Behind the Scenes – Il Retroscena

As promised in Italian and Me: A History, following is the story of how an American girl, raised in an Italian-American family, found her roots, le sue radici, her treasures, i suoi tesori, in the heel of the Italian boot.

Fall 2009. Still very sad from losing my father in April. Loving husband bounds in from work one day. “Let’s rent that house in Tuscany this summer!” He knew that, at the top of my bucket list, was running away to Europe with him and the kids for an extended period of time. (“Tuscany will be our home base! We can go anywhere in Europe from there! Greece! France!” We’ll stay the WHOLE summer!!) Which, after hanging out with reality, whittled into eleven days in Italy and three days in Stockholm. Because what trip to Italy is complete without also visiting Sweden, right?

Plane tickets booked! Tuscan villa reserved! Passports for everyone! I can hardly believe it. I celebrate with a trip to the bookstore and purchase every title on Italian travel (and one teeny guide on Stockholm). I make a loooong list of all the sights we’ll be dashing off to from the villa.  Sara` perfetto — it will be perfect.

“We can’t go to Italy without looking up your family,” announced Husband one day, after our destinations were already set. But to travel so far in the opposite direction would really throw our travel plans off. It would mean leaving our villa a few days early. Eliminating Cinque Terra entirely. And traveling nearly as far south in the heel of the Italian boot as one could possibly go. It seemed a bit daunting to do with three kids, ages 13, 11 and 4, and my double-amputee husband. Plus, what if, after so much planning, anticipation and effort, the relatives had no interest in being found?

Regardless, it was a go. Schedule rearranged, check. Italian lessons commenced, check. Sleepless nights and worry that it would all be disastrous, check (well, not for Husband.) Since we were meeting up with Craig’s parents in Stockholm and connecting with my Mom-in-law’s Swedish relatives there, we decided to call this The Heritage Trip.

And thus began one of the most enriching and rewarding experiences of my life.

To give me some street cred, I want you to know that my dad, born in America but from 100 percent Italian parents, still has two first cousins in Bari, Italy, the city where his father, Michelangelo, was born. One by one, my great-grandfather Domenico sent each of his five boys across the ocean when they were 18 years old, or close enough. All those boys established roots and families here in America. My grandfather’s two sisters, in Italian fashion, stayed in Bari, close to their parents. Although both sisters have since passed away, their children (who are now about my late father’s age), grandchildren (about my age) and great-grandchildren (about my kids’ ages) still live and thrive in Bari.

Now, I know the further south you travel in Italy, the more intense the experience. The less English spoken. The more stifling the summer heat. If Bari at all resembled Naples, the southernmost point I had visited in Italy, I’m apprehensive. Or as Daughter says, “I have flutterflies in my stomach.”

Let me be clear: I’m thrilled at the chance to meet my family so far away, and visit the home which I heard so much about from Grampa Mike when I was a little girl. Here’s why the flutterflies: at the time of the trip in summer 2010, I did not speak Italian, although I was trying to teach myself — not the most effective method in learning a foreign language. Also, I’m terrified of germs, but I have a valid reason. Husband has a compromised immune system (two-time cancer survivor before age 20), and, about four years before the Heritage Trip, he contracted a bloodstream infection — we don’t know exactly how — and in the course of one day, we nearly lost him. Battling this illness is what eventually led to the amputation of both feet. 

But Husband’s enthusiasm is infectious, so, a few months before departing, I write two letters, one to each first cousin. I plug them into Word’s translating tool, hoping that my thoughts have been expressed correctly, and pop the letters in the mail. Grazie to my Aunt Beth, the official family historian, who made it easy for me to make contact with le famiglie, the families.

About a week later, I awake to find an email from Italy in my inbox! It’s from cousin Lucia’s son, Niki. My letter has made Lucia most happy, and they are all so excited to meet us! A similar connection was made with the family of first cousin Domenico — how long would we be in Bari and wouldn’t we like to stay with them?

Soon, after a series of emails and one international phone call, it was all decided in our two broken languages, the particulars of when and where we’d be picked up at the train station in Bari. I’m pretty sure I got it right, anyway.

Here in my little corner of the world, I’m elated. Non vedo l’ora — I can’t wait — for it to all come together. I think about my Italian family every single day until departure.

To be continued…. Finding Famiglia Part Two coming soon!