A Gigi Sighting

Saw my father Gigi yesterday.
Or at least someone who looked remarkably like him.
Right after I wrote to you about him.
I am not making this shit up, I swear.
I know I could. Easily. But I'm not. Trust me.
I don't need to make it up.
Went to the lake near here in the late afternoon, early evening time.
That was Gigi's favorite tanning time of day.
Yes, my Neapolitan father loved sitting in the sun, going brown as a chocolate bar.
I have yet to meet an Italian who doesn't.
So, I drove around the lake a bit, picked up a two-day-old English-language newspaper (more like reading history, but it's a hard habit to break) and looked for a new place to park myself.
Found a spot of sand drenched in early evening sun.
Spread out my towel, took out my history book -- uh, I mean newspaper -- laid down -- and then saw him.
He was sitting right in my line of vision.
Elderly, distinguished Italian man, sitting on a towel, face to the sun, approaching the color of Nutella.
Tall, thin man -- like Gigi -- with long angular legs bent in front of him.
Wearing a light blue bathing suit that looked more like shorts that reminded me of a pair of denim shorts Gigi wore all the time -- for years maybe. (Gigi was frugal -- an immigrant, after all).
Same length as Gigi's shorts -- quite short -- that exposed the same amount of long, lean brown leg.
The man's tiny little brown stomach rolls folded just like Gigi's used to.
Didn't have an ounce of fat on him. Like my dad.
He wore his hair like Gigi too -- salt-and-pepper hair -- quite unruly if left to its own devices -- combed hard down.
It was uncanny.
I couldn't stop looking at him.
Thank god I was wearing sunglasses.
Even though he did notice.
And gave me a suggestive little smile.
That's when I had to look away.
You're my father, buddy.
You're not understanding my interest at all.
When I couldn't look at him any longer -- or risk having him come talk to me and shatter all illusions -- I turned my head to the lake and just thought about Gigi.
God I miss him.
God I loved him.
Is he the reason I'm here, the reason we bought this slice of Italian hill 15 years ago, the reason I keep struggling -- in vain, I'm thinking -- to make Italy my home?
Almost definitely.
Even though he wasn't happy when I told him we had bought this land. Which happened not that long before he died.
Not happy at all actually.
Not what I was expecting.
Well, maybe a little.
When I told Gigi my British husband and I had plunked down our life's savings for a slice of hill overlooking a lake in central Italy, where we were then going to build a house, my father looked at me, frowned, and asked:
"Ma, chi te l'ha fatto fare?" (the hand moving in that Italian questioning gesture).
Which means, literally, But, Who Made You Do It? (Meaning: Why the hell would you do a stupid thing like that?).
I couldn't say it, I didn't say it, but the answer was certainly: Why you, Dad. Who else?