italian info

The breadth and scope of the generosity and hospitality showered on us by the Italian people was incredible. We were received with open arms by proprietors of restaurants (Michelle at Michelle’s Place and Friends in Lucca), waiters (Gigi at D’Oliviera’s in Viareggio), landladies (Maria Etrusca and Maria Bandoni of Marlia), colleagues at the University of Pisa (especially Irene Giorgi and Giuliana Biagi) and graduate students (Antonio Nardi, Elisabetta Mantuano and Michele Leonardi) who opened their hearts, homes, families and home cooking to us.

A number of humorous incidences on sabbatical are listed below:

a. The owner of a computer store called us blind and stupid, see page 40.

b. An overly protective waitress as described on page 136-137.

c. A greeting to Professor Scartoni in the morning with buon giorno Professor Scarponi [good morning Professor old boots]. See page 214.

e. An encounter with Oreste Testa, see pages 213- 232.

d. Trying to explain “Dean” to the faculty at the University of Pisa. See page 254.

There were unpleasant events too. These include:

a. An ugly experience at the questura in Lucca, see pages 29 and 30.

b. My fine of 40 euros on a bus from Marlia to Lucca, see pages 205-206.

The magnificent religious art work of Italy is ubiquitous. I lost count of the renditions of Mary and Child, John the Baptist, the Crucifixion and Martyrdom of the Saints displayed throughout Italy. The early artists, not only left us with beauty to be admired for the ages, but spread the gospels in a time when illiteracy prevailed.

We were blessed to enjoy Italian cuisine daily. Italian cuisine with its origins in rural areas of Italy is now famous throughout the world.

My parents were born in the region of Italy known as Abruzzo, an area in central Italy that extends from the Adriatic Ocean, its sandy beaches and tiny fishing villages, on the east to mountainous terrain, 60 miles from Rome, on the west. Abruzzo offers a landscape of hills, valleys, pastures and high mountainous terrain. Centuries ago, this picturesque scene furnished the background for the Transumanza, the migration of sheep from the highlands to lowlands prior to winter, and from lowlands to highlands before summer.

Castel Castagna, originally named “Castrum Castanee,” was the birthplace of my father. My father was born an orphan and raised from infancy by Giulietta and Simeone Ugo Salerni. Later, my father would name his first born American son, Simeone Ugo.

Castel Castagna is a small medieval village of approximately 550 inhabitants located on a hill that presents a breathtaking view of the Gran Sasso mountain, part of the Apennines range that traverses all of Italy. Both locals and visitors to Castel Castagna say that the Gran Sasso Mountain appears to be ‘almost’ embraceable from their vantage point.

The center of the historical village is famous for excellent cured meats and pecorino cheeses. Yes, this is the same cheese our Abruzzo relatives would routinely send us in Bolivar, Pennsylvania. The arrival of this cheese at the post office was sure to precipitate a phone call from postmaster, Henry Byers, “Come and pick up your stinky cheese!”

A few kilometers from the center of town, lays the church, Santa Maria di Ronzano, a most impressive edifice, a jewel of the 12th century, and the site of my parents wedding. See page 122 for several photos. Today, Santa Maria di Ronzano is a popular site for weddings. Reservations must be made months in advance. The church is home to the Byzantine cross, a gift from Emperor Constantine’s sister. See page 107.

Ronzano, another tiny mountain top hamlet, located approximately 1.5 kilometers from Castel Castagna, was the birthplace of my mother. My mother was the sixth and last born child of Anselmo and Mariausania Antonacci. Both my mother and her brother Donato, the fifth born, broke the chain of illiteracy of the offspring’s of Anselmo and Mariausania Antonacci.

Ronzano currently boasts a population of 25. My cousin, Anselmo Antonacci, and his wife Carolina are two of them, living in the house my mother was born.

Done by

Roberto Pedroza