i've looked in the window of  this store for over a decade.  Twice in my youth I was brazen enough to ring the doorbell.  But what do you say?  Hi, I'm Italian, it appears you have Italian books, may I come in?  There must be a story here, and my guess is that many of you know it firsthand.  Who is the family, what is the function of this place, the history. 

I know none of it.   This is what I know: I live in the United States, and as an Italian, I purchase my culture in foods, books, music, journeys, and I make interactions.  There should be a word for purchasing cultural identity, perhaps there is and you'll tell me.  And so, what is the word for when this transaction fails?  When you look in the bookstore window only to see broken plaster over Calvino?  And you realize it's some tragedy you know nothing about.  And it brings up the ruins, like looking into your father's basement, and the Roman Forum, and through Citta Invisibile all at once.  All at once the broken plaster on the curling book covers makes sense, but then, you realize, it's not art, it's not a purposeful window display, it's some tragedy.  

On the surface, I realize I would have felt better carrying Gattopardo home today than not having it in my bag.  In some way I feel less Italian not making a purchase today that builds ethnicity.  It's like taking calcium.  I must do it everyday.  The only thing I did today to build my Italianita was open an email from my cousin Nino in Acquaviva delle Fonte, Bari.  Nino wants to bring his kids to see New York, and he asked me where I lived.  You know the way our family, even the poorest, host us royally when we are trekking through our paese.  Nino, who wore a suit and brought two friends up to find  me in Roma.  Nino who filled the table with pastries and abundance and laughter for my arrival in Puglia.  Now I must write Nino, and welcome him, at the same time, I have no home, and nowhere to invite him to.  And I must tell him that, in Italian.