Italy in winter - PART FOUR

My host Mauro had told me that his friend Paolo would come to pick me up around 8pm to attend a local meeting of organic food producers. “That is, if she wants to go” - his wife had interjected.

No big deal. I would just hop in a car with a guy named Paolo (a man who doesn’t speak any English) and at night, we would drive about 15 minutes away to an evening meeting. This was normal, right?

Nothing had been normal about the trip so far, so why should this be any different? The plan was set.

When Paolo arrived, his smile set me at ease. He introduced me to Giorgio Camisa, another man standing beside him. With much concentration, I understood that Giorgio wanted to meet with me the next day at the Commune di Tornolo. We set a time to meet: due di pomeriggio - 2pm. As he handed me his card, I realized that Giorgio worked for a local newspaper. A bit puzzled, I walked to the car with Paolo, and we began driving to the meeting.

Using my phone’s google translate app, we took turns asking and answering each other’s questions. Paolo was a crack up. He would just shout “ok -give me the google!” when it was his turn to say something. I thoroughly enjoyed the drive.

photo courtesy of Gianmarco Bozzia

We arrived and found some seats at the back of a packed room. The man seated to my left just so happened to be a fluent English speaker, and with his help - I grasped more about the purpose of the gathering. It was the first meeting of the Conzorzio delle Alte Valli. The people gathered were forming a consortium of local food producers which would distinguish these high mountain valleys. These areas had suffered mass depopulation over the past 50 to 70 years, and as many people moved out of the mountains and into the cities or emigrated to other countries, local food production dwindled. There were not as many people left to make - or purchase these local goods.

As I listened to Marco explain, I remembered a passage from one of the letters I had brought with me, (the only thing that linked me to my blood relatives who might still be there.) From 1994:

“The lot is not sold and now it is a little bit hard to sell and I doubt that it could be sold due to the fact that in the mountains no one wants to work the land; old people can’t do it any longer and the young generation prefer to go someplace else. No one here wants to buy it..”

My great grandparents had been some of these people who had left this simple life of farming in the mountains. How interesting that over 100 years later - I would find myself back in these Italian mountains - having fallen in love with farming myself?

The Alta Val Taro had been known for it’s cheese production, specialty animal breeds, wild foraged foods and unique vegetable and fruits. The people gathered in the room I was now sitting in, were the ones who were working hard to bring back these old food ways. They were passionate about reviving the knowledge and production of the food unique to these mountains.

As I sat there in that meeting, I reflected on why I share the things I share back home. Why I’m passionate about teaching people how to grow their own food again. I share through my farm and my book, about how much I’ve gained from the experience of being intimately involved with food. It has improved our health, brought a sense of beauty and connection to my life. It makes me so sad to see how many children do not know how a potato is grown, or that a pickle begins it’s life first, as a cucumber. Less than 100 years ago in America, every family knew how to save seed, grow a garden, and butcher an animal. Every family knew that they were reliant upon and connected to the earth, and how to feed themselves. The experience of growing fruit and vegetables, of raising animals for meat, of keeping bees, of understanding how dead plants and animal waste become life giving compost… these are some of the richest experiences of my life. This is why I continue to share.

As I sat in there watching person after person stand up to speak, I probably only understood about 10% of what was said. But as I looked around the room, I saw simple, hard working people with so much knowledge and passion. They were cheese makers, beekeepers, people with alpaca farms and small orchards, pig farms and bed and breakfasts.

Basically, I was sitting in a room full of my people.

Although I had come from the other side of the world and I couldn’t speak their language, we had everything in common. It was such a strange feeling.

I didn’t understand anything - and yet I understood completely.

I did not know why I was there - and yet I knew belonged there.

When we left the meeting and Paolo drove me home, I realized that he has absolutely no connection to these local food growers. He was just a friend of my host who had offered to drive me. He had sat through a two hour meeting till 10pm just for my benefit. This type of generous kindness was being showered on me every day, and it had just begun.

The next morning I stumbled into Angela’s shop downstairs and asked where I could get a cappuccino. She spoke no English, so instead - took off her apron, closed her shop and motioned for me to get in her car! She drove me 5 minutes up the road to a cafe filled with her friends. She wouldn’t let me pay for my coffee, but instead, bought one for us both. As she introduced me to a couple standing in the cafe, they spoke some English. We talked about my family names, and laughed about my mother’s maiden name being Cucuzza. I was trying to explain how the Cucuzza is actually a long, skinny squash that grows in the south, when the man we were talking to said “oh yes, we saw you holding that squash on your website”. He pulled up my blog on his phone and showed it to Angela. I was amazed. It seemed to me that my host family had told the whole town about me!

Next, I drove into the Uficio di Turistico in Borgotaro - the closest small city in the area. I had a 10:30 meeting with Elisa Delgrosso - a wonderful resource who shared with me ways I might search for my relatives. She also introduced me to the term ‘Valtarese’ - which is how you speak of someone who is from the Val di Taro region. I loved hearing the sound of that. Mia familia had been Valtarese. She was also going to look into where I could find copies of my grandparent’s birth certificates. I wandered a bit through the cobblestone streets and picked up a bite to eat.

I made it back to my apartment in just enough time to eat and drive to my appointment with the journalist, Giorgio Camisa. I was still puzzled as to why he would want to meet with me… was it a mistake or a miscommunication?

The drive into the small town of Tornolo was just gorgeous. The winter mountains were all different shades of blueish grey, layers and layers of hillsides dotted with old churches and aging villas. Everywhere I drove I noticed that the forest floor was covered in oak leaves. These beautiful mountains that my great grandparents had grown up in were filled with oaks. The first day that I had received that mysterious message from Grandma Scarpenti, I had carved an oak leaf and an acorn. Now I was here, driving through her mountains. It all felt very much on purpose.

I had to pinch myself. It was so funny to think that just a few days ago I had been on a plane, wondering what would come of this adventure. I had feared I might just sit in my apartment, not knowing what to do each day! The reality was, now I seemed almost busy - with appointments I had to make sure I didn’t miss!

Even though I had arrived right on time to the Commune di Tornolo. Nobody was anywhere to be found. After 20 minutes or so, a woman came out of the building to shake out a rug - and I quickly walked up to her, telling her in my limited Italian - that I was here to meet Giorgio Camisa. She shrugged as if to say she didn’t know him. Then, as if remembering something - she stopped and asked “Colorado?” I nodded - but she went right back inside - evidently she was doing some cleaning. It was a Saturday, and the municipality was closed. I laughed - realizing that even though she didn’t know Giorgio - somehow she had heard about me!

When Giorgio appeared 30 minutes later, I was relieved to see that he had brought a translator with him. Mirko lived in the same town where I was staying, and he had offered to translate. He explained that Giorgio was a journalist and writer for the Gazzetta di Parma. The town mayor of Tornolo was going to open this municipal building for us to see if they could help me find some connections to my family! Once again - I was beside myself … unsure how to receive such generous kindness. The mayor and vice mayor arrived - and opened up the municipal building for us.

Before I knew it, we were walking through a room full of old documents and records of the area. The mayor was proud of their work to organize all of these important pieces of the region’s history.

Mirko brought with him one of the old books, and we went upstairs into a conference room. Giorgio began taking photos, and Mirko let me know that the mayor would ask some of his people to do some research on my family names (Ferrari and Scarpenti) too see if they could help me find any connections to my family. They shared that they thought it was wonderful that I had come so far to try and trace the roots of my ancestors. They had read all about my small farm in Colorado and wanted to do all that they could to help me on my search.

The Mayor then presented me with a beautiful book which included photographs and descriptions of all of the plants that grow in the Alta Val Taro mountains. He wrote me an inscription, and presented me with the Tornolo town banner. It was a surreal moment. How was I suddenly being honored as an esteemed guest? It amazed and humbled me.

The photos, Mirko explained, were to be included in a story that Giorgio was writing for the Gazzetta di Parma. Not only had I been welcomed, met the town mayor - been given gifts and an offer of help - now I would see my own face in a newspaper? I had no more words.

Mirko, Myself, Mayor and Vice Mayor of the town of Tornolo

Well, actually I always have a lot of words. I am Italian, afterall…

I had to call and tell my mom all about it. I spent hours explaining to my parents the crazy, unexpected events that had occurred that day. It was so much fun to tell her the new phrases I had been learning and describe the beauty of the mountains.

I struggled to fall asleep that night, thinking about all that had occurred, willing myself to be tired. Mirko, Giorgio and the Mayor had taken me for an espresso after our meeting which wasn’t helping. If I was honest, there had been a part of me that had really wanted to stay down in that old room full of records and go page by page through them to see if there were any mentions of my family. Wherever I went, whether into a market, or cafe - I was always sure to tell the cafe owner the names of my family, and in which towns they had been born. I continued to hope that someone might stop in surprise, and say something like, Ferrari! My neighbor is a Ferrari! Or, just come out and say - yes, Scarpenti! We must be cousins!

But really, who knew the real reason why I was here? It was all so mysterious! I was trying to stay open. To sit in anticipation instead of expectation. I had just met with a town mayor, and found out I was going to be in the local paper. Wasn’t that enough?

As I lay in bed, I had two Italian words I didn’t understand rolling around in my head once again. I tried to ignore them, but after an hour of tossing and turning, I gave in and turned on the light. I had to know if they meant anything in particular.

Cerco settimana.

I leaned over and grabbed my phone, typing the words into my translator app with curiosity.

Cerco means I search

Settimana means one week

Cerco settimana means I’m looking/searching for a week.

Why did I continue to doubt? I understood the meaning of this message so clearly, and what a comfort it was to my heart! It was obviously encouragement for me to keep trusting and keep searching. I had the entire week to keep looking for a connection to family. Be patient, Sarah!

On Monday, I hoped I might find a copy of my great grandparent’s birth certificates. For now, I could rest in the amazing events of the day. It was beyond any doubt that my grandma was making sure that I felt welcome in her mountains, indeed - she had made sure I had been honored.