by Eric van Aro

Been There, Done That — A Thank You, Decades Overdue

Before the Road — Where the Escaping Began

To understand why I left, you have to understand what I was leaving.

When my mother married again, she wanted to retire — to become a mother again, and simply be a wife to her new husband. That’s when the shit hit the fan. With time, we all came to realize that her new husband was more interested in living the life of a superstar than in being a father, or even a stepfather.

And my father — he couldn’t swallow the fact that his ex-wife didn’t love him anymore. A chronic alcoholic, he expressed his frustration everywhere, and publicly. Let’s just say it was not exactly the best way to behave in front of the kid he’d had with his ex-wife.

So what did I do? I escaped those realities as best as I could.

When I was with my mother and stepfather — mostly in London — the streets themselves became my refuge. Walking for hours, disappearing into cinemas and theaters. Those dark rooms and bright stages gave me somewhere else to be, and I’m grateful to that city for every single hour of shelter it gave a kid who needed to be anywhere but home.

When I was with my father in Munich, it was a band of musicians who saved me — Charlie and the band. They took me in as one of their own, and I lived the reality of a touring band with no money. And still, in the middle of all that scraping by, I was protected. I was loved — for who I was, not for the family I was linked to. That was new to me. That was everything.

Charlie, and every one of you in the band — you also taught me something no school ever could: what it takes to pay one’s dues. Thank you. You gave a boy caught between two broken realities a third one that was actually his own.

It was that lesson, and that hunger for a life of my own making, that put me on the road.

Leaving — My Way

At the end of the seventies, I left home and disappeared from my family’s reality. I went out to explore the world — my way. Too proud to ask for help, too stubborn to turn back. I wanted to learn by doing. I still do.

That pride cost me, at first. I ran out of money in Rome and spent a week sleeping in a telephone booth near Stazione Termini. A telephone booth. For a week. And yet, when I think of Rome, what floods back isn’t the hardship — it’s the love.

Rome — Humanity Without a Second Thought

God, how I love the memory of that city. People who owed me nothing took care of me. Not out of pity, not expecting anything in return — they just did it, without a second thought. They fed me, sheltered me, treated a proud, broke kid like he belonged.

And this time, I will name names, because they deserve to be named. The Carnacina family. The Fabrizio Frizzi family. And an exclusive restaurant in Via di Ripetta whose people helped me without asking anything of me — or of my family. They gave without conditions, without wanting anything in return, without even knowing whether I could ever repay them.

Many of them went on to great careers in the entertainment business. To every single one of you: thank you. You showed me what kindness looks like when nobody’s watching. You took care of me when I couldn’t take care of myself, and you never once made me feel small for it.

Munich — Warmth Times Two

In the early eighties I found myself in Munich, in a relationship with a couple — Jörg and Peter. Yes, a threesome relationship — and yes, I really liked both of them. It was tender and real in its own way, and I carry only warm, good memories of it.

Munich in those years was electric. Freddie Mercury was around, the Deutsche Eiche was the beating heart of it all — the nights, the freedom, the sheer aliveness of it. Jörg, Peter — thank you for the affection, the fun, and the honesty of what we had. It mattered.

Milano — Big Laura and Breakfast at Dawn

A few years later: Milano. The Amnesie. The eighties in full swing.

Big Laura was the one. She took me under her wings without hesitation, the way only certain people can — fierce, generous, larger than life. What I remember most isn’t the club nights themselves, but what came after: dinner-slash-breakfast at five in the morning at the Bastioni. Everyone gathered around the table as the sun came up, tired and happy and utterly ourselves.

Humanity at its best. That’s the only way I can describe it.

Laura — thank you. For the protection, for the belonging, for those dawns at the Bastioni that I’d give anything to sit through just one more time in memory.

Would I Do It Again?

It was the craziest period of my life. No question. And I have only good memories of it.

Would I live it today? No way. But I’m so glad I lived it then. It made me who I am. Every telephone booth night, every act of unearned kindness, every five a.m. breakfast — they’re in my bones now.

Been there. Done that. Proud of it. And that’s exactly why I don’t need to do it today.

To everyone who crossed my path in Rome, Munich, and Milano — Charlie and the band, Jörg and Peter, the Carnacina family, the Fabrizio Frizzi family, the people of that restaurant in Via di Ripetta, Big Laura, and all the others carried in my heart: this one’s for you. You took a kid who was too proud to ask for help and helped him anyway.

I never forgot. I never will.