After we ate the "primo colazione" or Italian breakfast and tossed down two cups of perfectly foamy Italian espresso coffee at Borgo Hotel Pace, where again we were the only ones seated in the dining area, we drove down the tiered stone stepped driveway, rustling two sleeping dogs in the process, and hit the road out of the green and stony valley my father left at age 12 to come to America. Seeing where he was born and walking the streets 50 years after his death, I appreciate his bravery in venturing to the far side of the world, knowing no one except his sister, who married another Italian from San Marco in Lamis. With my father's innate ingenuity, street smarts for business and determination to make something of himself, he and Matteo Capelli formed a business partnership and became well known and successful in their own rights as florists and flower growers in Springfield, Ohio, my hometown.
My father, who found my mother through a friend of a friend in America, not Italy, even though their two Italian small towns are less than 50 miles apart, was 11 years older than her and a tireless worker. Looking with new perspective at old dog-eared pictures from the tattered pages of the family album I've carted with me over the decades, I have come to understand that he was really a country boy and farmer at heart. When I gaze at pictures of him in his 20s hooked up to a horse and plow, tools he used to plant "fiore" or flowers for their blooms and bulbs, or look at him at age 36 standing proudly in the flower shop he built with his hands and wearing a snappy suit and tie with a white apron, I see his sense of personal and professional pride and style. Walking through the up and down stone streets and looking at the same stony hillsides that encompass the small hardscrabble town of San Marco in Lamis today as they did in 1902, his birth year, I admire and respect him even more for his effort to learn English on the fly while essentially working first as a migrant worker in his early years in America and the sense of accomplishment he earned the hardway, through hard work. Ever resourceful, he invested his hard-earned money into homes and land like other immigrants who turned their dreams into assets that paid dividends for the family.
Dressing up in Italy, even for laborers and the downtrodden, is a point of personal pride. In each Italian community we've visited, I watch older men meet in groups in the afternoon or walk arm-in-arm with their equally dapper silver-haired wives as they promenade slowly along the rough, black stone steps of their neighborhood. Pictures of him in 1928, when he returned to Italy to visit friends, show him a man of resources and respect. Reading from a journal of my brother's and aunt's trip to San Marco in Lamis in 1993, I found Via Magenta, the street he reportedly grew up on before he left friends and family to move to America and an unknown future awaiting him there. Once there, however, he pursued a legal path to American citizenship in 1917, seven years before the Immigration Act of 1924, which had it been passed years earlier may have made his passage more difficult if not impossible as the welcoming gates to opportunity closed to streams of Europeans like my father [For a ratifying, timely comment on this topic, read Frank Rich's column in the June 11 edition of The New York Times.]
I appreciate his pluck and determination even more [and see those qualities in me as well, along with his hair, which has been a source of amusement to me over the years]. My surviving brother tells another story of how my father Michele, when he returned to Italy in 1928, escaped being shanghaid into the Italian army because authorities there thought he was still an Italian citizen. To avoid military service in Italy, the story goes, he retrieved his American passport from the ship he arrived on as proof of his citizenship. This act staved off further hassles. He never returned to Italy.
My next oldest brother Joe, 67, a retired professor of Geography from Bowling Green State University, tells an important yet poignant story about my father, who as a "street urchin" in his hometown was thrown out of a nearby monastery by the ruling priests for trying to "dip a crust of bread into their water fountain." I understand, even more, why he was not a friend of the church or organized religion, opting instead to make his own way in life, which he did to great success before he died June 1, 1956 at age 54, when I, the youngest of his three sons, was eight years of age.
The march of this Italian penguin back to my parent's roots has been a personal goal for years. The need and desire to make the trip was accentuated in 2005 following the formation of a blood clot in my lower left leg calf that became more insidious when a piece broke off, floated upstream and lodged in my lung. In addition to this sudden, unforseen and asymptomatic event, I had three heart stents inserted on August 29, the day Hurricane Katrina blew and washed New Orleans. Adding to these unwanted situations, I became my uncle's caregiver when my aunt asked me to "look in on him." Nearly two months later, after removing him from his deplorable home situation and moving him like a chess piece through the health care system, he died the same day as Pope John Paul II from a combination of illnesses that could have been diagnosed earlier had he visited a family reguarly, which he did not do despite seeing many doctors over his life to attend to serious burns he suffered as a teenager.
Loosing my father at an early age from a heart attack was compounded when my mother died of cancer at the of 57 in 1969 when I was 21 years of age. My oldest brother, Louis, named for our parternal grandfather, died at age 49 in 1986. With men in my family dying at early ages and in the wake of my close encounter with mortality, the decision to leave my statehouse reporter job a few months ago to make this trip was not a hard one anymore. My wife's company of the last two years, a big Philadelphia business services company I'll refer to as ErrorMark, where "drinking the koolaid" of corporate BS is mandatory, fired her in early March. This reward for doing a spectacular job despite the soap-opera crew she inherited, suddenly gave us time to make this trip. Being modest and practial in life, we long ago learned the lesson of saving when you can so you have it when you need it. With a few dollars tucked away and the gift of time now here, we decided that time, not money, is what is imporant. It has been cathartic, in a free wheeling kind of way, to plan the trip, then do it. We are talented and resourceful and know that new, exciting jobs will find us. When Kathy's father died earlier this year, it put to rest internal obstacles she has wrestled with all her life. Even though we are now in our late 50s, we're not interested in running in the rat race anymore. Slowing down and enjoying what we now see as important -- family, friends, travel and personal [not corporate koolaid baloney] acheivement -- is what we will focus on going forward.
What I've gathered so far in my heritage hunt are the names of my paternal grandparents, Luigi Spinelli and Palma Sassano. I never knew my grandfather [who I was told was an itinerant olive oil salesman and who died from a heart attack at age 49] but my did dad took care of his mother, bringing her from Italy to live with him in Springfield, Ohio. One of my fond preschool childhood memories speaking Italian with her since she spoke no English. But my parent's aspiring to become Americans in every sense of the word, decided [much to my regret now] to speak their town dialects among themselves and their paisano compatriots and leave their children to use English as their native tongue. How I wish they had kept the language alive within us.
Speaking English, an increasingly hot topic as recent headlines fan the flames about the imposition of learning English on Hispanics swarming to America for a better life -- as did my father, is now ironic to me as I time travel to the Italian headwaters of my gene. As I tell people I meet here, I was born and raised in American but "la sangre mia e tutta Italiano." I look at the world and life they left as children and see Italy as the "new old world," a place I curiously feel at home in and a country and lifestyle I could reverse migrate to and adopt with few problems. In America, the land of boundless opportunity where everyone could make something of themselves -- as my parents did -- but which has told the world under the misguided leadership of Mr. Bush and his religious neocon "awks" that "you're either with us or against us," I understand from first hand observation that his arrogant, myopic, politically self-serving war of aggression has turned a country like Italy against us and, I fear, will do so with other nations as well. If America continues it quick descent from a Land of the Free to a Land of the Fear, for my remaining years I would have no problem becoming an expatriate. Just as my parents left their homeland to venture to America when America was still the America of the world's dreams, I could easily go eastward as I now feel abandoned and castigated by the religious, political zealots who hold office and whose policies Italians, who recently turned out of office former Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi, a billionaire media mogul who like Tony Blair coddled up to Bush in the bogus war we are now in, opted away from by installing a left-center candidate, Romano Prodi, who will withdraw Italian troops for Bush's War in Iraq. Yester day in Plaza San Marcos in Venezia, I asked a caribinieri why the flags in the colossal square were flying at half mast. He told me they were honoring four Italian soldiers killed two days ago in Iraq.
Our original plans called for us to return our car in Foggia, the regional capital of Puglia, a chronically poor and downtrodden part of Italy located on the lower calf of the boot. Some travel writers are saying it is the next up and coming tourist destination for travelers seeking the next least traveled roads.
We decided otherwise. With another day to drive it before we returned it, which could be anywhere in Italy, we decided to cut our costs in half and drive instead of take a train to Bologna, the home of Italy's new Prime Minister Romano Prodi, a left of center leader from a city where socialists and communists are still active.
Rugged yet agriculturally rich, Puglia and the Gargano National Park, where my fatherÂ’s hometown of San Marco in Lamis resides, can at times resemble a curious blend of Wyoming buttes and Shenandoah Valley farms, only with olive trees and grape vines instead of feed crops like soybeans and corn.
Instead of turning our stalwart Fiat Panda in and taking a train to Bologna, we chose instead to drive leave my fatherÂ’s green and stony valley a day early and make the three hundred mile drive, half of which hugs the beautiful Adriatic coastline, to Bologna, where we hoped our bed and breakfast hosts would permit us to exchange one night for another.
The weather, which had been stormy and rainy the night before, again smiled on us and lit our way with sunshine and moderate temperatures. Although taking the train would have allowed me to shed my driving duties as I am the only one with an international driving license, it would also not have allowed us to see the signature agricultural quilt of Italy knitted mile upon mile with groves of olive and peach trees and vineyard after vineyard.
All the way up the A13, the Autostrada leading us to Bologna, an ancient city we would be pleasantly surprised by, we looked off at hilltop after hilltop to see church domes and campanile [bell towers] of the towns built there for purposes of defense and control of surrounding area.
BOLOGNA: OLD, BOLD, BEAUTIFUL AND BEGUILING
We arrived in Bologna late afternoon, a day earlier than planned. Hoping our Italian bed and breakfast there, I Portici, would look kindly on us and exchange one night for another. Following the simple concentrentric-circle "Centro" Italian city signs that direct drivers to the center of the city, we made our way through one of the still-standing ancient gates of the walled city and found Via Saragozza. With the sun sinking, we scanned house numbers until we came to our destination. Anna opened the big wooden street door, allowing me to move inside. Walking up three flights of marble stairs, I saw her looking through a strong iron gate that protected yet another formidable inner door.
After introducing myself, she recognized me as tomorrow's, not today's guest. But with both her guest bedrooms vacant, the switch in date was without problem. The room was spacious with a wonderful balcony overlooking the busy street below. The bathroom, which was not en-suite [in the room itself] was also large with an ample bathtub and all the comforts of home. Speaking Italian and French, Anna and I made it through a short conversation about where to park the car, which was wherever we could find a place, provided we secured parking tickets. Soon after our arrival, her husband Carlo Alberto Tozzola, a former economist turned bed and breakfast association organizer, arrived. Carlo spoke enough English to enable us to move into other areas of conversation, like where we could find a restaurant or what sites we could still see before night arrived.
Getting a good view of their charming apartment, we were happy with our our choice. In addition to their hospitality, which came in the form of a big bottle of water, a small basket of fresh fruit and several sweets, the real surprise of the room came when Carlo, responding to my query of where I could find a "punto de Internet" showed me a high-speed cable in the room.Later that evening, after returning from a beautiful and intriguing walk through the old city's beguiling corridors, I relished not having to watch the clock as I had when buying an hour at a time online.
The day had turned sunny and the evening promised to be equally pleasant. As we walked eastward on Via Saragozza through the high-ceilinged sidewalk corridor that gave shade and protection from rain to the many storefronts along its length, we walked with increased anticipation of what old and bold Bologna would offer us before we left the next day for Venezia.
Walking through the narrow shaded streets, we were smitten with the old city's romantic and charm and intrigue. An unexpected treat was walking into the plaza to find a stage with dancers on it performing for anyone who cared to sit and watch them. Driving for over three hundred miles had stirred our appetites. Passing dozens of small bars and side walk cafe eateries, we spotted an attractive buffet [for only six euros at that] that featured a table filled plates of regular and new sidedishes. The really selling point to me was something I've never seen before, a half wheel of parmesan cheese with a spade to quarry chunks of it onto your plate. With a glass of "vino blanco," we ate our fill and topped it off, as we've become accustomed to of late, with a two-euro cup of gelato.
Resting comfortably and sleeping soundly in our well appointed room, we awoke the next morning to sun and a lovely breakfast includeding a hot, freshly baked cake by Carlo, who also is associated with a cooking school in Bologna. He and Anna, even though I asked them to come join us, chose instead to eat their morning repast a few feet away at a small table close to the kitchen. Carlo's high-rise hot breakfast cake gave the table butter good reason to melt. Covered with cookies and biscuits, mini bottles of "succor pesche" [peach juice], we drank our strong Italian coffee inbetween bites of croissants slathered with jam and marmalade.
Following payment for the room, Carlo provided a great service to us by calling the Holiday Inn in Quarto D'Altino outside Venezia where we had previously booked three days to gain the Ok for us to add another day to our package at the fabulous online rate of 81 euros per night. Exchanging business cards and showing each other our respective websites before saying "Ciao!," we toted our bags down to the car and set off for Venezia, 100 miles to the northeast. Raising her hands in a mock gesture of prayer, Anna told us of Venezia's beauty. She was right.
V for Venezia
Stepping off the train in Venezia's Santa Lucia station from Quarto D'Altino, where our "solo andata" or one-way ticket cost us 2.05 euros, our excitement meter started registering as we saw for the first time the famous canals that fanned out before us. The clear blue skies were assisted by a complimentary breeze from the still-sinking city on the sea. Walking from the train station over the first of many white stone bridges that provide passage from one bank of a canal to the other, I had a hard time visually digesting the spectacular scene that sprawled before us.
I only took 88 pictures that first day. I could have taken more but would have had to strap my camera to my forehead because every view was a postcard picture. Each street was packed with interesting, unique shops operating from intriguing and alluring architectural offerings. Venezia's moorish influences were clearly visible everywhere we walked. Taking that fact into consideration, I understand why Shakespeare placed his moorish merchant Shylock in Venice, a powerful and rich city where traders from across the known world interacted.
Appearing one arch at a time as we walked around a curving canal, we saw the famous Rialto Bridge, where jewlery merchants, operating cheek by jowel as they do on the Ponte Vecchio in Florence, had dazzling displays featuring, along with masks of all kinds, the colorful glass blown on nearby Murano Island.
On our first day in Venezia, we walked five hours through the maze of streets [some only as wide as your outstretched arms] that parallel or intersect the narrow canals, home to all types of boats, the most famous of which, of course, are the slender Gondolas that can be three abreast as the stripped shirted Gondoliers silently ply the emerald green waters with their picture-taking and wine-drinking cargo of "touristi."
Following the signs to Piazza San Marco, arguable Venezia's most popular tourist destination, I was stunned by its breadth and scope, encompassed as it is on three sides by shops and restaurants that cater to tourists with plenty of seating and fabric covered venues where musicians, whose attire, equall to that of the waiters who look as smart and sharp as Annapolis cadets on graduation day, play melodicl, mostly Italian tunes for the thousands of tourists who are either taking pictures, waiting in line to enter the campanile or one of the many churches or chasing the thousands of pigeons who feed off of seeds sold by seed vendors. If "The Birds," Alfred Hitchcock's terror story about birds gone bad, scares you, Piazza San Marcos will be a living nightmare.
MY MIGRAINE ON MURANO (or how I voted myself off the island)
Running into two Americans at the train station the night before who were trying to figure out which train leaves when from which train or "binario" as we were, all four of us [Fred, a career Texas Nantional Guardsman on leave from his second deployment in Kosovo, and Melissa his wife and Texas elementary school teacher] decided to spend the day in each other's company.
Kathy and I had planned on taking a canal boat ride anyway, so when we walked from the train station to the first concourse of boats, public and private, that were docked closeby, we were approached by an English speaking salesman who said he was working with a Murano glass company and for five euros each could take us to the island, where we would watch a demonstration of glass blowing, tour the showroom and then be taken to Piazza San Marcos, which Fred and Melissa had not seen but wanted to.
The ride across the canals and into the wide lagoon was excillerating as the wind blew through our hair and the disappearing shoreline gave way to the appearing shoreline of Murano with its towers and unique landmarks. Once at the dock, we were escorted into the glass factory, where the showroom overwhelmed us with its colorful, delicate and very expensive art objects.
We found a nearby eatery, where I purchased a half carafe of white wine for five euros. Packing sandwhiches, water and Taralli [a small herbed Italian pretzel], I worked on my own trained pigeon act, with the assistance of two little girls to whom I gave pieces of Taralli so they could feed the pigeons with me.
Ready to head back to Piazza San Marco, we took the ticket and headed back to the boat dock where we had originally disembarked. A similar looking boat was bobbing on the waves. Presenting my ticket to the dark-haired, sun-glass wearing driver, he looked at it for a second, handed it back to me and said it wasn't any good with him. He then put his boat motors in reverse, slipped out of the slip and motored off.
I went back into the glass showroom, found the guy who spoke English and who narrated the glass blowing demonstration conducted by a guy in a white T-shirt with tattooes and knee-length pants, who was respectfully referred to as "The Maestro," and asked him to help. His first attempt, done with a smile, was to take me back outside and point in a general direction where he said we could catch our boat.
Going to that location, I again was told by the boat operator that our tickets were not valid for his service. All four of us were now upset, wondering whether the tickets were really worthless or we had not found the right boat dock. I went back into the glass showroom, collared my English-speaking narrator again and again dragged him out and asked to be taken to the specific spot where we could catch our boat. When I showed him the ticket we had purchased, he said it wasn't sold by anyone associated with his company. He shrugged his shoulders, said he wasn't the salesman and only worked at the glass factory. He apologized, saying his English was not that good, and returned to the showroom.
Not accepting being bamboozled or forced to pay 60 euros for a private boat ride off the island, I followed him back into the showroom, full of exquisitely delicate hand-blown glasswar [where's a bull when you need one], and became a uniter [Bush, take note] of others in my growing predictament. Each one fained knowledge of the ticketeer who made the sales pitch of a trip to and from the island for only five euros. Again, my inner Italian rose to the challenge. After a calm but determined conversation with a woman who did speak enough English to understand me, my solid indignation produced results as she begrudgingly opened her cash draw and handed me a 20-note euro. She said everyone knows paying 60 euros is the going private taxi rate and for us to pay another 20 to purchase tickets on the public water taxi system was clearly a good deal. Her reasoning was bold but expected and ultimately pathetic. But I had the 20-euro note in hand and that was that.
We went to the public boat line dock, got on the #5, which stops at Piazza San Marco, and laughed about our being marooned on Murano.
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