Roots

My boyfriend Marc is of Italian descent. Well, half Italian. And it’s that Italian part with which he most identifies. He has birth certificates for his grandparents; marriage and death certificates too. He knows what ships they sailed on from Naples. He knows when his grandfather got his American citizenship (after Marc’s father was born, which makes Marc eligible for Italian citizenship).

When I arrived in Rome, Marc flew in to meet me. He had never been to Italy before. Because his stay was to be brief, and he wanted to see some of Italy’s cultural highlights (and still have time to hang out on the beach), we agreed that we could not go to Foggia, the province where his family is from. A search for roots would have to wait for another trip.

Still, since we were going to be in Tuscany, and there were two vineyards there that bore his family name, it seemed fitting that we visit them along the way. So we made reservations at the wineries (a must since it was the middle of harvest) and hired a car and driver (a good way to go if you plan to do some tasting along the winding Tuscan roads) We used PrestigeRent.Com - Chauffeur driven tours in Italy; Tel +39 333 8424047 or +39 055 3245242
Fax +39 055 3442745; Email: usa@prestigerent.com; www.prestigerent.com), and our experience with them was excellent.

On the morning of our excursion, our driver, Enrico, arrives promply at 9 in a comfortable Mercedes minivan. Despite overcast weather, his cheerful disposition and passion for food and wine, gained through years working as a chef, prime us for our venture into the Chianti region. As we head south, we notice that Enrico has the most extensive vocabulary of whistles - a sort of international language - that when you pay attention, makes complete sense. One whistle might mean that something's very good. Another could suggest annoyance. Yet another would proclaim “andiamo - it’s time to get going.” When something's truly superb, however, Enrico lightly kisses his fingertips (usually coupled with a whistle). On me, this gesture would look completely ridiculous. But it suits him just fine.

Marc’s last name is Carpineta, and our first stop is a small family-run vineyard called Carpineta Fontalpino (http://www.carpinetafontalpino.it/), which makes only 3 wines - all reds. The best known of these is an equal blend of Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot and Sangiovese called Do Ut Des. We are given a private tour and tasting, and generally made to feel like part of the family. Which is very hospitable, since the family that owns this winery are not even Carpinetas. It's never quite clear why the winery bears the Carpineta name. But a little red wine makes everyone family, and soon we are on our way to a hearty lunch in Greve in Chianti.

Greve in Chianti is what you might imagine if you thought of a Tuscan village - sun-bleached stone and terra cotta, amidst vineyards and olive groves. Old women lean out of their flower-adorned windows. Old men, all with canes, sit in a neat row on a bench in front of the local cafe. When asked for directions, each gives his own suggested route, frustrating Enrico, but making me smile. Enrico tells us that the piazza there is the kind that was found in many towns before the bombings of World War II demolished them. This particular piazza is where the bicycle scene in the movie “Life is Beautiful” was filmed, and it undeniably evokes a bygone era.

In the pretty little restaurant facing the piazza, we dine under an arched ceiling, reminiscent of a wine cellar. At Enrico’s suggestion, I have the pici (which he says is like spaghetti only softer) with a savory sauce of tomatoes and Tuscan ham. When I tell him I'm sorry to report that most Americans (even Italian-Americans) cook their spaghetti until it was as soft as the pici I was eating, he rakes his palm across his face and rubs his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “I know,” he sighs wearily. “I teach cooking classes to Americans, and they always question me when I tell them no more than 6 minutes 45 seconds for dry pasta. I tell them, ‘Go ask the best chef in Tuscany. He’ll tell you the same thing.’ ”

Marc (bravely) tries the bollito misto, a mixture of various kinds of "meat" such as tripe, tounge and other Tuscan delicacies. If you want to make this at home, Kids, I suggest the recipe from Mario Batali’s Babbo Restaurant - he mercifully leaves out the tripe (http://www.babbonyc.com/rec-bollito.html).

In the afternoon, we visit another family-owned winery, this one much larger than the first, Carpineto, in the town of Dudda (http://www.carpineto.com/welcome_eng.htm). Carpineto was Marc’s grandfather, Constantino’s, birth name. When he became an American citizen, however, Constantino Carpineto's name was somehow inadvertently changed to Carpineta.

Carpineto produces dozens of wines - including 3 sparkling wines and a mighty tasty dessert wine. We get the royal treatment here too - a personal tour of a fully-automated facility, and the obligatory tasting. As it happens, the Carpineto winery has no Carpinetos involved in the production of the wine. Their name refers to a nearby archaeological discovery. Still, we come away with some good wine, great memories, not to mention a little bit of a hangover.

***

From Tuscany we took the train to Positano. Marc loves being around the water, so I thought that his last few days in Italy should be by some of the most beautiful water I know. After checking into our hotel, we walked over 500 steps down (and yes that does indeed mean over 500 steps up) to the beach. As we were looking for a place to have lunch, I looked up and saw a sign that read “Tabacchi, Billeteria, Carpineto.” Carpineto?

In we went. Marc introduced himself, and was soon in excited conversation with one of the owners, Luigi, who had questions: "Do you know if you have relatives in New York?" "Where in Italy did your family come from originally?" Finally, "Can you come back tomorrow?"

We went to the restaurant next door, Chez Black, where Marc’s reputation had preceded him (news travels fast), and he was greeted by the waiter cum pizza chef, Peppe, with a shout of “Carpineto!“ Even though the kitchen at Chez Black was officially closed for lunch, Peppe made pizzas just for us, mine in the shape of a heart.

The following day, when we returned with Marc’s photocopies of familial birth certificates, documents and photographs, the Carpinetos of Positano pulled out their family photos as well - and marveled at the striking similarity between images of Marc’s and Luigi's fathers when they were both young men.

As we prepare to leave for Capri, and Marc's last days in Italy for now, we realize that Marc has found roots he had never expected. It doesn't much matter whether or not the Carpitnetos of Positano are 2nd cousins or 22nd cousins. Everyone agrees that they are family. In our last too-brief moments, snapshots are taken. Emails are exanged. Promises of future reunions are made - perhaps at Christmas. A bottle of the Carpineto sparkling is uncorked and a toast made. Even Peppe from Chez Black gets in on the action. Salut. Cent’Anni.