Italy in winter - PART THREE
The day after I purchased my ticket, I tossed and turned in bed. What was I thinking?! …I can’t just up and leave!
Remorse and regret were gnawing at me from inside my own head. I had made a gut decision, following a deep knowing … but my head was putting up a fight.
My husband reminded me that this would only be a 9 day trip. I would return and all would be as before.
I had his support, the tickets were paid for, but the battle with my mind and my own judgments raged on. I realized pretty quickly, that as with many other aspects of my life - I had ended up accidentally becoming the person I had once judged.
I recalled my own puzzlement in years past - looking at friends of mine who chose to travel alone, and thought I would never do that. What an odd thing to choose to experience something and not be able to share it with your own spouse? It wasn’t within the realm of possibility. If I’m honest - the idea of traveling alone seemed selfish and indulgent. Until I took an unexpected weekend trip to California for a memorial, I had no idea how much I needed solitude. My soul was thirsty for alone time in nature, for the spaciousness to think my own thoughts, to read and journal. I realized how desperately I needed to explore aspects of myself that were just not possible while at home surrounded by the needs of my family.
Now here I was… heading to the other side of the world alone. And I wasn’t exactly sure why.
I knew that my great-grandmother Marina Scarpenti had been born in the region of Albareto, and that her husband Luigi had been born in Montegroppo. I had some old letters from a correspondence that had gone back and forth, 30 years ago.
A cousin named Maria Ottoboni Sabini had written a letter to my great Aunt Rita, telling her of some land that she had inherited a part of. My Auntie Rita did not respond to the letter, but my mother picked up the correspondence later in the 1990’s. My mom remembers that these Sabini cousins, living in the mountainous town of Montegroppo had sent her a bag of dried Porcini mushrooms. She was so happy to receive correspondence from them, and began asking more questions about that parcel of land. Was it close to an airport? How large was the land? After that letter, she never heard back from them. My mom assumed that the family had become nervous, thinking these American cousins now wanted to try and claim some of the family property. She regretted ever asking about the land. Those letters had been written 30 years ago. There had been no correspondence since.
I was on the hunt to discover how Maria Sabini was related to my Scarpenti grandmother. I was headed to this beautiful mountain region - I had rented an Airbnb apartment in the town of Tarsogno - just a 20 minute drive to Montegroppo. After an exhaustive search, I was unable to find any links on Ancestry.com between the Scarpenti name and the Sabini name.
Finally, I entered these words into my google search bar:
Sabini Montegroppo.
An instagram post appeared by a man named Tommy Sabini. He lived in Reno, NV and had visited Montegroppo in 2017. He had posted the sweetest picture of a 94 year old cousin of his, Emma Sabini who still lived in Montegroppo, and who he was able to meet while traveling in Italy.
I was thrilled to see some kind of connection to the Sabini name, AND amazed that he too, had visited the same town I was headed to in only one week. I decided to reach out to him on Instagram. (Why not - I was getting used to jumping into the unknown). We arranged to speak on the phone.
Hearing his voice on the other end of the line felt comforting in a way that I can’t explain. Perhaps it was the warmth of our shared Italian heritage, but he immediately made me feel at ease and as though I had known him for years.
We talked on the phone for an hour, and he kindly told me all about the trip he had taken, how beautiful Montegroppo was, and that I was just going to love it.
“You know it’s not an accident that we are talking, right?” he said.
That brought me to tears, and it was just what I needed as I had been feeling down and uncertain that day. The key thing he told me was this:
“Sarah, there is this place up at the top of the hill in Montegroppo - its a small chapel. There are lots of modern windmills up behind it, but it’s a special place and let me tell you why. Whenever someone would leave for America, the family would walk up with them to that chapel, and then watch them walk down the mountain towards the sea - to take the train to America.”
I got the chills hearing him say this, because in my online searches for the church in Montegroppo, I had seen pictures of that small chapel many times. The image was unique - with the modern windmills in the background of the old small chapel. I was beyond grateful for Tommy’s helpful sharing about this important place, and I wanted to see it for myself. This piece of information would most certainly help me as I headed to my grandparent's homeland. My great grandparents had been two of these immigrants who left their small town to take a trip across the ocean to America. My nervousness about traveling to Italy alone was nothing compared to what they must have experienced setting out on their own journeys into the unknown. My Great Grandmother Marina had only been 19 when she left Italy.
A few days before my departure, I began to brush up on my Italian. It had been awhile since I’d practiced, and I wanted to try and have a few phrases under my belt. Just as I was falling asleep the night before I left, an Italian word was rolling around in my head. I found myself saying it out loud, enjoying the way it rolled off my tongue. Conoscerla. Why was this word stuck in my head?
Conoscerla, conoscerla… what did it mean? It sounded like a conjugation of the verb conoscere - which means, to know - but I didn’t recall it being in anything I had practiced.
When I woke the next morning, I remembered the word again and decided to look it up.
I typed the phrase into my phone’s Google Translate app, realizing that it may not even be a ‘real’ word at all.
But the word did have a distinct meaning.
Conoscerla means know her.
I was struck with a sense of awe, and an understanding that this word was meant for me to ponder. I felt amazed. I cherished it’s meaning in my heart. I felt that ‘her’ could refer to my Grandma Scarpenti, the land of Italy and also - myself.
Jeremiah dropped me off at the airport on January 8th, and I was buzzing with excitement, some nervousness - but a sense of peace amidst my uncertainty about what was to come.
Even as I sat down for my long flight from London to Bologna, I chatted with a woman who was headed to Ghana to visit her family. Wait, you’re going all alone and you don’t know anyone there? That’s brave… she had said. I tried not to let her surprise unsettle me. It was a strange experience. I felt so certain about the trip. I had no idea what was ahead, but I felt comfort in knowing I was being guided.
Excited to have feet on Italian soil again. Made it safely to Bologna.
The apartment I had booked was in Tarsogno - a 20 minute drive to both towns where my grandparents were born. Before my visit, I had told my host that I was coming to try and connect with some distant family members if I could find them - and possibly to work on a book. I wanted to learn more about the local area, learn what kind of food they eat there and just try to connect with my Italian roots in a deeper way. I shared a link to my Plenty website to explain what I do in Colorado, how important food is to my life at home.
After landing in Bologna, I picked up my rental car (was grateful that driving a stick shift came right back) and checked into my hotel room.
That first night as I was falling asleep in my hotel room, another Italian word I didn’t understand was rolling around in my head!
When I woke up the next morning, I couldn’t remember it. Only that it had started with an R. I told myself - Stop it, Sarah! Don’t try to make that special word thing happen again. It probably was just one random event. Let it go.
That morning, there was a message on my phone from my host Francesca. She and her father co-manage the apartment, and she lives in London in the winter. Her father Mauro would be meeting me with the key. She said that Mauro had already alerted some important people in the town about my visit. They wanted to help me on my search to find family. I felt so grateful!! It gave me an extra boost of encouragement as I went downstairs, had an espresso and then began my 2 hour drive on the Autostrada from Bologna to my Tarsogno apartment.
I drove past Modena (where Balsamic Vinegar was born) and Parma (famous for parmesan cheese and parma ham). I had thought I might stop and explore those two places, but was just eager to check in and see my apartment, so I drove on.
My heart was full of excitement, and the closer I got, the more picturesque and beautiful the views became. As I wound my way through the roads I was thinking of the fact that my great grandparents had left Italy such a long time ago - in 1914 and 1917. How likely was it that anyone would remember them - if there were any relatives even still alive?
I prayed - God, please guide me. Please let someone remember!
I was listening to my music playlist, and a song in Italian came on. Suddenly, I recalled with certainty what that Italian word was that had been in my head the night before. It was ricordiamo.
I had to know if this word meant anything special, so I pulled the car over.
I was amazed, that when I translated it, I discovered that
ricordiamo means we remember.
I was in tears. I sobbed as I drove my car closer to my apartment. I was full to the brim with the feeling of love and support. I was in awe of this mysterious journey I was on, and so very grateful to have been given these meaningful words.
I passed signs pointing to Albareto and Montegroppo and was just overcome by the mountain beauty. I pulled over to take pictures here and there.
Mauro and his wife Paula greeted me at the apartment and were SO welcoming. They had prepared a lunch for me in their apartment just below mine. I put away my suitcases, then - grateful I had remembered to bring some gifts - wrapped up my book and some packs of cards I had made to give away. I joined them for lunch - they served me some traditional savory tarts (torta di riso, torta di erbe and torta di patate), salami, foccaccia and red wine.
We talked as best we could together (I was so grateful that Mauro spoke some English). I learned that he had told some friends about my trip, and they had offered to pick me up and take me to a meeting that night which was a gathering of local food producers and growers in the area. They were trying to put together an organized group of organic farmers to distinguish their mountain region.
My kind and generous hosts, Mauro and Paula
I learned that Mauro and his wife live in the city of Parma (one hour away), and had only come to the apartment to greet me - so they were heading back home just then. (It was not as common for guests to come in the middle of January). We exchanged phone numbers and he offered to help if I needed anything.
I cried again as I walked up the stairs to my apartment. Partly of sadness that the only kind friends I had just spent an hour with were leaving - but partly because I was so touched that they would feed me and tell their friends about me.
My very first day in Northern Italy had already been full of welcome, magic and more generosity than I could imagine.
I spent the afternoon exploring the town of Albareto, and taking in the breathtaking misty mountain views. I went into the cemetery and took photos, then bought groceries at Angela’s charming shop which was just below my apartment. She treated me like a dear friend, and had everything I needed.
I enjoyed cooking myself dinner in the little kitchen in my apartment, then got ready for the meeting these new friends wanted me to attend that evening at 8.
Oh… and my apartment had a BATHTUB. That felt like the cherry on top for me. In our Sicily travels, none of our places had anything but a tiny shower, which is common for Europe. Having a bathtub meant that I could soak my tired feet each night, warm up after each day of chilly wintertime adventures.
I had begun listening to the book Dance of the Dissident Daughter by Sue Monk Kidd on the airplane, which is a story of one woman’s journey from the Christian tradition to the Sacred Feminine. It had been a last minute decision to download the audio book, yet it now felt more than on purpose. I was taught that God is Spirit, and does not have gender at all - yet both male and female are made in God’s image. I really have only been exposed to the masculine aspect of God all my life. For me, this has been positive. Perhaps because of my close relationship with my Dad, embracing the idea of a loving Heavenly Father has been easy - even comforting.
But what about a Heavenly Mother? It was interesting how much resistance I felt while listening to Sue speak in Divine Feminine terms in her book. The word ‘goddess’ ‘feminist theology’ and speaking of God as ‘she’ sent unexpected pangs of fear into my chest. Memories of the words ‘heresy’ and ‘dangerous’ came to mind. I was unable to deny, however that my trip to Italy felt very much like a Divine Feminine experience. What had been ‘dangerous’ about that? I had been guided here by a great grandmother’s words - and my apartment having a bathtub felt like a touch that only a Motherly aspect of Divine Love would offer me. I had done something I never had imagined myself doing - traveling alone, taking time out to nourish my soul. The bathtub felt like a reminder that it was GOOD to take care of myself. To soak in rest and renewal. I was being given mysterious Italian words as I fell asleep, being fed well and provided for by strangers. This felt unmistakably like a Mother’s love.
And I was doing my best to conoscerla - to know Her.
