Salon Wanderlust | Mondo Weirdo

Your money's no good here
By Tim Cahill
Travels in a cashless culture
Fantasy isle
By Stephen G. Bloom
You can vacation with Oprah, Demi and Arnold -- for a price
D E P A R T M E N T S
The Surreal Gourmet
By Bob Blumer
Champagne taste on a McDonald's budget
Mondo Weirdo
Searching for roots at the bottom of the boot
Road Warrior
Business travel & beyond
Table Talk
Is there too much testosterone blowing around the windy city? Join the "Chicago: Ease up on the Testosterone" discussion in the Wanderlust area of Table Talk.

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Your virtual travel agency

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LA S T+W E E K
Tuesday, Oct. 21, 1997

Women's dilemma
By Dawn MacKeen
Is solo travel worth the risk?
A full list of all
Wanderlust articles

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[Mondo Weirdo: Searching for roots at the bottom of the boot]

S E A R C H I N G+F O R+R O O T S
at the bottom of the boot
This week Mondo Weirdo presents the tale of a far-flung quest for family in southern Italy. Do you have an amazing travel tale to tell? We'd love to hear from you! Send your story to us at wanderlust@salonmagazine.com.
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Searching for roots at the bottom of the boot
San Donato di Ninea is not on any map. That's not because it doesn't exist; it does. It's just so small that even the Italians have never heard of it. In the 1920s, my father emigrated to America from San Donato and never returned. In 1973, my wife and I decided to spend three months in Europe on a student travel bargain; while we were there we decided that we would go south from Rome to San Donato to see our unknown cousins. We didn't know exactly where it was, only that it was "north of Cosenza someplace." No, it wouldn't be hard to find. After all, we had a letter from my father to his cousins. We could show people that letter -- surely they'd help us find our cousins!
By train we traveled along the western coast for two days into the most southern part of Italy and disembarked in Calabria, at the town of Belvedere di Marittimo. That's "Belvedere on the ocean side" to distinguish it from Belvedere proper, which was on the uphill side. My wife and I were dressed in hippie-casual, which had metamorphosed into hippie poverty-stricken after days of travel. This appearance of penury was, unbeknownst to us, the only thing we had in our favor. The villainous-looking taxi drivers of Belvedere took one look and spontaneously took pity on us. One stepped forward and offered us his cab after we had explained -- as much as we could without speaking Italian -- our situation and showed him the magical letter.
We embarked on a wild ride over the Appenines in search of San Donato di Ninea. Two days of travel on Italian trains had made my wife quite ill, and our cab ride on the twisting roads of the high Appenines was interrupted by her having to get out and throw up on the side of the road. I was frantic. What an idiot I'd been to drag her into this situation -- you can imagine my thoughts. We came down the eastern side of the Appenines into a small town, and after the cab driver asked a few questions, a local man appeared, read the letter and then dismissed us with a curt shake of his head. Our cousins were unknown in that part of Italy. The cab ride continued until late afternoon, when we pulled up into the main square of another tiny town.
A crowd quickly formed while the cab driver presented our letter to some local worthy who was wearing -- I know it's hard to believe -- a yachting cap with a gold braid on it. We waited while a long conversation between the cab driver and the sailor ensued.
The crowd was saying (we now realize):
"Where are they from?"
"America."
"Oh! America!" Then doubtfully, "They don't look very prosperous."
"The wife is sick."
"Yes, the husband's a fool, like all husbands."
Soon the cab driver went to the trunk of his cab, put our luggage on the ground and drove away! The sailor made placating motions with his hands and then said, "You wait, it's OK." We had some money, so I thought we could find a place to spend the night and then catch the train back to Rome the next day.
It was almost pitch dark now. My thirst for adventure was quenched, I can tell you.
Then, from out of the darkness, a woman appeared. She said a few words to the sailor and then, without one word to us, seized our luggage in both hands and walked off with it into the dark! The sailor said to us, "It's OK, you go with her." So we followed her up a steep street, up large stairs, and when we reached the top, we were ushered into the living room of a pleasant, well-lighted home. There were several other adults there. We had no idea who any of these people were or why we had been brought there. They didn't speak English; we didn't speak Italian (although by that point I don't think I spoke English either). We were given a polite but noncommittal greeting; a pack of photographs was placed into my hands. I thought, "They want to show me their photographs. How quaint! Better play along."
I idly leafed through the photos of strange Italians I had never seen. The last photograph was a picture of my father and mother and me in our backyard at home. In the photo I looked about 12 years old. I jerked my head up and stared at my cousins with wild surprise -- and they broke out the liqueurs.
--Robert Consoli
SALON | Oct. 28, 1997
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How about you? Do you have a weird travel tale to share? Send it to wanderlust@salonmagazine.com. And join our Table Talk discussion on travel and food.