“You say goodbye, and I say hello.” — The Beatles, “Hello, Goodbye”
It was quarter to 6 in the morning and the Italian shuttle driver was annoyingly chipper. Especially to someone who’d only managed to gulp down a coffee that tasted like brown water in the airport hotel room. Which was bitterly disappointing, considering how perfect the espressos and capuccinos had been for the past 10 days of my vacation in Rome and Trevi.
A proper Italian goodbye, I suppose. Get your American ass on the shuttle and don’t let la porta hit you in il culo on the way out.
“Ciao, ciao!” the shuttle driver called out brightly as each passenger climbed into the Sprinter van.
As I settled into my seat for the 10-minute drive to the airport, I turned the word ciao over and over in my head. It was as much a greeting as it was a goodbye. And I wondered what it must be like for this shuttle driver, a human conduit of ciao all day long.
Twenty-four hours later, I was back home. The early morning dark, the shock of snow as I stepped out with my dog, his breath puffing in the cold. I had walked out the door into another liminal space. It felt like I was standing on the threshold of ciao: the goodbye of Italy, of autumn and the hello of home and a new season starting up.
Park City felt suspended in that moment, too. Slow-motion snowglobe free-falling into a new wave of comings and goings. To live here is a constant practice of letting go, each ciao a little act of faith that the story will continue.
The snow was gone by the next day, but the feeling stayed with me. Which is to be expected when you live in a place that’s fueled by hellos and goodbyes, what with all of our seasonal workers, AirBnB’ers, snowbirds and tourists. Park City’s hospitality industry is a constant reminder of ciao moments. Always welcoming, always parting.
It made me think of the Italian shuttle driver again. What does it do to someone who’s always living at the edges of other people’s stories?
I put the question to my friend Jake, who divides his time between Park City and Cape Cod. He was in town visiting for a few days before heading back to the Cape to close out his season there so he could drive back to Park City for the winter. We were catching up over dinner at Sammy’s Bistro, comparing notes on ski passes (Full Epic and Ikon) and our goals for the season (more pow days, fewer espresso martinis. A girl can dream.)
“I’ve lived the seasonal life with seasonal friends basically my whole life,” Jake said. “When I think of all the farewell parties and dinners …” his voice trailed off. “I hate goodbyes. I always say, ‘See you later,‘ even when I know I’m leaving for the season and probably won’t see them again.”
It’s bittersweet wisdom that comes from experience. And that bittersweetness can manifest itself in both emotional and physical ways.
Jake first came out in the winter of 2002 to work at Canyons.
“I was so sick closing day, I couldn’t come to work,” he said. “Never saw any of those people again after being with them every day for six months. Everyone says, ‘There’s always next season.’ But we all know next season won’t be the same. Things change, people change. It will be different.”
It’s like we’re saying goodbye to a certain, special version of ourself. Each coming and going holds its own little lifetime. Each ciao holds its own language of connection and memory.
If you think of the word ciao itself, its origins are s-ciao vostro, or, “I am your servant.” Compare that to aloha, another word that folds itself into both hello and goodbye — and also to love, breath and presence. Maybe some cultures instinctively know a truth we may be too afraid to face. That beginnings and endings aren’t opposites. They are, in fact, part of the same gesture.
“Leaving one place to go to another is such a personal reset,” Jake said. “When I go back East, no one can relate to my winter life and vice-versa.”
Jake said the best part of leaving is the drive across country when he gets plenty of time to decompress from one experience before entering the next.
“I cry all the way through Wyoming and then pull myself together so I can look forward to what’s ahead.”
Maybe that’s what ciao is about after all. Not coming, not going, but see you somewhere in between. I whisper the word to myself and let it fall like snowflakes to melt on the road, not sure if I mean hello or goodbye.
Kate Sonnick is a freelance writer, creative director and expert Irish goodbyer. You can also read her work at @katesonnick on Substack. Ciao for now.