An inexplicable love for Italy
I don't know when this inexplicable love for Italy, its people, its customs began. I really don't.
Perhaps it all began when my mother told me she had read, in the book “Cuore” by Edmondo De Amicis, the story of Marco, the Italian boy who, with great sacrifice, had managed to come “From the Apennines to the Andes”.
Or maybe it was when I saw grandfather Costantino prepare a coffee on the Volturno so strong and dark it looked like ink, but with a delicious aroma.
"This coffee maker belonged to my parents," he told me. And his parents (Domenico and Giuditta) had come from Northern Italy, from Lombardy.
But I also remember that one day my grandmother Teresa, without thinking, instead of asking me:
“Bring me some parsley from the garden!” he said to me. “Bring me the parsley! ».
Another time, while cooking, she muttered: «I miss a onion».
And the photos? The photos of my Italian relatives fascinated me. In one, there were my grandfather's parents: he in an elegant suit, with a pocket watch dangling from his vest; she in a long dress and a long coat that looked like fur or velvet.
"These photos were to be sent to those who remained in Italy," my grandfather explained to me. And when he walked away toward the courtyard, my grandmother added, "They were to show relatives that they had become rich here."
Sanremo, the songs and the birth of a "fan"
Time passed, and around 1969, the Sanremo Music Festival began airing on Argentine television. The program captivated me immediately. Without understanding the meaning of the lyrics, I sang along with them: "'O sole mio," "La pioggia," "La bambola," "Dio, come ti amo," "Fra noi," "Il cuore è uno zingaro," and many others.
At that point I was already a real fan.
In 1988, our family suffered a terrible blow: Dad died at only 60. When I returned from the cemetery, amidst so much grief, I thought: "I'll study Italian..."
I remembered reading:
"Happiness is like a butterfly: the more you chase it, the more it eludes you; but if you turn your attention elsewhere, it will come and alight gently on your shoulder."
This thought was written by Dr. Viktor Frankl while he was in a concentration camp.
The time to start studying was certainly not the best: work, three small children and a piercing pain. But I started anyway and for four years I attended "La Dante"; I studied, took the exams and graduated as teacher. However, I still felt that I was missing “something”: I had to get to know that other homeland that had been given to me as a “gift”.
The long-awaited journey to the land of the ancestors
Many years passed until, finally, in 2017 I was able to leave.
When I organized the itinerary, I set a condition: «I go to the traditional places, but I accept only if I have at least one day to go to my parents' village ancestors, San Giovanni Bianco (and its hamlets)».
They were born there, left from there for Argentina in 1885 and never returned.
Sunday, October 8th, was a day off. My occasional travel companions couldn't understand why we could forgo their excursion to St. Moritz (Switzerland), one of the world's most famous tourist destinations, with spectacular Alpine scenery and a leaning tower more tilted than Pisa's, and instead go to a tiny village of just over 5.000 inhabitants, hidden in the mountains.
What would have been the point of wasting time explaining? They wouldn't have understood.
That Sunday, early in the morning and with everything organized, my husband and I left the hotel and headed for the train station. We arrived well in advance and stopped in front of the electronic board: everything was coordinated: we would take the train to Bergamo and from there the bus to San Giovanni Bianco.
Suddenly, the word “CANCELED” appeared on the screen right at our time, something that almost never happens there.
"Holy cow…!" I thought. We'd be three hours late. Would they wait for me? I couldn't get through to let them know I was late. What if they weren't there waiting for us at the bus terminal? I don't know what we would have done in that case. But giving up never crossed my mind.
And yet… they were there!
Meeting the "relatives" and returning to the roots
The first one I saw was Giusi: we had "met" her on Facebook. She was identical to the photos, wearing a flashy red blazer and holding a box of traditional local biscuits, the famous Amaretti biscuits with almonds. We shared my mother's last name, but we weren't related; yet he wanted to meet me anyway.
I didn't get to meet the husband, however, who reluctantly spent the three-hour delay "angry" in the car, waiting because his wife wanted to see an unknown Argentine woman.
A few steps away from Giusi, I glimpsed Sabrina, granddaughter of Caterina, my grandfather's elderly cousin. We got into her car: I was so excited I don't remember what we talked about. In a few minutes, we were at her house, where Mariarosa, her mother, was waiting for us. We exchanged the long-awaited hug and sat down. eat the tagliatelle made by her.
It wasn't just any lunch: there was a rush to finish it. Just 3 km from San Giovanni Bianco, on the hillside above the town, lies the hamlet of San Pietro d'Orzio, a small farming village of ancient origins. Caterina, Mariarosa's mother and granddaughter of Luigi Serafino Galizzi Gervasoni, lived there. Her grandfather Luigi was the brother of my great-grandfather Giovanni Domenico; however, like his other siblings, he didn't emigrate.
Nicoletta (also a member of the family) joined us on the short journey. She insisted on going to the cemetery: it was impossible to make her understand that our time was limited. She took my arm and led me past the graves, where the surnames were repeated: Galizzi, Gervasoni, Milesi, Bonzi, a few Salvettis, and a few others.
Mariarosa was yelling at Nicoletta in an Italian I didn't know. Later, she confided in me that she was trying to get us away from there so she could get to Caterina's, have a calm conversation, and coordinate our return with the bus schedule.
With some effort, we managed to get away, and suddenly... I just had to look up: I saw the house and, in the background, the Alps. I couldn't hold back the tears. I felt that all those who had emigrated were climbing with me.
Caterina's embrace and the confirmation of their ties
The old woman, along with her granddaughter, was waiting for us near the front door. I don't know how I got there: my heart was pounding.
I will never forget the hug we exchanged, nor her perplexed look, unable to fully comprehend what was happening around her.
But everything was there, on his table: the photos, the family tree (created in Argentina by Carlitos), the date of birth of his grandfather Luigi, which coincided exactly with the one in his possession.
It was Sunday, so we accompanied Caterina to the nearby chapel. I wanted to go in to give thanks. Next to us, Nicoletta, elated, shouted:
«We are famous, we have relatives in Argentina!».
We thank Liliana Sola Galizzi for sharing her family's story and their strong bond with Italy!
If you too would like to tell the story of your family and your Italian heritage, you can do so here: https://www.italiani.it/racconta-la-storia-della-tua-famiglia-italiana/
Leave a comment (0)