Sipping Italy, Steeped in Canada
Caffé Italia, Montreal, Quebec
Last week, I flew back home. But hold on—home? Where is home, really, Here? There? Maybe both! I’ve often asked myself that question, and if I wasn’t sure before, I am now at peace with the answer. Canada built me into who I am today, and I am both proud and grateful for the values I found here: politeness, tolerance, openness, freedom, safety, respect, and modesty, to mention a few. Yet in Italy, I find a sense of belonging, connection with community, strong bonds of family and friendship, and a place where I can fully express my passions.
I plan to continue writing my newsletters, still titled *Sipping Italy with Tino*. While I'm here in St-Sauveur, just north of Montreal for the next few months, I'll share stories holding a Canadian link but also some from my notes and photos from Italy. However, with travel plans on the horizon, you may not see it every single week, as consistency might vary.
Today, I’m writing from Caffé Italia in the heart of Little Italy in Montreal—a classic Italian coffee bar that’s old-fashioned by today’s standards. Caffé Italia offers a taste of Italy for Canadians who may have never been, or a nostalgic reminder of the '50s and '60s for Italian immigrants. With its old furniture and vintage posters of the Italian national soccer team, it feels like a slice of Italy frozen in time. My cappuccino is milder than the robust, milk-frothed espresso I got used to in Italy. If I had to rate it, I’d give it a seven on ten, maybe 7+
Since I started this newsletter by pondering where “home” is, I thought I’d share a story I wrote for Pier 21 in Halifax some 20 years ago . At the time, they were inviting immigrants who had arrived through the port to share their stories as they were turning the pier into the Canadian Museum of Immigration. Eventually, I had the honour of being chosen as one of four emigrants representing the museum at its opening celebrations.
I’m pleased to share with you the story I sent Pier 21 in 2002.
The Trip
On September 24, 1965, the day I turned 10, we left San Vittore del Lazio, a small town about 140 kilometers south of Rome. We departed from my aunt’s house early that morning, heading for Naples, where the Queen Frederica would carry us to Halifax. I remember looking out from my uncle’s car at the old water mill on the edge of town and wondering, "Will I ever see this again?" My parents were in their early forties. I was the fourth of five children, aged 2 to 18. The trip was long but exciting. Looking back, the 8 days at sea were a vacation the family ever took together, though we didn’t realize it at the time. As we neared Nova Scotia, I could feel the air grow colder. We arrived at Pier 21 on October 3—my parents’ 20th wedding anniversary. All we had were the clothes we packed, a few keepsakes from our old home, a borrowed $10 in my father’s pocket, and a lot of hope.
My uncle Luigi had rented an old upper duplex on the corner of Park Avenue and Crémazie, in the middle of an industrial neighbourhood. Everything felt vast and tidy, but the constant noise from the Metropolitan Boulevard and the nearby train reminded us we were far from our quiet town in the Apennines. Soon, my father and older siblings found jobs in nearby factories, and I started school the very next day—back in 4th grade, even though I’d finished it that summer in Italy. My aunt thought it best for me to learn both languages, so I was placed in a bilingual class. In those early weeks, I spent most of my time guessing which language was French and which was English. As winter approached and I missed my friends back home, it was easy to feel discouraged.
Some memories from those first weeks in Montreal remain vivid: the warmth of our house, a luxury compared to the damp winters of Italy; going to bed at night in warm sheets was wonderful; sliced bread would stick to my palate but was much better once we got a toaster; and the novelty of shopping weekly rather than daily. I loved trips to Steinberg Supermarket with my mother, coming back with six or seven bags full. Seeing a full fridge looked like a mini convenience store to me. Thirty dollars fed the entire family for a week. Occasionally, my parents would give me permission to go to Cinema Riviera just a few blocks away, where fifty cents would buy me the double bill of Italian movies. Today, the movie theater has turned into a strip club. I still remember that first major snowstorm in mid-November—over a foot of snow. In Italy, school would have been closed for days, but here, life carried on as usual. School was lonely, as I had few people I could speak to. I dreamed a lot about San Vittore, my friends, and soccer games in the piazza and lazy afternoons by the stream. I missed my friends back home terribly.
As winter ended and warm weather finally arrived, I realized I would have to repeat 4th grade again. This time, I decided to focus solely on French. My mother kept to her Italian routine, with family time each evening and a beautifully cooked meal featuring as many Italian ingredients as she could find at the local supermarket.
As I learned the languages, things improved. I even enjoyed watching *Batman* on TV. Things got even better in my teenage years, especially when I started to date girls in high school.
Montreal eventually became a part of me. I’ve built a life here, had three wonderful sons, yet part of me remains in that small Italian town, with memories that once shaped my early years in Italy. It’s a layered, complex feeling of home—a question that lingers even now: is this truly home?
And so,
Twenty-two years later, a lot has happened. My sons are now older than my father was when we arrived here. I have four wonderful grandchildren, one son living his dream in Los Angeles, and, finally, I’ve found the missing puzzle piece of my life. Looking back, I realize I’m one of the lucky ones—I don’t have to choose. In Canada, I discovered who I could become; in Italy, I rediscovered who I had always been. Between these two worlds, I’ve built a life that feels whole, rich, and complete. Two very different places, each one mine.
Arrivederci until next Saturday—always observing, always sharing, always sipping, always a tale from an Italian/Canadian coffee bar and beyond.
Thank you Sally. I totally understand. I try to come to Montreal at least twice a year for a few months and Los Angeles for a few weeks. My boys were visiting me in Italy last summer. To be honest it’s my only big beef as I miss them. But like my youngest said when I was looking for their blessings to go, he said; well dad, I don’t see where the problem is, you’re only 8 hours away. Thank God for FaceTime.
Un texte qui me parle !
Je ne sais jamais si je suis une gaspésienne qui vit à Québec ou une québécoise née en Gaspésie. Je crois que ce sont ces deux identités qui font de moi ce que je suis .