By Sophia Shidlovsky
19th Annual Bronze Solas Award-winner in the Adventure Travel category
“We see you opted to for an automatic car, so we ensured we had one readily available for you”
I closed my eyes and exhaled a little sigh of relief.
It was one of the many things I was worried about when I woke up that morning. With my luck, they’d give me a stick shift and I’d be completely screwed. The alternate option would be to take 2 trains and a bus up the Italian mountain. Better off walking at that point.
“And, sorry, we are giving you quite a big car.”
“No worries. I’m used to driving something a bit bigger in the U.S anyway.” I said.
The rental car employee smiled softly. Typical American.
For years, I would sit in my Nonna’s living room and admire the black and white family picture placed on her coffee table. I didn’t know anyone in the photo other than my great-great-grandmother, smiling proudly, surrounded by her brothers, sisters, aunts, and uncles. It was one of her last visits to Italy before she passed away.
I would always ask, “Are we really related to these people?” And after nodding her head yes, my Nonna would always say, “I just would like someone in this family to go see Santo Stefano, where we are from. My mother, my father, and my husband all went. I want someone to go for me.”
Earlier this year, while planning my European holiday, my Nonna’s request echoed in my head, and I decided to extend my trip to fulfill her wish. But when the time finally came to head to Italy, I felt as if I was never going to make it.
My connection from Amsterdam kept getting delayed, and while trying to pass the time at the airport, my debit card got eaten by the ATM, my back grew sore from the heavy pack I carried, and I shelled out 8 euros for a little pen.
“Seems like this last leg of my trip is going to be a pricey one,” I growled as I grabbed the pen from the store clerk and shoved it snug in my purse, ensuring I would not lose it anytime soon.
As my flight departure time kept getting pushed to later and later, I started to think the unfortunate events were a bad omen for the trip ahead. Eventually, the plane finally delivered me to Genoa at 1 A.M and I spent the whole night tossing and turning in my hostel bed. It seemed like I had just closed my eyes when my alarm rang at 7 A.M.
When I did finally retrieve my rental car, I was excited, as it seemed my “bad omens” had been flushed.
I was wrong.
It was only two minutes into my drive when I decided to open the sunroof, letting last night’s rain flood onto my lap and phone as I pulled into traffic, prompting sudden braking, drivers honking and yelling in Italian.
Getting out of the city in one piece was an absolute relief, and I began to embark on the two-hour drive up the winding roads of lush green Genoese countryside. As I zigzagged up the mountain, the little towns I drove through grew less and less, and the mountainside vineyards and oxen began to take more population.
Finally, I approached Santo Stefano D’aveto. It looked even smaller in person, and at this particular moment, very empty. There was no one in the streets, and all stores were shut.
“What kind of ghost town is this?” I thought to myself as I slowed through the town.
My phone notified me that ahead was my final destination, so I pulled into a small parking lot.
It was strangely quiet, and I felt raindrops graze my forehead as I unloaded my bags and stared at the desolate apartment complex before me.
“Another bad omen perhaps?” I wondered.
I pulled out my WhatsApp and messaged the Airbnb host as directed. After some trial and error—showing him on video call where I was and pointing at every single lockbox until he said “Si”—I retrieved the keys. I unlatched the bulky entrance door and continued down the dark, damp hallway. The echo of my footsteps sent chills up my spine, and I knew at that moment I was the only person in the entire building. I started to question myself: Was I in over my head coming here alone?
I arrived at the door and hesitated as I unbolted the old lock, unsure what I was about to uncover, then pushed it open to reveal a beautiful, quaint kitchen and living room with wooden furniture and carvings that decorated the wall. I placed my things down in the spare bedroom and smiled, crossing my arms adoringly, admiring all the tiny details of the cozy home. I opened the heavy wooden doors that guarded the back patio to beam in some light that was breaking from the clouds and discovered a beautiful view of the town below, along with the mountains in the distance. I took another deep breath; maybe the next 24 hours wouldn’t be so bad.
I walked to the main town and veered towards the church. Before I left for Europe, my Nonna and I went through old pictures she had, including beautiful Polaroids of her mother in front of this church. I paused before it, noting that it looked exactly the same.
I crept my way into the chapel that smelled like a mixture of Holy water and rain and circled the large room, trying to witness every single detail and imagine how my relatives prayed here. I stared at a large icon of Mary against the wall, an image that looked familiar. I took out my phone and pulled up a picture of my great-grandmother, kneeling in front of the same icon in 1970. After all these years, this church, these icons, this town, had seemed to have frozen in time.
Adjacent to the church was the cemetery. I promised my Nonna I would take pictures of our relatives’ graves and had even printed out the big family photo that adorned my Nonna’s coffee table for all those years so I could easily identify people. To my disappointment, the cemetery was gated shut and I couldn’t seem to unlock it. I twisted my neck to try and look beyond the wrought-iron gates to see if there was a groundskeeper that could help me, but there wasn’t. Tomorrow morning I will come here before I leave, I thought.
I continued into town where I was surrounded by beautiful, brightly colored homes. Only faint sounds of the flowing river and the occasional workmen drilling in the distance were my company. I went from shop window to window and read the same message, “Aberto 11-13:00 e 16:00-18:00”. I checked my phone time; it was 3 PM and everyone seemed to be deep in their afternoon nap.
I walked aimlessly for a while; the town was so small it was really hard to get lost and explore. My stomach began to growl, but I ignored it and sat along the river, enjoying the quiet while a group of old men played bocce ball in the distance. I was alone, but I felt another presence with me. I wasn’t sure what the feeling was, but it spooked me enough to continue on, hoping it wasn’t another bad omen, and focused on finding some food.
I continued my walk past my apartment up a very steep hill in hopes of finding a place to eat. I made it up the hill, profusely sweating, and did not find anything that resembled a restaurant.
Disappointed, I turned to head back to the flat when I noticed a bar at the end of the row of shops with the lights on. I peeked in the window, only to see one lady sitting inside, and I looked at the business hours to ensure that the bar was open. For a moment, I bit my lip and idled, unsure of whether to enter. Finally, I decided that this really was my only shot at some sort of food, or at least a drink.
The little bell chimed as I emerged from the street, and the lady I saw through the window got up behind the counter. I muttered in Italian, “Are you open?” to which she responded,“Yes, what would you like?”
I panicked. From a quick observation, I could tell there was no food at this establishment at this particular moment. My stomach was rumbling, but I decided not to be rude.
“Glass of wine and a bottle of water please,” I smiled
She nodded and continued to speak to me in Italian. I didn’t know what she said, so I politely responded,
“I’m sorry, I don’t speak Italian very well”.
I saw the surprise on her face, but she quickly masked her expression with understanding and pointed at a table for me to sit at as she disappeared behind the bar.
It was a place with eight sturdy wooden tables lined with light yellow tablecloths and small white flowers perched on them. The decor along the walls was similar to the apartment with all the wooden carvings, cuckoo clocks and retro images of people skiing in the winter, and camping in the summer.
The bar lady reappeared with my bottle of water and glass of wine, I thanked her and enjoyed my refreshments quietly. As I sipped away, I pulled out the folder with all the information about my family I had collected before my journey and began to review.
I kept looking at the coffee table family picture I printed out. My Nonna confirmed that this picture was taken in Santo Stefano, but these last few hours of walking around, I couldn’t pinpoint where it was taken. I had another picture my Nonna gave me; it was of her mother and her husband when they visited Santo Stefano in a beautiful field overlooking the town. My Nonna requested that I find where they were to take a picture, but again, I walked around town all day and couldn’t find it.
I gazed at the photo, then looked up at the bar maid sitting at the table adjacent to me, reviewing some paperwork. I wondered if I should ask her about this picture; maybe she knew where it was taken. I contemplated the idea for a moment, then typed out exactly what I was going to say (and recited it multiple times in Italian in my head) before I mustered up the courage to confront her.
The interaction went something like this:
“Hi, my name is Sophie. I’m 24 and I’m from the U.S. and this is my family. My great-great grandmother was born here and this is her and her family. I was wondering if you knew where this photo was taken?”
I handed her the photo and pointed at my great grandmother, saying, “mi tre-nonna e su fratellos e sorellas” which means, my great-great-grandmother with her brothers and sisters.
Immediately, she was intrigued and asked me questions about where my great grandmother lived and when she came to America. Then she picked up her phone and before I knew it, her dad, mom, and then the owner of the general store shuffled in, glasses on, crowded around my family picture, typing their questions into the translator app.
After some conversations, the barmaid typed into Google translate:
“Okay, there is someone who lives here that can help you with your photo and he can also take you to a relative that is still alive. He cannot today, but he can tomorrow. Can you come to the general store tomorrow and he will help you find your family?”
I started laughing hysterically in disbelief and agreed to come to meet the next day. At this point I had finished my glass of wine and was in a better mood. It was 5 o’clock and I realized that I needed to find some food to hold me over before I figuring out where to eat for dinner. I paid for my wine, aasked her, “Where can I eat dinner in town tonight?”.
She smiled and said, “Most places are shut since it’s not summer yet. We serve dinner here. Come back at 8 and you will eat here.”
My face lit up in gratitude and I agreed I’d see her in a few hours. Before departing, I turned and asked her,
“What is your name?”
“Manuela,” she smiled.
With a pep in my step, I headed down to the town grocery store where I bought some fresh focaccia, salami, and cheese that had my mouth watering by the time I got back to the apartment. While indulging in my food, I kept thinking about what just occurred. Was I really going to meet some long lost relatives?
Later that evening, I ventured back up to the bar and was greeted by Manuela, who sat me by the warm wood fire oven in the corner. It was mid-April and the nights were still quite cold and being next to the fire was so comforting.
While I was finishing up my meal, Manuela approached me and said, “I won’t be here tomorrow morning, but please remember to go next door, she will bring you to Christoforo and help you find your family.” I gave her a big hug and I thanked her. As I walked back to the apartment, a wave of sadness hit me, knowing that this first goodbye was the first of many on this trip.
That night, I crawled into bed, bundled up under the covers and fell asleep quickly. At that moment I was all alone, but not scared, I was excited for the adventure that was tomorrow.
I woke up the next morning anxious for my day to begin. By 8:40, I had packed all my things into the car and locked up the apartment. I noticed how the weather had completely changed from the day before. When I arrived, it was cloudy, rainy, and cold. When I awoke in the morning it was clear and warm. You could vividly see the mountains that surrounded the town and all the homes’ bright colors popped against the royal blue skies. I smiled as I admired the environment while I ascended the hill one last time. “A good omen,” I thought to myself.
I made it to the general store as instructed and was greeted by the lady that came to the bar the day before. She was with a customer when I entered so while I waited, I enjoyed admiring all the obscurities and items she had for sale in her little shop — everything from salami to plungers.
Soon the front door chimed and I was face to face with a girl, probably my age, with short brown hair and round glasses. I was relieved for a moment, finally someone young, someone who probably spoke a little bit of English. I felt hope flush into my face; though I wasn’t hopeless before, it would be nice to have someone tell me what exactly was going on so I didn’t have to decode things myself.
She greeted the woman, who then explained who I was and who I needed to meet. She turned and looked at me, somewhat puzzled, and pulled out her phone.
She typed into Google translate, “I don’t speak English so we can use this. There is someone in town that can help you find your family. Would you like to go see them?”
Though the relief within me vanished, I smiled and said, “Si.”
“Okay let’s go, I will drive you to them”.
I gave the shop lady a big hug, thanked her, and followed the girl to her little blue Volkswagen. She was laughing as she typed google translate,
“Are you sure you want to do this? Do you trust us?”
I paused for a second. No one was going to pop out with a knife and murder me, I slept through the night fine, I drove up here in one piece, I had everything going for me at this moment.
I chuckled, “Si.”
Since we were driving, my prediction was whoever she was taking me to didn’t live in the immediate town. I was admiring the shining sun as we drove past my parked rental car and curved down the hill, curious to know what the next few hours would entail. Then suddenly, she parked the car and got out. I blinked with confusion and checked the time. We only went down the hill; why didn’t we just walk? I quickly got out of the car to catch up and realized we were right below the apartment I was staying in.
Two older men emerged from the bright yellow building, probably in their late 60s, with little bellies, glasses, and wearing button down shirts with jeans. Their names were Cristoforo and Giovanni, brothers born and raised in Santo Stefano. They quizzically approached the girl and I, and started asking questions, and soon enough, the girl was telling them who I was and why I was there. On cue, I took out my family pictures.
The men were talking back and forth, passing the picture to each other, sitting on the bench with their glasses trying to make out faces, adjusting their grip and how the sun hit the picture so they could see.
Giovanni, who was younger, was a school teacher and was able to roughly communicate with me in English. As they continued asking me questions in Italian and broken English, the granddaughter said her goodbye and I was left with these two quirky men.
“Have you been to the cemetery?” asked Giovanni
“No, when I went yesterday, it was closed,” I explained.
“It’s never really closed. Let’s go, we will take you,” chimed Crisoforo.
As we walked to the car, Giovanni stopped and asked me, “How did you get here?”
“I rented a car from Genoa.”
Surprised, he continued, “You drove here?”
“Si.”
The men looked at each other, impressed. Was I not supposed to drive here?
Giovanni continued, “A lot of people have a hard time finding this place.”
Interesting, I thought to myself. Was this place hard to find, or do people not know about it yet?
I followed them to Giovanni’s Jeep, chuckling to myself as you could see the cemetery from the front patio of their building. The 30 second drive was comical.
We approached the church, which looked even more beautiful in direct sunlight, and walked towards the cemetery. The gate was shut like it was yesterday, and I doubted it would open, but to my surprise all Giovanni did was pull it towards him and it unlocked. I laughed to myself and entered behind them.
It wasn’t a cemetery that I was accustomed to; it was bordered with four walls of mausoleums with a small patch of grass with traditional tombstones in the center. I admired how beautifully kept the grounds were, remembering the photos my Nonna showed me of her mother here.
Givoanni and Christoforo paced up and down the mausoleum walls, stopping and pointing at tomb stones, and motioning me to come over. Each cell had a picture of the deceased that laid inside, which made identifying the people in my family picture easy. I winced, wishing I had a pen to write all these names down when I suddenly began frantically digging through my purse, fishing out the overpriced pen I growled over in the Amsterdam airport. I guess it was worth the 8 euro after all.
Now I too was running around the cemetery, following Giovanni and Cris, writing down every name, date and any other information I could understand from them. Soon the picture of strangers that I knew for so many years began to fill with names, birth dates, ages and professions. With some help, I was able to put names to faces of people we have looked at for so many years and grant my Nonna the wish.
After we finished in the cemetery, the men took me back into the church to look around. I stepped outside after, waiting for Giovanni and Cris to catch up, I couldn’t help but notice the little town was more lively this morning.
“Now,” Giovanni said while taking my family picture.
“This man here, Bonifaccio,” he pointed, “he is still alive, he and his wife live here. Would you like to go see them?”
Without hesitation, we piled on into the Jeep and drove 2 minutes across town. We parked and walked up a dirt road that led to a beautiful home overlooking the little village. I walked more into the front yard , taking in the magnificent view of the town, when it clicked. I pulled out my phone and went through the old pictures of my great-grandmother in Italy. And there it was: her and her husband, in a big yard overlooking a village. It was the yard I was standing in.
Chatter behind me prompted me to turn, and the men motioned me over to meet Angela. She had short white hair, gray trousers and a pull over with a scarf. It was about 12 o clock, so she had probably been doing chores all morning. I guessed that she was probably 85 years old and I was impressed by how well she moved.
Giovanni introduced me and showed her the picture of my family, pointed to my great-great grandmother, and explained who I was. The introduction took a bit of a tangent so for a moment I tuned out and began to admire the property. It was a beautiful home, big with stone slate on the outside accompanied by a flowering pear tree that sat as tall as the house.
An excited cry from Angela caused me to whip my head back, where she wasted no time taking my hand and leading me down the yard to one of the work sheds. She rushed in, her cane firmly guiding her, alerting whoever was inside to come out immediately. Soon, an older gentleman emerged.
He was taller than her, but not by much, and was wearing a bright blue “Italia” hat paired with his pale blue trousers and zip up jacket. He wore glasses and I could immediately tell he was blind in one eye.
Angela showed the man the picture, explaining to him who I was as she explained I could tell he was trying to decipher who I was and what I was doing in his town, let alone in their home. Angela held up the family picture I had gripped so tightly this entire trip and her husband smiled and reached to hug me.
Was this man my family?
Givoanni sensed my confusion and explained to me that this was Bonifaccio, the nephew of my great-great grandmother.
I embraced Bonifaccio and then Angela again, grinning ear to ear. To think that my goal yesterday was to take some pictures of the graves and call it a day. Never in my wildest imagination did I think I would actually meet my blood relatives.
For a moment we all just stood there, looking at each other in awe. Then Angela smiled, took my hand, and led me back up the stairs with the men to follow.
She was so ecstatic to show me the inside of their home, pictures of their children and grandchildren, and brought me down to their kitchen to enjoy an espresso together.
I showed them pictures of my extended family, and they recognized my great-grandmother. They even informed me that when she came to Italy to visit, they stayed with them. They were some of the only ones still living in Santo Stefano and told me that the house they lived in now was the home of where my great-great-grandmother was born.
We continued to chat for a few minutes, and as we finished our espresso, I shyly asked to take a picture with the both of them before Giovanni, Cris, and I left.
We sat under the blossoming tree that overlooked the quaint town. I couldn’t believe all of this had just come within my fingertips. They were chattering in Italian, but it was muffled as I stared off into the distance. In the span of 24 hours, my luck had completely changed. Not only was I able to visit my deceased relatives, but was able to meet living ones.
Amid my reflection, Angela grabbed my hand, looked at me, and said, “When you come back, you come here. You will always have someone here for you.” She looked at me deeply and squeezed me tightly, as if it wasn’t a wish but an order.
We took a few photos sitting under that glorious tree and said goodbye. I wished that I had more time, but I remembered my rental car was due at the end of the day back in Genoa and I eventually had to hop on the plane back to the U.S. I hugged and kissed Bonifaccio and Angela goodbye, and promised I would return. As we walked to the car, I turned around one last time to take in the warm Italian sun shining on two beautiful people sitting under their pear tree. I teared up at such a beautiful sight it was, took a deep breath, and returned to the car.
In the final hours of the afternoon, Giovanni and Cris proudly showed me their homes and treated me to a proper Italian lunch at the local restaurant. It’s funny how though we didn’t speak each other’s languages fluently, I knew what they were saying to me, and we enjoyed each other’s company regardless. After six joyful hours, and what felt like a lifetime, they dropped me off at my rental car, and we said our final goodbyes.
I approached my rental car, took a deep breath, and let out another one of those hysterical laughs and nodded my head in disbelief. Did today really just happen?
I began my drive back to Genoa, letting the cool mountain air flow through my windows. I passed the yellow apartment, the beautiful church, and the town overlook that faced the valley. As I exited Santo Stefano, tears began to swell into my eyes. Not because of sadness, but because I could feel my great-great grandmother, her brothers and sister, and her parents. They were all with me this whole time, guiding me and showing me the way, I just wasn’t paying attention.
I’ve realized that they have been with me my whole life. I just had to let them in.
~ ~ ~
Sophia Shidlovsky lives in Northern Virginia and loves to write and travel in her free time.