By Sal Guarino
It was a warmer than typical spring day in Brooklyn, New York, on Saturday, April 2, 1977. I was up early and already outside of our soon-to-be-vacant house on 40th street. Our modest brick home housed my grandparents, aunt and uncle, parents, four older siblings, the family dog, and me. Moving day had arrived, and this curious nine-year-old watched excitedly as workers loaded a gigantic truck. The seven of us in my immediate family were just about ready to move across the Verrazano Bridge to Staten Island, one of New York City’s four other boroughs, seeking refuge from the rising crime, discord, and concrete limitations of Brooklyn.
While I was thrilled at the childhood prospects of soon having a real backyard, wide streets suitable for bike riding and stickball, and a bigger room to share with my brother across the bridge, I also felt a keen adult-like sense of nostalgic foreboding about our imminent departure from 40th street, the place that first received my grandfather who trekked from Naples, Italy, in 1923, bringing just a trunk of personal items and two fistfuls of hope. We readied to leave the house that was also the center of the map for several relatives, all of whom lived within a five-minute walk, and the beloved neighborhood that anchored our Italian American subculture and extended our deep roots to the “old country.”
Filled with high emotions around my inkling that things might never be the same and already having developed a useful knack for self-soothing, I decided to engage in one of my favorite activities and effective coping skills. I went for a walk. I circled the neighborhood for a 15-minute adventure of the heart, mind, and feet, departing the anxious scene of our imminent unearthing and stepping into the bustling streets of Brooklyn and the private sanctuary of my nine-year-old reflections. I made a final stop at “Tony’s Candy Store,” where everything from single cigarettes to red tricycles was sold. I felt both sadness and liberation as I exited Tony’s dimly lit, stale-smelling establishment for the last time, the old bell attached to the door clumsily signaling my departure, two Kit-Kat bars in hand that cost 15 cents each.
With a sugar-enhanced bouncy gait, I continued my salutatory tour, stopping in front of “Gino’s Pizza Place.” I reflected fondly upon it from outside its door as if venerating a statue of the Virgin Mary, proudly reminiscing over having gone there “all by myself” on many Saturday afternoons for two slices and an orange drink. (Sometimes, my Italian gluttony and I would continue to “Lenny’s Pizza” just a few blocks away and repeat the process just minutes later!) Next was a final stop at “Pete’s,” a small yet vital grocery store where I had conducted dozens of bread runs for my mom over the years, always requesting that he “add it to the monthly charge.” I hoped to escape our final interaction without having to acknowledge the increasingly weighty reality of our separation that now felt as unavoidable as the smell of the freshly baked Italian bread wafting through the air, so I was unprepared for the emotional stir I experienced when Pete put his hand on my shoulder and wished me and the family well. Holding back tears, I left Pete’s and continued my solitary procession, a warm hero roll in hand that helped quell my burgeoning grief through the most Italian American vehicle possible—my tastebuds.
It was now a typically sunny morning on Friday, November 4, 2022, in San Miguel de Allende. Forty-five plus years, two grown daughters, a diverse and interesting career path, a few excursions to personal hell followed by fortuitous, spiritually rich U-turns, one beautiful Mexican bride, and a boundless sense of joy and gratitude later, I was taking another emotionally infused walk down a different city street called Insurgentes.
Having exchanged a few emails with Francisco, the gatekeeper of Atención San Miguel, expressing my interest in collaborating with what was obviously a cultural touchstone and beacon of open expression in this vibrant city, my pace quickened excitedly in route to the Biblioteca to meet him. As my social media scouting had indicated, Francisco was an affable man who greeted me with palpable energy and attentive, curious eyes. Just moments after sitting down to size each other up, I felt grateful and humbled for our rapid and jovial meeting of the minds. We shared our appreciation and thirst for positivity and humor in a world that could surely use more of both, enhancing each other’s enthusiasm about the positive literary contributions to follow from a former kid from Brooklyn who had just settled in San Miguel and has a lot to say about the wonderful journey along the way.
