PHOTOGRAPH: ZBRUCH/GETTY IMAGES
As an Australian kid filled with wanderlust, I would devour my Italian mother’s tales of her childhood in Alexandria, Egypt, a city 1 she left due to political unrest in 1967. Her memories were filled with multiple languages and horse-drawn carriage rides to Montaza Palace. Many life chapters later, we visited her ‘beato Egitto’ (blessed Egypt). I stared out of the dusty train window at the softly crumbling Belle Epoque buildings, pondering the images racing through my mother’s mind: my lithe, quiet nonno (grandfather) arriving home with trays of French pastries; teenage crushes on Sidi Bishr beach. This was also my own homecoming. I had never been to Alexandria, but I had long ridden its retro trams and walked its seafront Corniche in my imagination. The following days were a whirlwind of reunions and anecdotes. Though the city had changed - fewer miniskirts, more hijabs, the construction of the spectacular Bibliotheca Alexandrina - traces of my mother’s Alexandria remained: antique stores filled with the wealth of long-gone expats, the faded grandeur of the Trianon patisserie, the harmonious blend of Islamic and European architecture. Its cosmopolitan pedigree also lived on in the faded elegance of my mother’s friend’s living room. Under an heirloom chandelier, they caught up on 37 years of gossip, swinging effortlessly between Italian, French, English and Arabic, sipping mint tea and scrutinising photographs. I’ll never forget the radiance of a woman who had reconnected with her past, her hometown. We’re here, Mum. We made it.’