If You’ve Ever Gone Back to a Place from Your Childhood, You Know the Kind of Nostalgia I Mean
There’s a certain kind of nostalgia that doesn’t hit while something beautiful is happening — it waits until you’ve closed the door behind you.
Today, I had lunch at my best friend’s parents’ house. A house I’ve known for as long as I can remember. So long I’ve never called it by their last name. It’s simply Ilaria’s house.
Even though she doesn’t live in Rome anymore, every now and then — when she’s back, or even when she’s not — her parents, Cristina and Augusto, invite me over for lunch, a glass of wine, a catch-up. They’ve redone the kitchen, moved furniture around, shifted rooms here and there. But the feeling inside those walls hasn’t changed one bit. It still feels like home.
It’s where we grew up together. We met in kindergarten and — full disclosure — we didn’t even like each other at first. But some friendships don’t build slowly. Some just spark. Ours did, all at once. And from that moment on, she became one of the most constant, beautiful parts of my life.
She’s the one person I’ve never had to explain myself to — not where I’m from or why I speak in half Italian or half-English. She knew me before all the places I lived shaped me into the person I became. And she saw those places, too. She came to Houston with Cristina and Augusto when we were nine, for Christmas. That’s when we launched a long, thorough investigation and finally confirmed Santa Claus didn’t exist.
She visited me in Istanbul during high school, came with me to my Italian school there, sat through the classes, met my friends, lived my everyday life for a few days. And then there were our summers in Sestola — two weeks of sunburnt knees, first crushes, new friendships, and tears on the last day. The countdown to go back would start the moment we left.
We were always the two of us. Inseparable — even across oceans.
And that house — it holds all of it. It’s the only house besides my own where there’s a picture of me as a kid on display. One with Ilaria and my sister. Another of me and her at her 18th birthday, mid-candles, mid-laughter.
I did homework at that table. Ate pizza bianca with Nutella after school. We played with Barbies on the floor. We crashed there after nights out at Art Café. I cried there. I laughed there. I talked about everything, for hours, there.
It’s the house of Saturday morning phone calls from Augusto: “Do you want to come over for spaghetti alle vongole?” And what spaghetti alle vongole.
He made it again today. Only now, the pasta comes with a good bottle of wine — Cristina and Augusto know their stuff.
Before heading into the kitchen, apron on — the one that says “And today, Augusto cooks again” — he pulls us aside and says: “I opened a Crémant to cook the clams. I brought back a cheese from Gressoney, and some walnuts. Shall we nibble?” And Ilaria and I just look at each other and smile. He always makes everything feel effortlessly special.
Cristina and Augusto have never just been “my best friend’s parents.” They’ve been a steady, loving presence in my life. Always there. A door open. A seat at the table. They watched me grow up — and always made me feel at home.
They read us stories at night. We had breakfast together in the mornings — always beautifully set, with the prettiest cups, and jam from Gressoney.
Augusto would wake us up gently, raising the blinds slowly like it was his way of saying, “Good morning.” It’s the house where we opened our first bottles of wine — and still do. Where they dropped us off at school, and picked us up again. Where Cristina saved every single handmade school project Ilaria ever brought home.
I remember being fourteen, flying in from Istanbul to surprise Ilaria for her birthday. Cristina, in cahoots with my mom, picked me up at the airport and sat me down on the bench outside their door. Then she went inside and told Ilaria there was a heavy package to pick up. Ilaria walked out, slightly annoyed — and there I was.
Even when I lived in Houston, I came back every chance I got. A few summer days, a sleepover here and there. Cristina always prepared everything with this quiet elegance — like it mattered. Because it did.
And then there are days like today. When a lunch becomes a time machine. You talk, you laugh, you remember old crushes. You eat incredibly well. And for a few hours, you feel part of something that never really faded.
And then you leave. And the nostalgia comes right on cue. That soft, familiar kind — the one that settles gently on your chest while you’re still in the car. Because you didn’t want it to end. But it does. And all you can do is tuck it away as one more memory from that house, to add to the infinite list of beautiful ones tied to that place.
For me, in Rome, it’s one of the most precious places that exists. And maybe the lump in my throat comes from this: not knowing when we’ll all be together like that again. Just us. With that same ease. That same intimacy. Which makes moments like these feel even more sacred.
And I realize now: it’s a rare kind of privilege to have a family like this in your life — a family that isn’t yours, but might as well be. A family that’s shared pieces of your childhood, your roots, your heart.
