** THE TRAIN STATION **
I took a three-hour train ride from Cortona to the station in Senigallia. Since my cousin Carlo knows less English than I know Italian, I relied heavily on the translation efforts of my friend, Sonia, who can speak Italian and whose family is also from Marche, and the staff at the Hotel Baglioni, where I stayed for the marathon in Florence, to help make the arrangements. I figured once I was talking to him in person that I could hand gesture my way through any conversion. I am Italian after all, but the details of my arrival were just too important.
So it was strange when I arrived and he wasn’t there. I was tired, and I was freezing. And after being in the loveliness of Cortona, the graffiti on the Senigallia station walls put me a little on edge.
I tried calling, but the telephone cards are like Rubik’s Cubes to me. Even when I thought I figured out how to place a call, the phone just rang and rang. Was I really getting this right?
Worse thing, though, I wondered if, after all this, I would be just hoping on the train again, never meeting my relatives, and traveling onward to Rome.
Fortunately, though, I eventually did get through, and it was Marisa (pronounced Muh-ree-za), Carlo’s wife. From what I could understand was that she was happy to hear from me, and that Carlo had left his cell phone outside, but I couldn’t seem to get my question answered, “Dové Carlo? In treno stazione o in macchina?” Eventually, it sounded like I would be seeing him soon enough. I hung up the phone and sat back down on the cold metal bench.
Not even a second later, the doors opened, and a hurried man walked in.
“Jennifer?”
“Carlo?”
And I swept out of the train station, my luggage quickly removed from my hands, a giant hug, and away we go!
I found out later that it had taken him so long, because the lady at the Hotel Baglioni had told I had blonde hair.
** BEGINNING MOMENTS **
Of course, before I could completely thaw out, the first thing that Carlo asked was how long I was planning on staying. “One night,” I said. “Just to meet you is enough,” and he said, “Until you leave.” In the end, after a couple days of intense negotiations, I agreed to stay for a week.
The town of Montignano is only ten minutes up a hill from Senigallia. It was night by the time I arrived, and in general, I didn’t get many photos, but in the days that followed, I learned that Senigallia is around 300 years old. Across from the station is a castle/fort, and like many towns off the sea, it was once a lookout point. Everything that extends out from this point looks like it has been built in the last 50 years or so, and has a slightly worn beach town feel to it.
Needless to say, we were home in no time. And get this, it’s Great-Grandpa’s house! By the way, Carlo’s grandfather is brother to Great-Grandpa, capisce?
Marisa made some tortellini, which Carlo and I picked up on the way home, followed by minute steak and potatoes. It was so similar to Mom’s cooking. They showed me their photos, and I got a little choked up, as Grandpa would like to say. Here’s my favorite photo, and it seems as though everyone has it:
Now, from what I understand, not everyone in this photo is family. It’s more like three or four families, but they all have been in this town for generations. It seemed like everyone I met could point to someone in this photo. So as far as I’m concerned, everyone I met is family.
** THE ROSSINI TEST **
But the question whether I was really family was posed.
At one point, Carlo wagged his pointer finger up towards the ceiling, and said (in the Italian equivalent), “Let’s see if you’re a Rossini.” Then he pulled out the grappa, poured me a shot, and placed it in front of me.
Well, what do you think happened? (As if that was a test. Please.)
What really won them over, though, was my computer skills. In no time, I was whisked upstairs to troubleshoot some issues / questions Carlo had about his laptop. Somehow, even with everything in Italian, I managed to figure it out, and explain it to him so he understood what was going on. In the process, he saw how fast I typed, and next thing I know, he’s dictating his email responses to me. That’s where I had to stop.
But we all had a good laugh. Either that, or the grappa was kicking in.
** OPEN THE WINDOW **
Things are really made well in Italy, even things like windows. They are very well constructed, super sturdy, and built in layers, so that you can enjoy them wide open in the summer or have them completely locked down in the winter. It was around 45 degrees while I was there, which I was told was warm for the season.
As Carlo and Marisa showed me how to open the window, they told me about the time cousin Sandy had visited. She wanted to open the window, and if I understood correctly, was having difficulties.
“Apertura la finestra!”, they said, laughing with glee, followed by, one of the few English phrases they knew, “Open the window!” I got a kick out of it, too, so after awhile that was just something that was injected into conversation.
The next morning when I did open the window, this is what I saw.
Beautiful, isn’t? I can only imagine how lovely it must look in the summer. According to Sonia, the best food (product) comes out of Marche. There are plenty of farms, and everyone seems to have one hand in the earth. Even Carlo and Marisa have two small lots, one for grain (to make bread) and the other, for olive (for olive oil).
** VISITING GREAT-GRANDMA **
Beyond those two small lots, hardly a block away down a dirt road from the Rossini home, is an abandoned home.
That happens to be Great-Grandma’s home. Although I didn’t go inside, but I did take a little something with me: a little rock.
Just beyond Great-Grandma’s house is the cemetery where most of Montignano’s families have come to rest.
Another street or so away is the church where they were married – Mary and Orlando Rossini. The church is located in Piazza Giordano Bruno.
And beyond that, down a hill, is the sea.
** MANY MEETINGS **
From the moment I stepped into town, I was introduced to a lot of people, and somehow I managed to keep up with five people talking to me at once. It was a lot of fun, though, and at times, rather funny all together. It goes without saying, of course, that their hospitality over flowed. I was shuttled from one home to another and one restaurant to another. All that was allowed of me was my presence.
On the first night, the bulk of the people I would meet all got together for pizza. Here we are:
In Italy, they have sausage like in Chicago, and it’s called salsiccia. And what a treat that was for me! It’s been years.
The next day, we had lunch at the Osteria sul Lago.
It was another big outing:
And aren’t they cute?
Okay, I can’t remember their names for the life of me, but he was the first person I met that spoke some English, which apparently was more than I could handle. Seems that after being completely immersed in the Italian language, I started to think in it. As I struggled to speak with him, I thought to myself, “Good god, I’ve arrived in Italy speaking broken Italian, and I’m going to leave speaking broken English.”
Later that night, I met some descendants from Great-Grandma’s side.
Before I left, thankfully I remembered to bring a handful of photos, one of each American relative, to share, and while I was there, I always made sure I brought them on me.
Well, when I started showing my little plastic baggy worth of photos, Paola (if I remember correctly) pulled out all her photo albums. It was a blast! Her son, Sandro, had a different opinion however.
To make matters worse, I asked if I could borrow a photo, so I could scan it at Carlo and Marisa’s, but Sandro offered to do it instead. Well, that opened up the flood gates and photo after photo was being handed to him, from Carlo, from me, and most of all, his mom, who kept saying, “Sandro. Sandro.”
I can still hear his name being called. Eventually, I grabbed an entire photo album and handed it to him, “Sandro! Sandro!” We all had a good laugh.
The most famous night, hands down, was the dinner with Carlo’s friend, Salvatore, a farmer, his wife, Marisa, and the man with the beard whose name I bite my fist trying to remember. He is also a friend as well as a retired police office (Polizia) like Carlo.
Now, if it hasn’t been clear up to this point, my Italian was very broken, but we all managed. I can only imagined that they struggle to understand me as much as I working to make myself understandable. I was complimented often by my efforts, but I received only one complaint and that was by Salvatore.
He said, in Italian, “I’m not woah-ME-KNEE.” The word he was saying was uomini, which means men.
So, I quickly replied, in Italian, “Hey, if you’re not a man, well…”
This, of course, just made him keep starting over, and repeating the same thing. He wasn’t ever quite reaching whatever point he was trying to make, and in the process, everyone starting cracking up, the ladies especially.
By the time, we got it all straightened out that Salvatore was a man and that I should be pronouncing it “WOAH-me-knee”, everyone at the table was practically in tears. Here’s our uomini photo:
After that, well, I just had to apertura la finestra (Open the window!) and went to the window manufacturing business of Marcello.
Across the street from the company is his home and a farm. And look! I’m holding a baby bunny.
Afterwards, I went to Sabrina’s house, joined by her husband, mom, and two sons, who are 16 and 22 and very into American culture. They think Italy is (roll eyes) whatever. (Of course.) She works at the deli.
The following day, which was day #7 of 8, Francesca, along with her mom, Morella, and husband, Frederico, picked me up and treated me out to a lovely Frasassi cave.
She has a little boy, Filipo, but he didn’t make it, because he was in school, and her father, Giuliano, didn’t make it because he was not feeling so well.
The cave is packed with waxy stalagmites and stalactites. Here is the only photo I managed to take before I couldn’t pretend that I didn’t understand anymore. After all, it does sound exactly the same. “Sorry, I don’t understand no fotographia.”
And Francesca was an absolute too, asking the tour guide if he spoke English, which I was expecting him too. When he said he didn’t, she worked so hard, even pulling out a pocket dictionary at time, to translate what he was saying.
After the tour, we went to back to their apartment. Francesca lives on the top floor.
What a view, huh? Her grandparents live in another unit on the floor just below her, and her parents, where we had lunch, live on the floor below that. So they’re all in the same building.
It was a delicious lunch, but after seven days of being oh-so gracious to have double helpings of everything, well, my poor digestion just couldn’t keep up anymore. I need to excuse myself.
After that Frederico kept teasing me, “How are you feeling? Bleeeeh.” Ah, yes, for some things, there are no cultural barriers.
No worries, though, I managed to take a little nap and get my appetite up and running just in time to go to the Cesar’s!
See that cute couple on the right. Get this, his name is Cesare and her name is Cesarina. Those are her parents, Elsa and Mario. They grew up one house away from each other, and they are still very much in love today. You can tell that they lead a very joyous life. Their two daughters, Silvia and Luanna, are just as amazing, and here we speak the international language of “Charlie’s Angels”:
I’ve also been given very strict orders to find Brad Pitt and bring him back to Italy. Once in you say you live in Los Angeles, everybody wants you to catch them a star, sheesh!
So, are you feeling full yet? Well, I hope you still have just a little bit more room left, because on my last night, we all went to a steakhouse. Despite the fact that we live off the sea and our ancestors were in the fishing business, we all eat red meat like it’s going out of style. Carlo and I noticed that lovely similarity and would constantly rub our hands together and say, “Carne!” (meat).
Needless to say, this particular place was chosen especially for me.
But it wasn’t all eating, drinking, and food coma. I enjoyed quite a many of my afternoons with Marisa, singing (she has a lovely voice) and watching “Amici”, which I became totally hooked on. See, “Amici” has two groups – the singers and the dancers. So it’s like “American Idol” meets “Dancing with the Stars”. Plus, on “Amici”, they are recorded during their rehearsals as well as live performances. It’s so “Fame”, only the scarves are tied slightly differently, because well, they’re European.
** LEAVING MARCHE **
It was difficult saying good-bye, partly because I couldn’t move from all the weight I gained while I was there. But that’s okay, I’m treating every pound as a memory.
It was such a wonderful experience. I felt immediately at home, and after a few days, I felt like anything in this world was possible. You know THAT feeling?
Carlo and Marisa made me promise to return within a year. It’s a promise I’d actually really like to keep. And of course, I told them they had to come out here.
But in the meantime, we have the memories, and we’ll always have the looouuuuve!
** STAY TUNED **
Next week, I’ll be finishing up our winter running break with the last segment of my trip. So stay tuned, and enjoy the reprieve, because before you know it, it’ll be all about running again.
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