My happy fists slowly fall as my maybe-hero steps into Fuma e Formaggio. But I keep my hopes high, telling myself un momento is nothing. I’m only allowed to start panicking if he hasn’t come back in, like, five momentos.
My trust in Luigi as a cabdriver grows when he returns after no more than two minutes with something vape-related I can’t identify and a shrink-wrapped plate of at least a dozen varieties of cheese cubes for sampling. But he becomes a friend for life when he holds the latter in the air toward me and announces joyfully, “Snack!”
The journey is, at least metaphorically, all downhill from there. Luigi recognizes one of the street names and manages to get us there as a starting point. But these directions, I quickly come to believe, were written as some sort of test, meant to weed out the weakest of minds and/or spirits before they ever make it to the Villa Russo Research Residency.
“ ‘Drive over three potholes. Just past the third, turn east onto Via Pomodori.’ Okay, feels like we could’ve skipped the pothole part. And ‘turn east’? Sure, let me whip out mycompass real quick,” I mutter the last bit under my breath, then watch for the Via Pomodori street sign in order to point it out to Luigi, relieved to see there is only one possible way to turn.
I’m in the passenger seat, so he can easily see all the hand-talking I’m doing to overcome our language barrier. It also gives us both easy access to the cheese plate. With a few more strange landmarks and an unnecessary commitment to describing everything in cardinal directions, it feels like a miracle that we ever make our way out of the town center and into the farmland and rolling hills I was expecting.
“ ‘At the abandoned tractor’—what?—‘continue south for three kilometers.’ ” I don’t bother to semi-translate that one, giving Luigi a thumbs-up instead, since it conveys the same message:Keep doing what you’re doing, champ.
Our surroundings start to feel more familiar, though I know I wasn’t old enough to form memories of any of it the last time I was here. It’s probably just the effect of cobbled-together images I’ve seen in pictures, stories I’ve been told my whole life. I’m popping vape shop cheese cubes into my mouth with growing frequency, as the feelings of recognition intensify alongside my nerves.
“Oh, stop! Uh, halt? No, that’s still English, ack—” I rush out, but Luigi correctly interprets my panicked hand-waving and the cab rolls to a stop on the blessedly empty country road. “I really was not about to take ‘the tree shaped like a head of garlic’ seriously, but damn if that isn’t one garlicky tree.”
Luigi points at it with a laugh. “Sembra aglio.”
No idea what that means, but I laugh with him, becausethat’s what friends do, and because I’m beginning to think we might actually locate this villa. Just past the tree, I direct him to turn down the unmarked gravel road that we would have completely missed if we hadn’t known to look for it.
The rumble of Luigi’s car as it slowly climbs the hillside is no match for the shiver that travels through my whole body, and when the first tent comes into view, my instinct is confirmed. We’re finally approaching the Villa di Bronzo Archaeological Site.
I wonder if this is how everyone born in some notable, newsworthy way feels when they return to the place where they have that unique connection. Like if a baby who’s born on an airplane grows up and gets chills every time they fly. Or the kid I read about a few years back whose mom gave birth to him in the middle of taking her bar exam—and still passed. When he inevitably goes to law school, will that first step on campus come with an overwhelming sense of his destiny being fulfilled?
This moment feels too big to be experiencing it alone with my thoughts, but I’m still lacking the right vocab to help Luigi understand my swirling emotions. With all we’ve been through together, I don’t think I’d hesitate to share if I could.
He might even find it interesting that Villa di Bronzo wasn’t the only life-altering surprise Dr. Lovett encountered in this very place twenty years ago. The other was me, Cammie Lovett (Fetus Version). Mom was already pregnant when she made the former discovery, though she didn’t recognize the signs until she was unusually far along. She continued to lead the first and most significant archaeological dig of her career,right up until she went into early labor and had no choice but to bring me into the world right there on Villa grounds.
For a short while at the beginning of my life—roughly fifteen minutes, metaphorically—I was known as the Bambina di Bronzo in news stories the world over. And though Mom and I left Italy before I could even say the wordarchaeologist, I’ve always dreamed of coming back here as one.
More white tents appear as we crest the first hill, scattered out toward the horizon. They’re the same kind of white canopy over collapsible metal poles that littered Nolan University’s campus during football season last fall, when every weekend brought throngs of tailgaters to every parking lot on school property. When I’d walk by those tents on the way to class or the dining hall, I’d daydream about this moment—when all the temporary shelters around me wouldn’t be for kegs, grills, and drunk sports fans.
They’d be for shovels and pickaxes. Tables of artifacts. Sweaty, tired, but happy-just-to-be-there students and their fearless leaders, archaeologists like my mom. Someday, I’d hoped, archaeologists likeme. The view sends a reflexive thrill through my system, one that speaks to a lifetime of memories tagging along on dig sites and the plans I’ve always had for my future. But the feeling is quickly chased by a sharp pang.
I miss the naïve version of me who thought I’d be welcome at any field school I wanted. The girl who applied to her dream summer program with the International Institute of Archaeological Studies and had no backup plan. She didn’t think she’d need one.
The directors of the IIAS thought otherwise. The rejection email came just weeks ago, a few curt sentences that not only derailed my summer plans but also ground my confidence into dust. I’d imagined my biggest hurdle would be proving to others in the program that I’m more than just the Lovett name. Instead, it was having to face the reality that I’m so unworthy, not even nepotism could save me.
It couldn’t get me into field school, anyway. But itcouldget me field-school-adjacent. When I’d pulled my sobbing self together enough to call Mom and break the news, she’d spun it into an opportunity—I could join her here, be part of the documentary with her. La Bambina, all grown-up and making her long-awaited return to her birthplace.
As I look out over the wildflower-covered hillside under a cloudless blue sky, I can’t help but think there are worse detours to take. My return to Villa di Bronzo isn’t under the triumphant terms I’d hoped, but this place feels full of potential. Maybe getting rejected from my dream program was actually fate stepping in, putting me exactly where I need to be, when I need to be here. Not just to tag along at Mom’s side or make a cute little cameo in her big-screen debut, either.
Because ancient artifacts aren’t the only secrets long buried in Vesuvius’s shadow. And I’m ready to start unearthing a few.
Mom has been a ball of energy and excitement since I accepted her invite here, making it clear how much she’s missed me since I started college. She arrived a week ago, just as my finals were ending, and has been sending me countless pictures of the gorgeous Italian scenery now spread out before me.
Meanwhile, I’ve kept pretty quiet in the whirlwind week of moving back from my school outside Chicago to my grandparents’ house in Kentucky, the place Mom and I call home when we’re in the States, then repacking for Italy. Mom doesn’t need to know about my secret summer side quest or the groundwork I’ve been laying for it, the hours I’ve spent scouring every inch of her home office like a CIA operative. As it turns out, archaeologists are really into hoarding old shit and taking good care of it. But I still have a lot of digging ahead of me here in the Italian countryside.
And it all starts at the building coming into view straight ahead. A grove of lemon trees seems to pop up out of nowhere and lines both sides of the road, the fresh scent of citrus lingering as we emerge onto a circular driveway, at the crest of which sits a sprawling estate. The original structure has beige stucco walls and a terra-cotta roof, plus two additions built onto either side in a contemporary style, all boxy and angular and filled with windows.
This is the Villa Russo from the picture on my phone, the modern family home that sits on the property where Villa di Bronzo was buried. After its discovery, the Russo family converted their place into a residential facility for researchers—plus said researchers’ wayward daughters, as the case may be.
We roll to a stop and Luigi looks to me with a grin. “Siamo qui?” He poses it as a question this time.
“Sí,” I confirm with a smile and two thumbs up for emphasis.
As I climb out of the cab, I’m hit with a delightfully lemony breeze. It’s the sensory experience of entering a Bath & BodyWorks, but this Italian Lemon Grove scent isreal. I meet Luigi by the trunk and reclaim my suitcase, almost sad to say goodbye. We may not have been able to communicate much with words, but his actions were above and beyond airport pickup driver duties. We shared a cheese tray—that shit is personal.
“Grazie mille, Luigi,” I say sincerely, maybe the most useful of the few things LingoLegendhastaught me.I’ll never forget you, I add mentally.
