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.

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.