When I am lucky, the returning flight from our traditional summertime U.S. month arrives quite early.  Time to drop bags, greet my mother, and then two blocks to the market.

This is my homecoming.  While Italians often burst into applause when their airplane lands back in the homeland, my own personal applause happens internally when I take my first step back into the market.

Gianna, the egg lady, is the first one I see.  She is new to the market, converting to organic agriculture, warm, sincere, and openly affectionate. She comes out from her booth to give me a hug and to tell me that she has missed seeing me.

Then she reaches for her eggs.

“These you can drink until Thursday.  Uova da Bere“.  She taps a brown one. “They are very fresh”.  (The highest proof of an Italian egg’s freshness is its drinkability.)   She lifts one up and studies it.  “From this morning.  How many would you like ?”

Eight brown eggs please.

She looks at my daughter, aged seven, who is holding my hand.  “I think that you need a little present.  What about one of my homemade yogurts, the ones that you drink ?  Strawberry ?  Shall we try strawberry today ?”

We continue on, Isabel luxuriantly enjoying the pink drink in the little bottle.

We wander through snatches of conversations happening all along the market — exchanges between the fishmonger and the street cleaner, who is buying some fish, on how to prepare anchovies; a hot tirade against Berlusconi at the pet stall; the bread man inquiring of a young woman how her father is feeling.

Wham !  Slam !

The chicken man, thin, smiley, and talking to himself whenever there is no one else, is making very thin chicken scaloppine, whacking the breasts with the flat blade of a sort of machete, and then changing technique entirely, layering them with greatest delicacy between sprigs of rosemary and sage and rings of lemon rind.  Then bang, wham !  Another breast flattened. Quiet concentration as the herbs and lemon are laid down. Whack !

Isabel, who will not eat meat, averts her eyes.

“Hello hello !  You are back, Margherita !  How are you ?” inquires Romeo. “Ciao Isabellina !”

Onwards we go.

Next stop the pharmacy, where the five lady pharmacists are bustling around the counter, one ministering to a nun’s puffy finger, another measuring blood pressure, a third arranging small boxes of homeopathic remedies.

“Oh hello” said the eldest of them, coming round from behind the counter, and giving me two kisses.  A few words of random chat and then, casually indicating a pile of small boxes marked NaturaLife : “Here there is something I like very much – that plumps up the skin.  This is very good for people like me who are not young and need the rejuvenating.”  She pauses. “Of course it is not an easy product as it is in little envelopes that you must mix with a liquid.  Still, I put it in my espresso in the morning and that resolves the problem”.

She flashes a bright smile at me. “Here, let me give you a few samples to take home. We all need rejuvenation, don’t you think ?”

Then : “Buona giornata, e ben tornate ancora !” (Have a lovely day, and welcome back).

Welcome Back.

I’m Home.