Chapter 4
RESEARCH NOTES
The concept of self-actualization is essential to the human experience.
In Maslow’s hierarchy, it is presented not as a material need but a spiritual one, fulfilled only after the more basic needs are met.
However, the aim of this research is to demonstrate that self-actualization can be a primary need and that optimization of the human experience should be contingent only on personal will, not on external approval or permission.
Andrea woke with an uneasy feeling the next morning.
As he walked down the stairs from his apartment and out to the street, he realized that he wasn’t sure exactly what happened last night with Lora.
He had gone from flirty talking, to dancing, to apparently upsetting her in under ten minutes.
She was beautiful, smart, and genuinely fun, but he’d gotten the message: She was not there for any reason but to get her citizenship and get out.
When he tried to be honest with her, she became offended.
It seemed worse to lie to her, but maybe that’s what she wanted.
He couldn’t imagine a person wouldn’t want to understand where they came from, but then again, he had to admit that he might represent the opposite extreme.
Most people weren’t likely to leave a coveted job in one of the greatest cities in the world to go back to the slow life in their microscopic hometown.
But it didn’t really matter what she thought of him.
He’d actually gotten her to dance on the sheer promise that their time together would be brief and unremarkable, so in a sense, he’d gotten exactly what he expected.
Still, that dress and the smooth lines of her shoulders stayed in his mind all the way over to his parents’ house.
“Ciccio, there is no reason for you to walk all the way over here. We are fine,” Paola Garibaldi said, setting a slice of apple cake down on the table.
If she didn’t want him to stay, this was not the way to show it.
He pulled a chair up to the same table he’d been sitting at most of his life and picked up a fork.
It was only a ten-minute walk to get here, but his mother always made it seem like the effort was akin to chartering a jet.
“Dad said the hot water was not coming up, so I wanted to check.”
“You could have checked later.”
“I didn’t have anything for breakfast at home.” He smiled, taking a bite of cake.
“I’m sure you don’t have anything for lunch or dinner either.
You may have forgotten, but not all food is bought from a cart and comes wrapped in aluminum foil,” she said, her lips pursed together trying to suppress a laugh.
She took everything lightly—or at least tried to make it seem that she did.
It was probably the reason he hadn’t picked up on the fact that his parents might have been struggling a bit after she had fallen.
Hearing the characteristic end of the boiling in the moka coffee pot, Paola turned to the stove and flipped off the gas.
She poured hot coffee into three small cups and set them down in front of each of their places.
Andrea had bought them one of those coffee makers where you only had to drop in a capsule, thinking it would be easier than screwing and unscrewing the metal components of the moka and going through all the trouble of cleaning it out every day.
However, after a tutorial or two, his dad had forgotten to flip the water switch off and walked away from the machine.
The entire counter, including the embroidered napkins Paola had been working on, flooded with coffee water, and the new gadget was now relegated to sitting unused under a tea towel at one end of the counter.
“You won’t believe this, but some of the best food in the world comes wrapped in aluminum foil. I wanted to say hello anyway. I know Dad didn’t feel well enough to stay at the party last night.”
“He’s fine. He just gets those headaches sometimes. Honestly, I think he wanted to continue watching that series on Netflix with the American teenagers in Indiana and the demons.”
“It’s a good one, I don’t blame him.” He laughed, and took a sip of coffee.
“Blame me for what?” Antonio asked as he sat next to Andrea. “What did I do?”
“What season are you on?” Andrea laughed.
“What do you mean? It’s summer.”
“Amore, the water temperature.” Paola took a quick sip of coffee. “To me, it’s fine and hot enough. Tell your son there’s nothing to worry about because it’s June and we don’t need to be boiled standing in the shower.”
“It’s OK, but I do think that the water heater needs to be descaled.”
“I can do that. I have the acid cleaner and can come over later.” Andrea cut a slice of cake for Antonio and slid it over to him.
“It’s not a priority, ciccio. It doesn’t get cold until October, last time I checked,” his mother said, placing her cup back down onto its saucer. “I spoke to your sister yesterday. She said she texted you about a hundred times, but you never responded.”
“I know, I know. I’ve been really busy. It’s tourist time, as you know, and I am trying to make sure everything is running smoothly.
People are getting curious about visiting here again.
I saw some really excellent reviews about the café online,” he said, after chewing another bite.
“In fact, I have to go over and tell Giada that her idea of posting in English, French, and German on Instagram really seems to be working.”
“That’s wonderful! You said you wanted to build things up before you move back to the US and your aluminum food.”
“Mamma, I never said anything definitive about moving, you know that.” The problem was that lately he never said anything definitive about anything.
Andrea had been so angry to find out that the ex-mayor had left the entire town destitute so that he could live out his days hiding in a corner of the Casbah that he found himself googling “qualifications to hold public office” in Italy.
Since he was clearly over eighteen and had no criminal record, all he would theoretically have to do was collect one hundred signatures of support and officially present himself as a candidate in the municipal offices in Genoa.
His background in finance could help him get things in order quickly, and he knew enough about construction from his father, who had been a falegname, a woodworker, to be able to get plans in motion for rebuilding.
It certainly wouldn’t be difficult to find one hundred people in town who remembered the smart Garibaldi boy they’d read about in the newspaper who won the regional science competition at fifteen and could be found helping his father to do restoration around town in the summers.
Just like that, angry research slipped into an actionable plan that coincided with the end of his rental agreement on his apartment in the West Village.
He ran for mayor uncontested—his only real opponent was his family’s expectations.
Coming back to Italy to make around 24,000 euros per year while drowning in a sea of ordinances was not what they had hoped for his future.
They were still stuck on the six-figure American salary, the fancy apartment with the gigantic rolls of American paper towels, and the American food delivery that would bring you a chocolate sundae at three AM.
He kept insisting that this was temporary, that his investments made the low salary unimportant, that he was only filling in until someone better could do the job, that it would be an interesting item on his résumé, and that he would never, ever consider staying in Italy long term.
His phone rang from his pocket. It had to be Franca—she was the only one who refused to text.
“Your sister said that you’re wasting your talents here, and she hasn’t complimented anyone since 2005,” his mother continued. “I would take her seriously. She said even London is better right now.”
He nodded, but still slid his finger across the screen. “Ciao, Franca. What’s up?”
“Luca is holding two women in custody, and they don’t speak Italian. You should probably get over here.”
His stomach dropped. “In custody? For what?”
“Breaking and entering.”
He turned his wrist over to look at his watch. 9:15. Shit. Why were Americans so prompt? If she didn’t hate him after last night, she surely was going to hate him now.
“Please tell Luca to not process anything. I am on my way.” He ended the call and turned to his parents.
“We’re going to have to talk about this another time, OK?
” Standing, he popped the rest of the cake in his mouth, rinsed the plate, and tucked it into the dishwasher.
“Love you both,” Andrea called, rushing out the door.