Finding Home in Italy

Last year I typed “Abruzzo” into Google for the first time after calling my grandmom to get her recipe for scrippelle soup. In 0.24 seconds, I was overwhelmed with 16 million results for the region my father's family hailed from. Still, in my mind, Abruzzo existed in the same way the North Pole and the moon exists. You see pictures, you hear people talk about it, but you never actually go there. Or so I thought. Lo and behold, our last week in Italy found us in the “forte e gentile” region, meeting its strong and gentle inhabitants. I was walking on the moon. We pedaled up to Rocca Calascio, the highest fortress in the Apennines at 4,790 feet. Construction on the fortress, which was built for military purposes only, began in the 10^th century. In the 13^th century, additional towers were added. Fun fact: you can spot this fortress in the movies, Ladyhawke, The Name of the Rose and The American. Built in the 17^th century, Santa Maria della Pietà is an octagon-shaped church just below the fortress. From Rocca Calascio, we made our way up, up, up (and sometimes down) Gran Sasso National Park. Each switchback offered stunning views of the surrounding mountainous terrain and even Gran Sasso, itself at 9,554 feet. After a tough day of pedaling, it was nearing twilight and our heads were craning left and right searching for a home for the night amidst the trees when we ran into Mike, a teacher from Germany who was spending a few weeks of his vacation exploring the Apennines by bike. He told us about "a great campsite" he had passed 11 kilometers ago where people seemed to be camping for free. But it was approaching nightfall, the temperature was dropping and heavy fog was rolling over the mountains. Eleven kilometers felt impossibly far. We thanked him for the info and decided we’d ride that far only if we didn’t pass a flat spot to pitch our tent before then. We didn’t. Thank goodness. Because we never would have met these guys. As if crossing the finish line at a mountain bike race, they hollered, clapped and handed us cups of beer as we rolled into the camping area, exhausted beyond measure, bundled in almost all layers of clothing, eyes wide from a recent encounter with sheep dogs, and delirious from pedaling through kilometers of fog so thick it resembled a white wall when lit up by our headlamps. We were warmly welcomed into this lively group of Italian motorbike tourists and gladly accepted an invitation to set up camp next to theirs. After scarfing down soup straight from the pot, we walked for a few kilometers (in our bike shoes, which is always fun) to get “coffee” with our new friends. I seem to remember shots of limoncello, genziana (a bittersweet Abruzzo liquor), whiskey and a bottle of wine. But my memory is a bit foggy. We communicated throughout the night in broken Italian, English, French and Spanish. Who needs language, anyway? This friendly ball of fluff didn’t! She found our campfire that night and hung out like she was one of the gang. She even came back the next morning to say goodbye. We nicknamed her Gigi and spoke to her in belly rubs. The following day, we pedaled out of Gran Sasso (with heavy heads from the night before), and pointed our bikes towards Giulianova, the town my paternal family is from, and the very last place we’d visit before leaving Italy. Thanks to my cousin Alex, who will henceforth be known as Puliti Family Historian Extraordinaire, I was able to pedal on the same streets my ancestors walked and pray in the very church my great-grandfather belonged to.

(San Flaviano, my great-grandfather's church, is located in old town Giulianova.)

(This monument pays tribute to Italian Navy War dead.) 

(Cesare Puliti is my grandfather's cousin. Why haven't we passed down this awesome name?!)

A few days prior, our host in Pratola Peligna was kind enough to call Mario, my grandfather’s cousin who lives in Giulianova, and arrange a time for Justin and me to meet him at his home. Nervous doesn’t even begin to describe how I felt leading up to our meeting. I mean, what would we possibly do if we couldn’t so much as talk to each other? I scoured my family's Facebook photos and made an impromptu slideshow, writing down key words in Italian, like dad (papa), brother (fratello), grandpop (nonno), uncle (zio), cousin (cugino), great-granddaughter (pronipote), etc. When at last our wheels turned onto his street, anxiety got the best of me and I could think of every excuse to keep riding--away from the house, away from the social awkwardness. Thank goodness for my always calm and collected husband. “This is it!” Justin slowed to a stop. "Are you sure?" I hesitated. "Look!" he pointed. Seeing my family name on the mailbox and hearing Mario's wife call—or rather yell—for her husband in the same way my grandmom yells for my grandpop was all it took. I was no longer at a stranger’s house in a foreign country. I was at a family get-together. I was home.

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"Differences of habit and language are nothing at all if our aims are identical and our hearts are open." - Albus Dumbledore