I entered a
travel writing contest in 2012. There was a 2,000 character limit, so I
had to change some details of the story to make it all fit. I didn't
win. :( But here is the story:
A Family Feast in Roseto
Hundreds of wind turbines dotted the hilltops as my taxi transported me
through the Italian countryside and, it seemed, back in time. I was on a
mission to fulfill a promise I made to my “grampa” many years ago to
visit his place of birth. I chuckled to myself as I recalled his tales,
told in his heavy Italian accent, of the goats with "biga, biga, teats!”
We spent hours on his gold sofa as he mused over a simpler time,
proudly showing me each and every photo in his tattered black and white
album.
Darkness drew nigh as I relaxed at a small cafĂ© in this diminutive village of Roseto Valfortore. Tourists are rare in this tiny town, so it wasn’t surprising when a robust little man with graying, curly hair approached me, proclaiming, “My name is Domenico DelGrosso. I speaka English. I cana help you if you like.” His accent was heavy; reminiscent of Grampa’s. I explained that I was on a pilgrimage of sorts, to the town that my grandfather spoke so fondly of. He made a face mimicking disapproval. After a short silence he asked, “Did your grampa have a sister named Bibiana, one named Giovanna, a brother named Joe…” I interjected, “Yes! This is my family!” He exclaimed, “I am your cousin!”
We huddled together at the table as he deftly scribbled a family tree illustrating our kinship. Minutes later, we were sauntering down the narrow cobblestone streets. I marveled at the stasis that seemingly afflicted this village as he showed me my still-standing great-grandmother’s house. We capped off our tour with a wonderful nighttime barbecue in the family’s garden that included an old stove and a picnic table canopied by grape vines. We feasted on pasta, chicken, bread, grapes, prosciutto, fresh ricotta cheese and homemade wine. With a twinkle in his eye, Domenico looked over at my empty plate and barked at me, “If you wanta more food, you cana helpa youself, and if you don’t, then that’s a you problem.” For a minute I was sure it was Grampa’s voice, welcoming me home.
Darkness drew nigh as I relaxed at a small cafĂ© in this diminutive village of Roseto Valfortore. Tourists are rare in this tiny town, so it wasn’t surprising when a robust little man with graying, curly hair approached me, proclaiming, “My name is Domenico DelGrosso. I speaka English. I cana help you if you like.” His accent was heavy; reminiscent of Grampa’s. I explained that I was on a pilgrimage of sorts, to the town that my grandfather spoke so fondly of. He made a face mimicking disapproval. After a short silence he asked, “Did your grampa have a sister named Bibiana, one named Giovanna, a brother named Joe…” I interjected, “Yes! This is my family!” He exclaimed, “I am your cousin!”
We huddled together at the table as he deftly scribbled a family tree illustrating our kinship. Minutes later, we were sauntering down the narrow cobblestone streets. I marveled at the stasis that seemingly afflicted this village as he showed me my still-standing great-grandmother’s house. We capped off our tour with a wonderful nighttime barbecue in the family’s garden that included an old stove and a picnic table canopied by grape vines. We feasted on pasta, chicken, bread, grapes, prosciutto, fresh ricotta cheese and homemade wine. With a twinkle in his eye, Domenico looked over at my empty plate and barked at me, “If you wanta more food, you cana helpa youself, and if you don’t, then that’s a you problem.” For a minute I was sure it was Grampa’s voice, welcoming me home.
 |
| Celeste Policelli. My great-grandmother. |
 |
| My aunt Rose, my dad, Grampa, and Uncle Tony Here is the link to my original story: http://journals.worldnomads.com/trvlgrl24/story/85974/Italy/My-Scholarship-entry-A-local-encounter-that-changed-my-life |
No comments:
Post a Comment