Italy and Slovenia

My last name is Martino. My great grandfather was Italian. He immigrated to America in 1903.

He came to America to work as a coal miner in the deep dark shafts of Appalachia, the coal mines of West Virginia. He worked hard and earned little, but America offered opportunity.

My great grandfather never returned to Italy, nor did any of his 14 children, nor their children’s children. No one had been back in 104 years, until now.

My family knew little but the name of the town where my great grandfather had been born. We had lost touch.

We were proud to call ourselves Italian Americans, but it was a hollow moniker without footnotes, annotations or any depth of knowledge. We were Italian but did not know why or how.

Before I left China to return to the United States, I had a goal. I wanted to find what the Chinese would call the “old home,” my roots.

Italy

Italy is a dream, a maiden of blue shores, green vineyards, a yellow beating sun and ruins that span the ages. It is a land of great food, romance and passion where everyone seems to wear Gucci and LV and drive cars two sizes too small.

I had lived in Asia for over four years. I had become accustomed to polluted grey skies, no trees, metropolises of millions, crowded streets and buildings that had as much artistic taste as concrete shoe boxes.

When I landed in Rome, I fell in love. Everything is beautiful; the buildings, the food and even the people’s clothes. Only Paris can compete with Rome in beauty.

Rome is not a city. It is a monument, a work of art. You can not help to wander it its streets and be in awe. Living in China, I had forgotten cities could be beautiful.

I arrived in Rome at the beginning of April, before the stampede of summer gawkers, when the flowers were just starting to bloom and the weather was sublime.

Millions come to see Rome’s glories. The only bad thing about Rome and Italy’s grand sites are their high cost. While in Asia, I could take care of all my needs for between $5 and $10 a day. In Italy, I would need between $30 and $50 a day.

Always a frugal traveler, I had a plan to protect my modest savings. Rather than staying in hotels and hostels, I would tent and stay in campgrounds and farmers’ fields. Instead of relying on buses and trains, I would bring my own transport. I would bicycle. Not only would I save more, I would see more.

A Bicycle in Italy

Having a bicycle in Italy is the way to go. In Rome, I did not have to walk. I could bike the town.

From my campground, I could make it to the Vatican in 20 minutes. It was faster than taking the bus or subway. I would chain my bike to sign posts in front of pizza parlors and outdoor café’s, where there were plenty of customers to discourage any thieves, and then enjoy the sites.
I visited churches, cycled through piazzas, drank from fountains, visited the forum and cruised the Apian way.

I enjoyed what was old and Roman. I had studied Roman history when taking Latin in high school. I was shocked that I could remember the names of Rome’s seven hills that I had memorized for a test. Mrs. Gramins, my Latin teacher, would be proud. And so, the forum enthralled me and the coliseum amazed.

The coliseum was huge, as large as any modern day amphitheater. It was shocking to stand in its shadow, to know it was once one of the largest manmade structures in the world. While most of the world was still living in huts, the Romans had the knowledge to build structures truly colossal.

The Romans were not know for their artistic talents. They even considered the Greeks far superior artisans to themselves. They were first and foremost great warriors and fantastic engineers.

For artistic inspiration, I had to look in other places than the broken brick and marble faces of the coliseum and forum.

When I had interviewed for a scholarship in college to go to Scandinavia, I was asked what I would choose if I could select any piece of art for my home. I chose the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. I am convinced no other painting can match its grandeur. Craning my neck to see God and Adam, I was amazed one man could have painted so much, so well. Especially while lying on his back holding paint brushes in his teeth.

While in the chapel, there was a hum, a crowd of tourists talking. A guard clapped his hands and pleaded for us to be silent. He reminded us the chapel was sacred. No one listened. How could anyone admire creation and not say a word.

In Rome, I saw more churches than I could count because Rome more than any other place on Earth screams Christianity. The city is a calliope of Catholicism, churches shouting baroque, neoclassical and renaissance, all the notes of artistic creativity done here and amplified. There is a church on every corner, a cross on every wall. St. Peter’s is huge. Priests walk the streets. Nuns are on buses. For all the Catholics of the world this is holy ground. The grandeur is awesome and inspiring.

For a week, I too was enlightened and amazed by this grandiose city of gold and marble beauty. Too much grandeur, however, can spoil you. I could not stay in Rome forever.
After a week, I turned my wheels north. My goal was Tuscany and the tiny town of Forte dei Marmi, near Pisa where my good friend Maria lived.

North Through Tuscany

I can not say too much exciting happened to me on this bicycle trip. I had no near misses. I had no flat tires. It didn’t even rain. The distance between Rome and Forte dei Marmi was not great, just 300 kilometers or about 190 miles, but I took my time. I am no longer 21. Biking in the hot sun and up hills, I could no longer sustain the pace I had when I had raced across the states in 23 days, 100 miles each day.

I was sore just from my more modest distances. It took nine days to get to Forte dei Marmi.
I slowly cycled past vineyards and wheat fields, giant olive trees giving shade to brown turned soil, ancient villas and medieval towns standing on hills.

I stopped in town markets to buy olives, fresh bread and cheese. I ate picnic lunches in town piazzas, fed the pigeons and made small talk with old men sitting on green benches.
I visited ancient castles and Roman ruins.

In Pisa, I took my picture in front of the leaning tower. For two days, I even made a side trip to the island of Elba.

Elba is a hot rock covered in Mediterranean scrub and drenched in sun. Clear blue water languidly laps rocky beaches offering cool relief for bronze sunbathers. Interestingly, it was even once ruled for nine months and 21 days by a deposed French emperor before he was rescued, raised a new army and was defeated for good at Waterloo. “Able was I ere I saw Elba,” he might have said.

Forte dei Marmi is just north of Pisa. My friend Maria lives there with her parents. She is a painter and a student. She is studying art at a university nearby. I had not seen Maria for eight years, but we had kept in touch. Every year I have sent her Christmas cards. We studied together at the International Summer School in Oslo, Norway. She was at the school to study Norwegian. I was there by luck with a Viking scholarship to learn about Scandinavian culture, girls, boiled potatoes and aquavite.

Maria had not changed a bit. She is still the Norwegian, Italian girl with beautiful blond hair and the wonderful smile I remembered. She still has the energy and dynamism of when she was 21.

Maria organized my entire stay. The first day, we went to visit the Tuscan town of Lucca. We strolled around the ancient city, took a bike ride along the town walls, had a wonderful lunch besides a church with an interesting name, San Martino, climbed a medieval tower with views of the city and finally finished the day with a cappuccino in what was once a Roman amphitheater. “You need to live life,” Maria said, after having enjoyed her cappuccino. I agreed.

The second day, we climbed into the mountains above Forte die Marmi. Forte dei Marmi means fort of the marble. A fort once protected the route where vast quantities of marble was towed by oxen to waiting ships. The marble is still cut from the mountains today. Michelangelo got his marble for his David from the mountains near Forte.

The marble made the mountain tops appear like they were capped with snow. The passes, on the other hand, were green and filled with violets, blue bells, orchids and other wild flowers. We could look out to the wine dark waters of the Mediterranean and almost see the southern coast of France.

Along with us for the hike was Maria's friend Angelo, a history buff. He filled us in on the history of the mountains, and the prehistoric people who farmed and herded animals there. He even told us of the battles that took place in the mountains during WWII when US troops of the 442 division, a famous division of Japanese Americans, fought the Germans.

Beyond sites, there was of course food to experience. Maria, her Norwegian mother and her Italian father are all terrific cooks. You can not stay in an Italian home and not expect to eat well. Maria’s mother made fantastic pizza and Maria’s father was especially enthusiastic about having me try different kinds of salami and ham. “This salami is Fantastic!” he said. He went to the market every day to find something I had not tried.

Heading South

When my visit to Tuscany was complete, it was time to head south. My goal was the bottom of the Italian boot, the region of Calabria. Calabria is where my great grandfather was born. It was where I hoped to find my roots.

I did not want to backtrack over the same countryside I had traveled to get to Forte dei Marmi, so from Pisa, I took a train back to Rome. What had taken me nine days to cover by bicycle took only a few hours by train.

Sitting on a train, however, one never gets the true feel for a country. I was pleased I had cycled under the Tuscan sun.

From Rome, I continued by train to Naples. In Naples, I began to cycle again, once again riding along the coast, but this time heading south.

Southern Italy is captivating. Cycling through it was like a relaxing ride through a cover of Conde Nast Traveler, following the outline of perfect sapphire waters along a coast of sheer cliffs bathed in Mediterranean sun. From the cliffs, I could look down and see clearly to the bottom of the sea. The water was like liquid car glass, tinted blue and in constant gentle motion.

The harsh sun beat my skin, but the cool sea breezes kept me fresh and inspired my motion.

There were more than just inspirational views and quaint villages along the coast. The southwest coast of Italy was once part of Greater Greece. I enjoyed visiting what were once old Greek cities. I saw the fat Doric columns of Greek temples and wandered in the ruins of what were once great costal ports and cities.

Just south of Naples was the grandest of all architectural sites in Italy. It was not Greek but Roman. In 79 A.D, Mount Vesuvius exploded. The whole top of the mountain was blown off like an Italian Mount St. Helens. The explosion completely buried the nearby city of Pompei in four meters of ash. It destroyed the city, but also preserved it.

For someone who had studied Latin, Pompei was like finding the holy grail. No other archeological site tells us more about the ancient Romans than Pompei.

For one entire day, I did not bike. Instead, I lost myself in Pompei’s ancient alley ways.
What makes Pompeii so special is the city is all there, the ruins are intact. No one came to build over the city, no one took marble to build new monuments. Only the roofs to the houses and the people are missing. It is a city frozen in time.

Down on the Farm

I had originally planned on visiting Italy by myself. Hearing of my plans, however, my father and sister decided they too wanted to join me on my adventure to discover my Italian heritage.
My father and sister were set to arrive on May 17th. I had, however, been able to speed rapidly through most of southern Italy. After two and a half weeks of cycling I was getting into better shape.

I passed Cosenza, the town in southern Italy where I was supposed to meet up with my father and sister. I got there a good week before they were supposed to arrive. With time to kill, I decided I would go to work.

I wanted to get close to the land. I wanted to meet more Italians and get a better feeling for just how people lived and worked the land.

While I had been traveling in New Zealand in 2003, I had heard about and subsequently joined an organization called WWOOF, World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms.

As a “Woofer,” in exchanged for a few hours of work on an organic farm each day, you get a place to stay and meals to eat. For those interested in organic farming it offers a chance to learn about different organic farming practices. For those just interest in traveling it offers an opportunity to stay with a local family and learn more about their culture.

I worked for a week on the farm of Giuseppe and Mattea Riggio. They have two children who are teenagers. Their farm is about 2.5 hectares. I worked planting tomatoes, weeding onions, gathering hay, watering the plants, tying grape vines and feeding the farm’s chickens and ducks.
I stayed in a small cabin on the farm. The cabin had a small bedroom and its own kitchen. The cabin was like my own little pastoral paradise with fruit trees where I could pick lemons for my tea in the morning and oranges to eat for breakfast.

Giuseppe was not a full time farmer, although he would have like to have been. He worked a day job for the government. Giuseppe would finish work at 5:00 p.m. and would then join me to help with projects on the farm. We would work until it got dark at 8:30 p.m. Then, we would go to his home in the village, four kilometers away, for dinner and conversation.

Dinners were rustic and good. Salami, cheese and fresh bread were always on the table. The family’s own red wine was also always served. The meals included whatever fresh produce was at hand from the farm. At the time of my visit, fava beans were in season. We had fava beans with everything. We had pasta with fava beans in the tomato sauce. We had a tomato and fava bean stew one night. We even ate fava beans right out of the pods for desert. I grew to love fava beans. They look like gigantic sweet lima beans, you can eat straight from the pod.

Even better than the fresh vegetables, however, was the homemade salami. I think I could have just eaten salami and fresh bread while on the farm and have been content.

The Martinos

After having worked on the farm for one week, I met up with my father and sister. Together we traveled by train and by bus to the town of our ancestors, San Giovanni in Fiori.
I did not know what to expect in San Giovanni in Fiori. I had been told that Calabria was the poorest region in Italy. I had also been told San Giovanni in Fiori was one of Calabira’s poorest towns. I thought perhaps the streets would be littered with trash and every flat surface would be covered in graffiti like in Naples.

I was pleasantly surprised. San Giovani is still a poor town. There is not much industry or work, but it is an extremely beautiful little hamlet in the mountains, clean and well maintained.

The town sits on the side of a mountain at about 1,200 meters. It is surrounded by the Sila mountains. There are pine trees, tranquil lakes, and ski resorts for in the winter. Nearby, there is a high mountain plateau where cows, goats and sheep are grazed. Everywhere there are blossoming flowers: red poppies, dandelions and yellow potentially bushes.

Tourists trumpet the virtues of Tuscany. It is indeed beautiful, but I found myself as equally enamored by the beauty of this mountainous land. It looked like Switzerland. I felt moved and pleased to know my ancestors had come from such a beautiful place.

We did not have much information to go on to be able to find our relatives. The last time anyone had heard anything from a relative living in San Giovanni in Fiore was in 1970 when my great grandfather received a letter from his brother Domenico.

The letter had just been recently rediscovered. From the letter we had an address, of what we believed might be the original homestead. In the letter, there were also a few photos of relatives, but none of the pictures were labeled.

San Giovanni has a population of about 7,000. Because it is built on the sides of a steep mountain, the roads are twisting and narrow. The roads do not form a grid, and there is no clear center of town. Finding Via Costa, the street we had from the letter would not be easy. A maze of streets wasn’t our only problem. We lacked a map.

San Giovanni’s one hotel, Dino’s, where we were staying, had given its only street map to another American family. They just happened to be also searching for their relatives. My great grandfather, after all, had not been alone in leaving San Giovanni in Fiore. Mountains are difficult to farm.

By chance, while out exploring the town, we ran into the family who had the map. They were returning to the hotel and gave it to us.

With the map, we could see where Via Costa was. We confidently set out to find our ancestral home.

My older sister Anne was in the lead when we came around a winding bend to a two-story church. It was a small white church capable of holding mass for not more than 75 parishioners. A metal cross on a concrete pedestal stood in front and to the left of the churches’ two varnished wooden doors. The cross was metal, four feet high and raised a further three feet by the pedestal.

The map indicated Via Costa was near the church. We searched for Via Costa, but we could not find a street sign with the name. Finally, Anne asked an elderly woman coming out of the church where Via Costa was.

The woman confirmed we were in the right location. She pointed to the narrow alleyway just to the right of the church.

The alleyway was narrow, 2/3 the width of a car. We approached the alley and looked at the first green door. It had a white #3 painted next to it, the same address we had on our envelope.
On a brass plate besides an intercom there were the engraved letters “FAM. MARTINO F.”

“Look,” my sister said. “Martinos!”

Above the door, on the second floor, of the two-story row house, there was a woman wearing a red blouse. She had long black hair and was putting out laundry.

She looked strangely at this group of unusual tourists at her door carrying cameras and a huge fold out map.

My sister looked up at this potentially long lost cousin and asked “Martino?”

“Martino, Si,” she said.

Anne pointed back to herself. “Martino,” she said.

The woman in red looked even more baffled than before. She put down the laundry she was hanging and came downstairs to the door.

It was then that we showed her the pictures that had been sent to my great grandfather 37 years before. She recognized the faces. It was then that she understood who we were.
“Martino!!!!” she said and gave us all hugs and kisses.

What followed is hard to believe, an unbelievable reception of love and warmth.

We were to discover the woman who had been hanging out the clothes was named Katina. She was the wife of Francesco Martino, hence the F. Martino on the door plaque.

Francesco still lives in one half of the original house where my great grandfather was born. In the other half his father, Pasquale, and mother Isabella Martino still live.

Pasquale Martino is the son of Domenico Martino, the brother of my grandfather, who had sent the letter and the pictures that helped us find the address. Katina recognized immediately faces in the pictures we had brought. Many of the pictures were of her mother and father in-law and of her husband when he was very young.

She immediately took us next door, where we were able to meet Isabella, her mother in- law.
No one in San Giovanni in Fiori except for the front desk clerk at Dino’s hotel was able to speak much English. I had taken one semester of Italian while I was in college and with several years of Latin was able to make myself understood, barely.

Katina and Isabella were overjoyed by our arrival. In the small kitchen of the original house Isabella sat on a chair next to a couch. She quickly ushered each of us over so she could hug and kiss us on the check. She then talked quickly and excitedly in Italian, beaming with a gigantic smile. We understood nothing that she said.

Katina started making telephone calls. In minutes more Martino’s started to arrive. First her strong husband, Francesco, a 39 year old farmer who shockingly looked like my brother. Then Luigi Martino who lived down the street. Finally, Rosina Martino, Pasquale’s sister and her daughter Maria.

Everyone wanted to see our pictures, understand just who we were and learn about the lost branch of the Martinos who lived in America and whom they had not heard from in 100 years.
With the arrival of each new cousin there were more hugs, kisses and smiles. Everyone was happy. And we got more confused as to who was who and how we were related.

It was my quick thinking sister who solved our communication difficulties. She ran outside up the street to ask in shops if anyone could speak English.

Not far from the house, she found a flower shop. The owner did not speak English but her husband did. The owner called him and had him report for translation duty.

His name was Tony Ragario. He turned out to be good friends with Francesco. He came to the house with Anne and with our deep gratitude was able to explain to all the history of our family, how our great grandfather had left, where he had worked where his children now lived and why we had returned.

From a simple knock on the door, we had started a wave of love and welcome. We were immediately brought into the care of our cousins. For five straight days, during our visit, we were introduced to more Martino’s than we could keep track of. We were ushered into our cousins’ homes to share celebratory shots of rum, served home cooked meals and given tours of the town, surrounding towns, the countryside and all the farms our relatives still run.

We learned about our ancestors, filling in blank spaces on the family tree. We learned the history of San Giovanni, toured its churches and what was a medieval monastery.

Most importantly for me, I felt like I got in touch with who my great grandfather was by seeing my cousins’ farms. I understood seeing the land why he might have left. I understood how it would have been difficult to farm in the mountains. I learned he would have grown olives and raised sheep, goats and cows.

One evening, on the third night of our visit, a huge celebration was organized. Fifty five cousins came to meet us. They clapped and cheered when we arrived at the restaurant. My father, sister and I were all deeply moved. We had come home. We had found our Italian roots.
On that evening I felt complete. I now know who my ancestors were, who my relatives are. I now know who I am.

Venice

After our fantastic visit with our cousins in Italy, my sister went to Paris for business and I traveled with my father back to Rome.

My father flew home and I went on to visit Venice.

I did not bike there but rather took the train. I had cycled enough. Taking the train was faster.
It was not very much of a fun trip by train. Because of my bicycle, I was not allowed to ride the high-speed or inter-city trains. I had to take much slower and less direct local trains, which had room to store a bicycle.

On the way to Venice, I ended up getting stranded in Bologna at midnight. The final train I needed didn’t leave until 5:00 a.m. There was no sense in trying to find a hotel, so I sacked out in the train station and spent a miserable five hours trying to sleep on a concrete floor.

The hard night’s sleep was made all the worth while when I got to Venice.

Venice is for children, dreamers and lovers, a city on water that defies the waves.

Paris and Rome are magnificent cities of beauty where one can amble and roam for days gawking at the beauty of the churches, public squares, and majestic fountains. In Venice the affect is double with its maze of canals and connecting bridges.

Venice’s magic is its water, water which brings peace and calm. It is the reflection on the water of evening lights lightly dancing. The bridges which gracefully cross it. The light splash of a gondoliers’ oars that makes us fall in love with this maiden on the sea.

I fell in love with Venice, as I had when I first saw Paris and Rome. But I must say Venice is almost too fairyland, too Disney that it does not seem real. It does not seem to me to be a living city with both rich and poor and blue collar and white collar workers.

It is not a very large place. Space is at a premium so it is thus astronomically expensive. The city felt out of balance, like a Monaco where every person lucky enough to claim residence is rich. I felt like it had simply become a playground for tourists and the rich. But a wonderfully beautiful playground indeed.

Slovenia

“Thank you so much for coming to visit Slovenia. I hope you enjoy our country,” the ticket agent at the small train station in Kooper told me in fluent English after having bought my ticket to the Slovenian capital of Ljubljana.

It was a shock to be welcomed, wanted and spoken to in fluent English.

Italy is overrun with tourists. Few Italians bother to learn English or to speak it. Being so overrun they can at times seem aloof.

The ticket agent was not the only person I found to be warm and welcoming. I found Slovenia to be an extremely friendly and beautiful country.

I went to Slovenia after leaving Venice. Slovenia sits on Italy’s northeast border. It also abuts the Alps and shares a border with Austria and Hungry and Croatia. It was once part of Yugoslavia.

It is a prosperous country and is doing well as part of the European Union.

It is a bit of an undiscovered gem. While most American tourists when they think about going to Europe travel to England, Germany, France and Italy they really miss out on a country like Slovenia which might not have many grand cathedrals or masters in their museums but more than makes up for it with natural beauty.

Four major European geographic regions meet in Slovenia: the Alps, the Dinarides, the Pannonian plain and the Mediterranean. The country is thus majestic mountains, bucolic farmland and graceful seaside all rolled into one.

Around half of Slovenia is covered by forests. This makes Slovenia the third most forested country in Europe, after Finland and Sweden. That is a bit shocking when you consider Slovenia is only about the size of Massachusetts. It bodes well however for nature lovers who want to explore an Alpine lake or wander through the European countryside.

I went to Slovenia to visit my friend Matjaz Medvesek, or Medo for short. We had studied Chinese together in Taiwan.

From Venice, I took a train to Trieste near the Slovenian border. I had been told to go to Trieste by a train official in Venice.

My plan was to bike across the border and then get another train to the Slovenian capital of Ljubljana. From Venice, there was only one direct train to the Slovenian capital, so I thought this method was perhaps better than waiting all day for that one train.

It didn’t quite work out as being more efficient. The Italian train official had not given me accurate information. After crossing the border near Trieste, there was no train on the Slovenian side. I had to bike another 25 kilometers to get to Kooper, which had a train station. My misadventure took up most of the day.

It was great to see Medo who I had not seen in nearly two years. He works now for Slovenian state television in the video control room.

Europeans really have it good. Medo works all of 14 days a month. In the summer, when he is needed less, he works just 7 days a month.

He was gracious to schedule his off days around my arrival. Medo took me literally all over Slovenia. Don’t forget it only takes four to five hours to get from the farthest eastern part of the country to the farthest western part of the country.

Medo took me to see a fascinating cave with more than 20 kilometers of tunnels. We also went to see Bled a picturesque alpine lake with white capped mountains as a backdrop and an island in the center with a church perched dead center. The lake looked like a picture perfect postcard used for impossible 5,000 piece puzzles.

Slovenia was the 29th country I have visited or lived in. I have seen much of the world, but looking at a map it seems like I have covered so little ground.

There are 194 countries in the world if you count the Vatican and Taiwan as countries. If you consider countries as a proxy for the world as a whole, I have seen only 15% of the Earth. I have never been to Africa, South America, Australia or Antarctica. These are entire continents!

It humbles me to realize I could keep going until the day I died and still not see it all, experience it all.

I love to travel. I love to see the world with my own eyes. But for now I am satisfied. While I was young I can say I did it. I traveled and saw what I wanted see and saw it the way I wanted to see it. Now I am tired.

There is only so long one can live out of a backpack, keep riding bicycles or motorbikes, sleep in tents and eat dinner alone.

It was time to come home.

The days of my big grand and crazy adventures are now over, but I will always enjoy traveling. Travel is like Thanksgiving dinner. You can stuff and stuff and stuff yourself enjoying every bite to the point you wouldn’t dare eat a mint wafer, but wait an hour and there will always be more room for pumpkin pie.


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