twice weekly, ensuring familiar faces on each journey. Their bright spirits are comforting; I know they dream of the traditional fave e cicoria, mornings by the sea, and their sprawling families engulfing them in love. This December, I’ll join them on that flight, greeted by familiar faces and picked up by an aunt. My first stop will be those beloved red tiled steps, sipping coffee and diving into a book, until Nonna inevitably sidetracks me.
