In the melting pot of America, all of us came from somewhere.
That means that the history and culture of a far off place might be so deeply rooted in our consciousness that we aren’t even aware of it – until we travel. For Americans with roots in Europe, crossing the pond for the first time is a life altering experience. Even if you didn’t book the trip searching for your heritage, you wind up looking for it. It can be almost infectious wondering if your grandfather walked the same streets, had a drink at the same pub, possibly lived in an apartment nearby?
Coastal town of Vasto, Abruzzo, Italy
For me, this connection is to Italy. My mother has direct Italian connections – she grew up with a grandmother who didn’t speak a word of English and would watch Sesame Street with her grandchildren to try and learn the language. It is directly from this woman, Philomena Smargiassi, that the women in my family have developed their generosity – often shown by gathering people around the table for a home-cooked meal.
And while travel in Italy makes me think of my heritage, and I do intend on visiting the village in the Abruzzo where my family came from, I also think about other connections to Europe. As a young Italian-American, my grandfather fought in World War II. He didn’t like to talk about it too much, but some of my most distinct memories of childhood are sitting around the table in my kitchen with him sharing stories.
I know his service brought him to the streets of Paris, and he was part of the initiative to free the city from the Nazis. This connection to Paris has struck me each time I’ve walked its streets, enjoyed its atmosphere, cafes, and bridges. There were young men that believed in things, that thought something was worth fighting for, that traveled far from home to possibly be fighting against family.
Streets of Paris
I was reminded of these connections between America and Europe when I was listening to a podcast by Irish writer Joseph O’Connor, who makes a similar connection between Ireland and America. Listen to his incredible story about a young man from the west of Ireland who lost his life in Vietnam here.
November 11 is called different things across the world – armistice day, veteran’s day, remembrance day. This year I was reminded of the importance of not letting these things pass unnoticed – that the sacrifices of our relatives do impact our daily lives. Thinking about pictures of my grandfather is his army uniform, usually with a big smile on his face, makes me want to do more investigating.
I don’t even know how long he served for. I know he was gone for Christmas one year – the telegram he sent my grandmother on Christmas day is framed in my parent’s house. I hope one day to not only visit the village where his parents were born in Italy, but to follow in is footsteps of some of the places he served during the war.
Dancing on the Berlin Wall in 1989
These links to distant lands should remind us just how connected we all are – and perhaps give us further inspiration to continue the exploration of our world. This year, November 11 reminded me that the places I now gain so much pleasure from traveling to weren’t always safe. Daily life in Paris, in Berlin – the survival of culture – this is something to be celebrated, and thankful for.
