L'Italo-Americano

THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 7, 2017 www.italoamericano.org 24 L'Italo-Americano FRED GARDAPHE M y trip began in northern Europe and the closer I came to Italy, the more e m o t i o n a l I b e c a m e . I n D e n m a r k a n d S w e d e n I h a d made new friends whose com- mand of English made me feel as though I had never left home. But after two weeks, I was ready to parlare l'italiano. It was in Venice that I first used my Italian. When the clerk at the cheap hotel asked me what language I was speaking, I was lost. "Italiano," I replied. He shook his head, "Wooed y o u p r e f i r t o s p e a k t h e Engleesh?" I had come to Italy because I thought I was Italian, and that's what I was going to speak, but when that failed I realized I was m o r e A m e r i c a n t h a n I h a d thought. On the train from Venice to Bari I began to feel confused. I asked myself over and over: "What if my family doesn't rec- ognize me? They have no pic- tures! What if they can't under- stand me? I've only studied Italian for three months and V e n i c e h a d p r o v e n I c o u l d understand it but not speak it well." I got off the train in Bari to see palm trees. Grandpa never mentioned them in any of his stories, so I wondered if I was in the right place. I found a phone booth, but couldn't figure out how to use it. An hour passed before I figured out what "get- toni" were and where to buy them. I dropped the slotted metal disks and dialed. "Pronto." Ready for what? I had never heard anyone use that word on the phone! All I could say was "Sono Frederico. Arrivo!" It took a while to learn that I was still a ways from Castellana Grotte. I needed one more train ride to get there. F r o m B a r i t o C a s t e l l a n a Grotte I stood in the train staring out the window at the vineyards and the olive groves. The scene brought a tarantella to mind, one that Grandpa used to sing while h e w o r k e d i n t h e g a r d e n . I thought of the words and trans- l a t e d t h e m a s b e s t I c o u l d remember: In Italy man and nature live together; the young grapes shaded by the old vines protected from the hot and windy weather until they ripen into vintage wines. In Italy man and nature live as one. T h e o l d o l i v e t r e e a l w a y s bears new fruit, though whipped by the wind and burned by the sun. Man and nature here, like a heel to a boot. Now those words had pictures that made them mean something. Now I understood what he was talking about when he would work for hours in his garden talking to the plants, telling me about each one. I leaked tears a n d r e a l i z e d I h a d c a r r i e d Grandpa back to Castellana. The station was empty. I looked up to the sign to be sure I had gotten off at the right stop. "Castellana Grotte." Then I caught sight of an old man in baggy brown pants and a navy blue t-shirt that hung over his waist. "He looks lost," I thought as I headed toward the exit. I w a l k e d b y t h e o l d m a n s h a d i n g s q u i n t e d e y e s . H e dropped his hands as I moved into the shade. I turned and looked into his face, "Excuse me s i r . I a m F r e d e r i c o . . . " a n d before I could finish the old man looked into my eyes and flung his arms up into the air. He grinned and his wrinkled face g l o w e d a s t e a r s s p i l l e d . H e kissed me on both cheeks and t h e n t h a t ' s w h e n I s a w m y grandfather. "He's just like Grandpa, only s h o r t e r , " I t h o u g h t a s w e walked. His silver hair was cut close to his scalp; his face thin- ner than Grandpa's and much whiter. "Grandpa's ghost." The old man was my grandfa- t h e r ' s y o u n g e s t b r o t h e r , Michelangelo. He led me on the narrow stone streets, and people s t o p p e d t o w a t c h u s p a s s . I returned their stares with ner- vous grins and nods. This was a different Italy than Rome or Venice, more like the stark, sun bleached pictures I had seen of Mexico or India, where bare f o o t e d c h i l d r e n r a n t h r o u g h streets, than any image put into my mind by Grandpa's stories. The sun reflected strongly off the white buildings, darkening my glasses. When I reached the corner where Zio Michelangelo had stopped I followed the old man's finger up to a sign hung over a store: "Salumeria Rotolo." I s m i l e d a n d f o l l o w e d h i m through the strings of beads that hung in the doorway. "Here is the 'merican!" The inside of the store looked like a negative of a pho- tograph until my glasses adjust- ed to the darkened room. Zia Anna stood behind the counter, slicing prosciutto. She left the knife in mid slice, looked long at the American with the beard and the backpack, rubbed her hands into her white apron and shuffled around the counter. Anna was a wide woman, as wide as her father. She hugged me and her tears landed on my lips. She shook me, backed away, took another long look and then embraced me again, kissing both cheeks. She stepped back and her mother hobbled toward me. The old woman's face rippled in w r i n k l e s a s s h e b o b b e d a n d cried. I had to bend down to kiss her and had no idea who she was. People who had been walking by came into the store and soon the whole place was filled with yelling and crying in an Italian I had never studied. As the first of the American family to return to Castellana Grotte, I was welcomed with t e a r s , k i s s e s a n d s t r o n g embraces. I was a traveller who had come home after a long voyage. All the words I had h e a r d a b o u t t h e f a m i l y n o w became flesh. I had never seen these people in my life, yet they w e r e a l l f a m i l i a r . I f e l t a s t h o u g h I h a d g o n e b a c k i n time. When I had a chance to start speaking, everyone in the store laughed. "Listen to the 'merican," Zia Anna called out. "He speaks old Castellanese! Papa, take him to the piazza to where he will be understood!" So I dropped off my back- pack; Zio led me back to the street and into Piazza Garibaldi to show me off to his friends. A Generation Removed: Arrivo! As the first American family to return to Castellana Grotte, I was welcomed with tears, kisses and strong embraces. I was a traveller who had come home after a long voyage LA VITA ITALIANA TRADITIONS HISTORY CULTURE

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