finish Rome, briefly Naples, Caposele

The second day in Rome I arose early at 7:30AM, not really knowing for sure what time it was. It can be nice not having a cell phone or watch, acting like time doesn’t matter at all. Due to my extra hours awake I took my time getting dressed and tried to look prettier than the day before. The pressure to look beautiful is a bit strong in Rome. I had breakfast and piddled around on the computer until my dad woke up. He woke up later than he’d expected by accident. It took forever to leave that morning! I’d already had a good two hours awake before my dad woke up and then we had to spend a bunch of time looking stuff up for the next leg of the trip and he had to get ready and was trying to text someone, though it wasn’t working. I was getting too impatient.

Finally we left and found that we could navigate Rome with a map, unlike the day before. We took a short cut around the back of the train station and some gypsies accosted my dad. They first started begging and we told them no, then they started chanting and I got away. My dad was left with the huddle and I turned around when I heard him yell “Hey!” I saw him pushing them away because I think they were touching him. Beggars are so annoying. We made it to the Via Nazionale and I realized my feet were definitely messed up badly from the day before. I complained to my dad and he told me it might be a bone bruise. The pain was excruciating and every so often there would be shooting pains through the outer edge of my foot.

Also while walking down the Via Nazionale, my dad and I were noticing how Euros dress. I had been bugging him the day earlier about looking too American, and this day it was worse somehow. He had on a bright blue t-shirt, Lee jeans and tennis shoes. I had tried harder that day to look like I fit in wearing a greenish-blue dress and a white scarf. I felt like my dad was negating any Euro-ness I may have been displaying. I told him tennis shoes and bright colors were usually easiest way to give yourself away as an American. I told him he needed a button-up shirt, slacks or fancier jeans and leather shoes. He said he could tell he looked different and wanted to change clothes before we went out that night. Haha.

We walked a lot further than we thought was possible. We ended up at the Pantheon, which we hadn’t gotten to see the day before. It was quite impressive—hard to imagine people could build something so large so long ago...though I suppose the Coliseum and pyramids were erected just as long ago. There were a lot of people standing around. We didn’t realize that the people in Rome turned the Pantheon into a Christian basilica after it was what they called a “pagan temple”.

Our actual destination that day was Vatican City. We crossed over the Tevere by bridge and walked past a huge palace and an old castle right next to each other. I was feeling bad for not understanding better the importance of such historical sites. I told my dad I wished I’d just taken a Roman history course. Finally we got into Vatican City. My feet are nearly dead by this point. We approach looming St. Peter’s Basilica. I have to cover my shoulders with my scarf, as I watch the less fortunate women get turned away for having inappropriate attire. We wait in a long line to go to the top of the basilica and meet some nice Aussies. We climb with them up a few hundred steps to the dome, which is fantastic. Then we continue up another few hundred steps to the very top of the tower, which overlooks all of the Rome area. At the top, my feet feel healed. I tell my dad it’s the power of God. He suggests maybe I should start going to church again. I was surprised by the amount of graffiti at the top of the basilica. It covered all of the arches. Mostly some sappy couples who want to deface a sacred building. On the way down from the top I get dizzy from the spiral steps. In a less claustrophobic stairwell a lady passes me who smells like my grandma, same perfume. I am reminded of her and where I am and, briefly, I want to be religious again, but the feeling quickly passes. We miraculously figure out how to take a bus from the Vatican to Termini Station. It breaks down in the middle of an intersection and people drive by honking and yelling. Back at the hostel I fall asleep for two hours before dinner and dream of home. “Home” just being people and places familiar to me. Dinner is some sub-par pasta that the hostel makes for free. Afterwards my dad and I go out exploring again, this time with much more confidence. We end up at Trevi Fountain for the second time, which is lit specially. Then we stop at a little cafe on the street for Limoncello. Sickly sweet and stronger than I imagined. On the way home we also stop for gelato and cannoli. Sampling the kinds of things that are the best in Italy.

The next morning we had to wake up in time to catch a train to Naples. We’re setting out for “the hometown” as we’ve been calling it. I am grumpy, as I realize I usually am when I travel with my dad. We’re both too stubborn and we both think we’re right and the other person is too relaxed (what my dad thinks of me) or that they’re too stressed out (what I think of my dad). On the ride to Naples I am listening to music and watching the power lines dance outside the window. I am noticing the scenery and watching my dad try to communicate with another man in our compartment. Southern Italy looks mostly rural and run down, though, it’s charming in a way. It’s not like rural Texas. The buildings are really old and there are mountains everywhere. I can almost imagine what it would be like hundreds of years ago. We round a bend and I can see the coast for the first time. The water is blue! Houses perch upon white cliffs and mountains. I wish it looked like this in my region. There is also a mother and her two sons in our compartment. The goofy boy starts saying, in Italian, that we’re stupid for not understanding him. I don’t know much Italian, but I know his words. I thought he was a cute kid for most of the ride, but then I start hating him.

In Naples my dad and I continue our arguments trying to find the place where we rent a car. I notice instantly that Naples is busy and dirty, at least compared to Rome. It generally has a metallic, smoky, gray-brown tinge to it. We get a Ford Fiesta, an American car that I’ve never even seen in America. It’s the first American car I see in Europe. My dad was panicked driving in downtown Naples and I can’t blame him because it’s chaos. It’s the scariest place to drive I’ve ever seen—worse than NYC, Rom or Mexico City. Basically there aren’t any rules. No lanes, stop lights don’t matter, people walk right out in front of car, people beep to get through intersections, buses and trains are running on the same roads as cars. It’s completely out of control. Luckily we navigate our way out quickly and enjoy the fast, but more organized, autostrada. It was apparently about 100km to Caposele, the hometown. We go through Salerno and past Pompeii and I wish we could stop, but the hometown is too important. As time goes on I’m getting hungrier and grumpier. I haven’t eaten anything since the small bowl of cereal and unrefrigerated milk from breakfast. More travel arguments begin. We are supposed to turn off the autostrada on to the superstrada, but we miss a turn and go into a town. Asking for directions is usually failure since we don’t speak Italian. We think we’re on the right road, just going through mountain town after mountain town. It’s taking forever. We start seeing signs for our town. We follow the arrows one way, but they’re wrong. It’s a series of hairpin turns through mountains with wooden railings that would never keep a car in if it were to tumble over a ledge. Our little manual car is chugging along. Finally a sign welcomes us to Caposele. I’m trying to take it all in, but it’s just an ugly street with some run down buildings. We find an old man. My dad tries to explain we’re looking for our family. He tells the man our family names, Merola and Sisto. Predictably, he has no idea what we’re saying. He gets a woman who understands a tiny bit of English. Little do we know it’s Caramela who will be our unofficial guide for the rest of the time in Caposele. She tells us there are many, many Merolas and Sistas in the town. We also find out Merola is actually pronounced MEH-roll-uh instead of mur-OH-luh. The name Sisto, which was my great-grandma’s maiden name, is actually Sista. We guessed they changed it at Ellis Island for some reason. We graciously follow Caramela’s old, gray Fiat Uno into the new part of town, which has a huge basilica and a bunch of shops, restaurants and markets. She talks to a few people and takes us to a couple of homes. No one speaks English, but we keep trying to communicate and find someone who may be distantly related.

I start noticing the people there. Many have the same eye color as me. They are brown, but a different shade than most people, more like a gold-brown. Caramela has them, my dad has them, my grandpa has them, and I have them, along with a bunch of other Italians. I also see a little girl, maybe 6 or 7, walking around with hairy legs! Mine used to be the same way even as a small girl and I always hated it. Many of the people have darker skin; I am still distinctly lighter than everyone else. I notice gardens, something my grandpa always had, and something I find out from my dad, my great-grandpa always had. (Side note: I never actually knew my great-grandparents who were from Caposele. They died in the 1970s, but I’ve always heard a lot about them.) I notice the beautiful mountains all over the place.

We are told there are about 4500 people in the town. Finally we come to the “Ristorante American”. I thought it might be a joke, but there is a man there, Tommas, who knew my great-grandpa, Salvatore Merola, who immigrated to America. Tommas knew him in Newark, where they both lived at the time. Tommas moved back to Caposele in 1983 and started the Ristorante America and the hotel above it. Fortunately he actually spoke English fluently. We met his wife who cooks at the restaurant, who is from Calabria, in the very southern tip of the country. Another man comes over who speaks English and lived in Newark for some time. Everyone is stereotypically Italian! Old men have gold jewelry, slicked gray hair, pointy leather shoes with small heels, thin button-up shirts tucked in with a leather belt holding up their slacks over their bellies. They’re not all fat, but the people here do tend to be shorter and stockier. The men talk all about the streets and places in the Italian neighborhood in Newark. My dad tells me the people in Caposele remind him of his grandparents and all the Italian people who lived in his neighborhood as a child. He calls my grandpa in New Jersey to have him talk in Italian to some of the people, since we have a difficult time communicating. It feels good to know that technology is allowing my 70-something-year-old grandpa to talk to people who live in the town his parents were from. No one has ever been back except my grandpa’s cousin, Nicci Sisto. Tommas also knows Nicci and knew my dad’s Aunt Julia who immigrated to Newark from Caposele. We end up staying at Tommas’ hotel upstairs and eating dinner at the restaurant in celebration of the festival that will take place the next day.

The first Sunday in September is a VERY important day in the town. The people of Caposele celebrate their patron saint, San Gerardo, that day. The bigger festival happens to be October 15-16, but they also celebrate in September because it’s right before school begins. It is especially pertinent because besides San Gerardo being the saint for the town, he was also my grandma’s patron saint because her birthday was October 15. She died on her birthday, too. San Gerardo was from Caposele and his remains are in the tower of the basilica. We are told about 4000 more people come to town to celebrate San Gerardo, and during the big festival as many as 10,000 will come to town.

Upstairs we find our connected rooms. They are old and very simple. There are huge windows that open to a balcony that looks out over the main street and the mountains. Finally dinner happens at 8PM. We hadn’t eaten since 9AM and were starving. We had homemade wine and the best meal of the trip: pasta fagiole. My dad and I have both tried making it ourselves but this tops them all. It’s a thick soup with beans and pasta. After dinner we contemplate walking around the town, since it is Saturday night, but I decide to go lay down for a few minutes first. I end up falling asleep in my clothes until the next morning.

Sunday morning I am woken before 8AM by explosions. I look out the open window to see puffs of smoke. Caposele isn’t under attack, but rather ready to start the celebration for San Gerardo. A few minutes later I hear a man singing in Italian. Before we go downstairs a band marches by the front door of the ristorante. We eat breakfast and go outside as the procession moves by on the street. A huge market is set up all along the main roads in town. The candy is most appealing, but people are also selling food, clothes, videos, kitchenware, trinkets and toys.

Caramela comes back for us later that morning with news that she’s found someone related to us. This is when we drive down the road to visit Pasqualina. We can’t completely understand each other and can’t exactly pinpoint how we’re related, but she treats us like family regardless. She lives by herself, a widow, in a little house with four rooms: two bedrooms, a kitchen and a living room. All are tiny. She’s a tiny woman. We sit in her living room trying to make sense of her relation to us. Caramela is trying to translate but her English isn’t sufficient. Pasqualina’s last name is Merola, but only because her late husband had been a Merola. I’m pretty sure we’re related somehow, but pretty sure the relation is distant. Caramela takes us to the town church while Pasqualina stays home. We go inside and look at the museum for San Gerardo and see the steps that lead to the place where is remains are. There are things he owned inside and tons of paintings of him. Inside a priest is praying and people kneel. Townspeople reach out to touch and kiss his statue, which is prominently on display. We walk around the market more and go back to the hotel for a rest.

The night before my dad had talked about canceling our night in Capri so we could stay in Caposele an extra night. I was freaking out because the first night I just wanted to come and go. However, the second day Caposele grew on me. The people we met there were so nice to us, even though we could hardly communicate. The town was so beautiful and simple. I still love big cities, like Rome, much more than sleepy mountain towns, but Caposele has a lot to offer in its own way. It feels real. No one’s trying to rip you off, there aren’t tourists, things are fresh and life is simple. People were already asking when we’d come back to visit.

We go back to Pasqualina’s for dinner at about 5pm, little do we know dinner is a long way off. First, Pasqualina calls her aunt in New Jersey. Her aunt says there is no relation, but we’re so confused because Tommas is telling us Pasqualina is my dad’s grandma’s niece. Trying to talk to these people is so hard. This is keeping in mind that Tommas is the only person who speaks English fluently.

After giving up on figuring out our relations and just saying, “Hey, we’re all Italians!” we went to watch San Gerardo’s procession go through town. There were hundreds of people gathered all worked up into a tizzy for the arrival of the town’s biggest celebrity. The statue makes its way through the crowd and is hoisted up onto a float. People are giving their handkerchiefs and water bottles and babies to touch the statue for blessing. Pasqualina is standing next to me singing their religious song and wiping her eyes, as many older women are also doing. Eventually as many people as can fit load onto the float and it leaves to make its way through some of the smaller towns in the area.


Pasqualina starts cooking dinner when we get back to her house. My dad and I wait in the living room and she comes in after while to show us her pasta. She’s making it by hand! We go in the kitchen to watch her. It’s such an interesting process. You have to roll the semolina dough and then cut it into a longer roll and then roll it out thinner until it’s a long rope that you can wrap up around your hand like a hose. Then you pull it through you hands to makes longer strings. I really want to try myself when I get back home. It was such a stereotypical scene. We’re in southern Italy watching a short old lady in a white apron making pasta on her old wooden table in her tiny kitchen. Her kitchen window, with red gingham curtains, is open, the sun is setting outside with a cool breeze coming in. Old school to the max. We’re trying our best to make conversation with her, but we can’t, especially since Caramela had to go home for a little bit. After the pasta’s done, and my dad and I are about to eat our arms off because we’re so hungry, Pasqualina gets up and put on her shoes and gets her purse. We’re going back out to see the procession return. There are supposed to be fireworks, but they are not allowed since the area is having a drought and wild fires.

Finally we go back to her house for dinner. By this time I’m sure anything will taste good to me, especially homemade pasta bologenese. We set the table assuming there will be three, but Pasqualina starts giving us all of her silverware. The whole family is coming over! Her kids and their families and their husbands’/wives’ parents. Everyone is crammed into her tiny living room. My dad and I eat the pasta and bread and cheese and dried meats and melon. Pasqualina forces us to eat more even after we’re full. It was delicious. Then she gave my dad a hunk of supersage (dried meat) to take home. We meet her family, who is also somehow related to us. Someone else there speaks English so we’re actually able to communicate with people again. It was a really happy night. Everyone was so welcoming and excited we were there. I couldn’t feel completely integrated, but it was still good. Before the night was over Caramela came back to say goodbye and we all exchanged addresses in order to stay in contact. I said goodbye hoping to see everyone again, but knowing that I likely would not.