Blame it all on my Roots
BLAME IT ALL ON MY ROOTS
This morning, I heard that line from the famous song by Garth Brooks, and while I generally don't listen to country music, I couldn't help but think about my recent trip to Italy. For those of you who don't know, my Italian roots run deep. While my grandfather was born in the United States, both of his parents were Italian, and his father (my great-grandfather) left a small village in Italy called Campagna in 1911 with his father (my great-great-grandfather) and came to Ellis Island. Bringing very little with them, they embarked on a journey that forever changed our family history.
At 52, I finally ventured across the ocean with my husband to discover the land from where my ancestors came. I can honestly say I had no idea what to expect. Yes, we made plans to visit Roma and all the fantastic history it holds. We then traveled north to Tuscana, visiting Siena and Chianti, and stood in awe of the beautiful vineyards and olive trees. After a day in Firenza, we boarded a train and headed south to the breathtaking Amalfi coast and the island of Capri. We walked, hiked, kayaked, ate (and ate), and continually discovered wonderfully quaint villages and towns along the way.
I have been asked by so many what my favorite part was. I could note the history – seeing so many ancient sites was terrific. I could easily say the incredible views– from the countryside to the coast. I could say the food – every meal was fresh and delicious. However, the answer I keep returning to when asked is the culture and people. I loved immersing myself in everything in Italy; the people welcomed me at every turn.
Whether we were trying to read a menu and avoid ordering a cow's stomach or trying to maneuver through an antique store in search of that perfect item, the people we encountered were kind, patient, and always helpful. We met several locals – chefs, artists, painters, photographers, seamstresses, and countless small shop owners. Some spoke English and some did not – but we still managed to communicate a love for Italy.
I would be remiss if I didn't tell you the story of our adventure to Campagna, that small village from where my great-grandfather lived. Because the town doesn't attract tourists, we had to hire a private driver to get there. Christian, our driver, went above and beyond, even taking us to the city hall of Campagna and speaking to the officials about getting the original birth certificate for my great-grandfather, Antonino.
Because he was born before 1900, they had to search the written records. While waiting for them to look through large leather-bound books full of birth records written in old Italian, we were able to walk the streets of the village, visiting buildings that were there long before he was born. It isn't easy to describe the feeling as we walked the streets. Obviously, we didn't belong in this small, tight-knit town, yet when I looked around, I saw men and women who resembled my grandfather in more ways than one. My mind drifted as I imagined the days my family spent on those streets more than a hundred years ago. At times, I could hardly utter a word without catching my breath.
When we returned to city hall to see if they had found the birth certificate, the city officials met us with an excitement that needed no translation. They couldn't wait to show us that they had found his original birth certificate; they had even made us a copy. As we shared our excitement with Christian, we realized we had gained a friendship that would last long after our return home.
When talking with Christian about our visit, we commented how much we enjoyed the hospitality of the Italians. He repeated several times how Italians were a welcoming people. I couldn't help but smile as I thought of my grandfather, grandmother, mom, and aunt with their welcoming natures and warm hospitality. People have often commented on my gift of hospitality and how my home is always open and feels welcome to all. My kids always knew they never had to ask, and their friends were always welcome (and yes, there was always food). I feel like now, more than ever, I can credit these gifts to the place my family started.
As I reflected on my time in Italy, I realized that my love of people (and food) is just a part of who I am, my roots. It's a part I will never lose, and I hope to pass it along to my children and grandchildren. As I gazed out the window on our flight home, I thought about all we had seen and experienced. I knew that one day I wanted to return. However, in that moment, I also knew that a part of my heart would forever remain in Italy.
BLAME IT ALL ON MY ROOTS
This morning, I heard that line from the famous song by Garth Brooks, and while I generally don't listen to country music, I couldn't help but think about my recent trip to Italy. For those of you who don't know, my Italian roots run deep. While my grandfather was born in the United States, both of his parents were Italian, and his father (my great-grandfather) left a small village in Italy called Campagna in 1911 with his father (my great-great-grandfather) and came to Ellis Island. Bringing very little with them, they embarked on a journey that forever changed our family history.
At 52, I finally ventured across the ocean with my husband to discover the land from where my ancestors came. I can honestly say I had no idea what to expect. Yes, we made plans to visit Roma and all the fantastic history it holds. We then traveled north to Tuscana, visiting Siena and Chianti, and stood in awe of the beautiful vineyards and olive trees. After a day in Firenza, we boarded a train and headed south to the breathtaking Amalfi coast and the island of Capri. We walked, hiked, kayaked, ate (and ate), and continually discovered wonderfully quaint villages and towns along the way.
I have been asked by so many what my favorite part was. I could note the history – seeing so many ancient sites was terrific. I could easily say the incredible views– from the countryside to the coast. I could say the food – every meal was fresh and delicious. However, the answer I keep returning to when asked is the culture and people. I loved immersing myself in everything in Italy; the people welcomed me at every turn.
Whether we were trying to read a menu and avoid ordering a cow's stomach or trying to maneuver through an antique store in search of that perfect item, the people we encountered were kind, patient, and always helpful. We met several locals – chefs, artists, painters, photographers, seamstresses, and countless small shop owners. Some spoke English and some did not – but we still managed to communicate a love for Italy.
I would be remiss if I didn't tell you the story of our adventure to Campagna, that small village from where my great-grandfather lived. Because the town doesn't attract tourists, we had to hire a private driver to get there. Christian, our driver, went above and beyond, even taking us to the city hall of Campagna and speaking to the officials about getting the original birth certificate for my great-grandfather, Antonino.
Because he was born before 1900, they had to search the written records. While waiting for them to look through large leather-bound books full of birth records written in old Italian, we were able to walk the streets of the village, visiting buildings that were there long before he was born. It isn't easy to describe the feeling as we walked the streets. Obviously, we didn't belong in this small, tight-knit town, yet when I looked around, I saw men and women who resembled my grandfather in more ways than one. My mind drifted as I imagined the days my family spent on those streets more than a hundred years ago. At times, I could hardly utter a word without catching my breath.
When we returned to city hall to see if they had found the birth certificate, the city officials met us with an excitement that needed no translation. They couldn't wait to show us that they had found his original birth certificate; they had even made us a copy. As we shared our excitement with Christian, we realized we had gained a friendship that would last long after our return home.
When talking with Christian about our visit, we commented how much we enjoyed the hospitality of the Italians. He repeated several times how Italians were a welcoming people. I couldn't help but smile as I thought of my grandfather, grandmother, mom, and aunt with their welcoming natures and warm hospitality. People have often commented on my gift of hospitality and how my home is always open and feels welcome to all. My kids always knew they never had to ask, and their friends were always welcome (and yes, there was always food). I feel like now, more than ever, I can credit these gifts to the place my family started.
As I reflected on my time in Italy, I realized that my love of people (and food) is just a part of who I am, my roots. It's a part I will never lose, and I hope to pass it along to my children and grandchildren. As I gazed out the window on our flight home, I thought about all we had seen and experienced. I knew that one day I wanted to return. However, in that moment, I also knew that a part of my heart would forever remain in Italy.
Blame it all on my Roots
This morning, I heard that line from the famous song by Garth Brooks, and while I generally don't listen to country music, I couldn't help but think about my recent trip to Italy. For those of you who don't know, my Italian roots run deep. While my grandfather was born in the United States, both of his parents were Italian, and his father (my great-grandfather) left a small village in Italy called Campagna in 1911 with his father (my great-great-grandfather) and came to Ellis Island. Bringing very little with them, they embarked on a journey that forever changed our family history.
At 52, I finally ventured across the ocean with my husband to discover the land from where my ancestors came. I can honestly say I had no idea what to expect. Yes, we made plans to visit Roma and all the fantastic history it holds. We then traveled north to Tuscana, visiting Siena and Chianti, and stood in awe of the beautiful vineyards and olive trees. After a day in Firenza, we boarded a train and headed south to the breathtaking Amalfi coast and the island of Capri. We walked, hiked, kayaked, ate (and ate), and continually discovered wonderfully quaint villages and towns along the way.
I have been asked by so many what my favorite part was. I could note the history – seeing so many ancient sites was terrific. I could easily say the incredible views– from the countryside to the coast. I could say the food – every meal was fresh and delicious. However, the answer I keep returning to when asked is the culture and people. I loved immersing myself in everything in Italy; the people welcomed me at every turn.
Whether we were trying to read a menu and avoid ordering a cow's stomach or trying to maneuver through an antique store in search of that perfect item, the people we encountered were kind, patient, and always helpful. We met several locals – chefs, artists, painters, photographers, seamstresses, and countless small shop owners. Some spoke English and some did not – but we still managed to communicate a love for Italy.
I would be remiss if I didn't tell you the story of our adventure to Campagna, that small village from where my great-grandfather lived. Because the town doesn't attract tourists, we had to hire a private driver to get there. Christian, our driver, went above and beyond, even taking us to the city hall of Campagna and speaking to the officials about getting the original birth certificate for my great-grandfather, Antonino. Because he was born before 1900, they had to search the written records. While waiting for them to look through large leather-bound books full of birth records written in old Italian, we were able to walk the streets of the village, visiting buildings that were there long before he was born. It isn't easy to describe the feeling as we walked the streets. Obviously, we didn't belong in this small, tight-knit town, yet when I looked around, I saw men and women who resembled my grandfather in more ways than one. My mind drifted as I imagined the days my family spent on those streets more than a hundred years ago. At times, I could hardly utter a word without catching my breath.
When we returned to city hall to see if they had found the birth certificate, the city officials met us with an excitement that needed no translation. They couldn't wait to show us that they had found his original birth certificate; they had even made us a copy. As we shared our excitement with Christian, we realized we had gained a friendship that would last long after our return home.
When talking with Christian about our visit, we commented how much we enjoyed the hospitality of the Italians. He repeated several times how Italians were a welcoming people. I couldn't help but smile as I thought of my grandfather, grandmother, mom, and aunt with their welcoming natures and warm hospitality. People have often commented on my gift of hospitality and how my home is always open and feels welcome to all. My kids always knew they never had to ask, and their friends were always welcome (and yes, there was always food). I feel like now, more than ever, I can credit these gifts to the place my family started.
As I reflected on my time in Italy, I realized that my love of people (and food) is just a part of who I am, my roots. It's a part I will never lose, and I hope to pass it along to my children and grandchildren. As I gazed out the window on our flight home, I thought about all we had seen and experienced. I knew that one day I wanted to return. However, in that moment, I also knew that a part of my heart would forever remain in Italy.