On finding family in Italy
More and more I have been making the most of my touring life and sticking around to explore the places that my work takes me. I usually get to spend my summers in Europe. Now, this sounds cool and, well, it is, but there is a lot of work and moving around. Most of the time, I am on a tour bus with the band and crew (12 of us in total, not including the driver) and we play a city and, overnight, move on to the next gig in the next town. I see a lot of parking lots and theaters usually, and after three shows, we get a day off to get some rest. For me, this is a chance to really dig in and explore and eat my way through the day.
This year’s European tour ended in Italy, and I was really excited to explore the country where both sides of my family are from. As a full-blooded Italian American kid (FBI), I have wanted to do this trip for as long as I can remember. And I DID!
The last show was a festival in the beach resort town of Rimini, on the Adriatic Sea. Rimini reminds me a bit of Myrtle Beach or the panhandle in Florida, with hotels and resorts, shopping and restaurants stretching for miles and miles as far as you can see – with the exception that this being Italy, all the food is amazing. Even the “tourist penne” is usually outstanding. As soon as the band is off stage, we all hop on the bus to go to the airport hotel in Bologna. After 41 days on tour, everyone is eager to get back home to the USA and see their families, and I am eager to get them all on a plane in the morning so I can start my journey to find mine!
I have been to Italy a few times over the years, passing through for a day or two in Milan, Rome and Torino. I have always felt that I belong, that these are my people. Every time I check into a hotel or flight in Italy, they read my name, look up and say “Marino? You Italian?” I guess I look it too, so I’m told!
After saying goodbye to everyone at the airport, I make my way to the Sixt rental car desk to get my car and map of Italy, with the idea that I will make my way south toward Naples, where I have always heard is where my paternal grandfather is from. Looking at the map, I immediately notice how close everything looks, and the closet city happens to be Florence. It’s only 90 minutes away! Having never been, I am quickly on my way. Using my favorite travel app, Hotel Tonight, I get a great deal at the beautiful NH Collection Firenze Porta Rossa hotel, right in the center of it all. At check-in, I find out it is said to be the oldest hotel in Italy.
Florence is as beautiful as I have been told over the years, and the entire town is like an outdoor museum. It is also full of tourists from all over the world, and I mean full of tourists everywhere and rightfully so. But I am not here for the famous sites.
Walking the streets, and grabbing an espresso and gelato suits me just fine as I explore the town. For dinner, I find a nice osteria where the owner is quite a character and sings as he serves up dinner. Steak is not usually associated with Italian food, but this is Tuscany, and all around town I notice lots of meat dry aging in restaurant windows. Bistecca alla orentina (steak Florentine) done right means it is from the Chianina breed of cow, one of the oldest in Italy and reportedly dating back to the Romans. It is grilled and served up sliced to the table. Some pasta, wine, panna cotta and an espresso round out a great dinner for my first time in Florence.
The next day is a walk across the Ponte Vecchio bridge and lunch at Trattoria Mamma Gina. This is the sister restaurant to Ristorante Mamma Gina in Palm Desert – I guess was missing home a bit.
Looking at my map to plan my next destination, I discover a small island a few hours away off the coast. Upon further investigation, Elba is in the Tuscan Archipelago, and the color of the water and the idea of a ferry ride confirm where I’m going today. Along the way is the medieval town of San Gimignano, which hotel staff told me I should check out. Italy is full of these small, picturesque villages. This one actually has a skyline of towers – from afar, they look like modern skyscrapers. Built in the 13th century, the walled city is again full of tourists and souvenir shops. A panini and a coffee, and I’m on my way!
I arrive within 15 minutes of the next ferry departure to Elba. Fifty euros for a one-way ticket and I drive the car on board for the one-hour crossing. The first thing I notice on the deck of the boat is how blue the water of theTyrrhenian seais – absolutely stunning.The other thing that stands out to me is that all the passengers going for holiday are Italians. This gives me a good feeling about my decision to come here.
Elba is where Napoleon was exiled for nine months,and as I drive around the island to my hotel, I wonder why anyone would ever leave this place. Rocky cliffs and blue and emerald colored bays and green trees, vineyards and olive trees rise up between the small towns that line the coast.
I pull into Marciana Marina for the night. An ancient port with a medieval tower that protects the bay is the backdrop as I stroll the cobblestone streets to dinner at Ristorante Salegrosso. Grilled octopus and bufala mozzarella strips, orange pesto gnocchi with clams, and fresh grilled tuna were outstanding.For dessert, I grab gelato at La Svolta, made fresh daily with the best ingredients.It was by far the best gelato I ever had. I even went back before lunch the next day before I left to the other side of the island.
I decide to stay another night at the Hotel Ilio in the small village Sant’Andrea, known for its excellent beach.This boutique hotel is a three-minute walk to the beach, and is surrounded by gardens and vineyards. They even have a suite on the beach in a separate house.The water is emerald green and crystal clear and the perfect temperature. Fighting the urge to hop on a ferry to go and explore, I stick to my plan and head to Rome the next day.
Driving into Rome sounds scary, even to me, but the fact that I would be arriving in the early evening and the success of my Google Maps app gave me the confidence. Piece of cake. The hotel is a 15-minute walk to the Trevi fountain so I go for it, and of course there are 3,000 people with selfie sticks at 9 at night. I quickly find a spot to grab a classic dish of Rome: cacio e pepe, which means cheese and pepper. Think of it as Roman mac and cheese. That and an appetizer tower of burrata, fried squash blossoms, prosciutto and melon and bruschetta, and my night in Rome is exactly what I want it to be.
The next morning, I am off to Naples. It is just as I imagined it from the pictures and paintings I have seen on countless placemats and walls of Italian restaurants I have been to all my life, with Mt. Vesuvius and Pompeii near the south end of the bay and the port and town of Naples on the north end. Pulling into town past the cruise ships and industrial docks, I can only think about my grandparents boarding a ship bound for America from here. It is quite simple to drive and find parking, a few roundabouts aside that is.
This is the center of the universe if you like pizza, and that is exactly what I go for first (and second and third). I am here to report that, yes, it is downright the best. Maybe it’s the water, the flour, the tomatoes – but it all works, and you can find it everywhere. For dinner, I do get some good, old-fashioned ragu, a meat sauce that is sometimes simmered for days, I’m told, to get that rich deep flavor and color. The food that inspired the Italian-American dishes we all grew up with hails from here, as well as a lot of the songs that Dean Martin, Frank Sinatra and the like would sing. I catch myself singing the tune “That’s Amore” as I walk around Naples. “When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie ....” you know!
After several calls to my mom, uncles and cousin Anthony back in the states, I now know where to go to find my grandfather’s village. About 90 minutes east of Naples, right in the middle of the region of Campania, is the very small and ancient village of Guardia Lombardi. It is set on the highest hilltop, surrounded by miles and miles of fields and farms. In the town square stands a plaque with information about the history – it turns out the Barbarians from north of Stockholm settled here around 600 A.D., and the name means “guardians with long beards.” So cool! One of my uncles once told me about our history, that we were big people that would protect to village of Sant’Angelo below. This was quite a surprise at the time, but it makes perfect sense now.
As I walk around the town, a guy follows me and asks where I’m from. Well, his name is Michelangelo, an art dealer from Milan, and his grandfather is from this village, too. I tell him I am supposed to look for Via Maiorano – which is my real last name that my Grampa later changed to Marino at Ellis Island because it was easier to spell – and to ask for Francesco, a relative. Micky, as I call him, asks his friend if he knows where this is, and just like that, they offer to take me there. What are the chances?
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