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I smile and turn back toward the window.

But as the sign for Ribera finally comes into view after four hours, the smile slowly disappears.

Damiano grew up here.

That thought lands differently now that I can actually see it.

The streets narrow as we drive farther into town, buildings sitting close together in faded shades of cream, yellow, and pale pink. Balconies hang above us with laundry drying in the sun and flowerpots spilling over iron railings. Cars are parked wherever someone apparently decided a car could fit, scooters squeeze past us, and somewhere nearby a church bell starts ringing.

People are everywhere.

Old men sit outside on wooden chairs in the shade, talking with their hands. Women sit together in doorways and on little balconies, watching the street below.

Watching us.

One woman stops talking completely as we drive past.

Her friend turns.

Then another.

I glance at Jude.

“Are they staring at us?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

We make it another twenty feet.

An old man points.

“They’re definitely staring at us.”

Jude’s mouth twitches.

I sink a little lower in my seat.

Of course they know.

A rental car filled with people driving slowly through a neighborhood like we have absolutely no idea where we’re going?

We might as well have put a sign on the roof.

THE AMERICANS HAVE ARRIVED.

Then a little boy comes flying out from between two houses.

He can’t be older than nine.

He takes one look through the windshield, his eyes go huge, and suddenly he starts running alongside the car.

“Sono arrivati!” he screams.

I stare at him.

“Sono qui! Sono qui!”