Chestnuts roasting on an open fire: An acquired taste of Tuscan history

There is a certain magic to an Italian sagra. It’s a concept that doesn’t translate perfectly, falling somewhere between a town fair and a culinary festival dedicated to a single, humble ingredient. To stumble upon one is to peel back the curtain of tourism and step into the authentic, beating heart of a community. On a crisp Sunday afternoon, winding our way up the forested hills of the Svizzera Pesciatina, Lucy and I found ourselves drawn by the promise of one such festival: the Sagra delle Frugiate in Vellano.

Families gather and wait in line for the chestnut treats in the Circolo of Vellano

 Frugiate, it turns out, is a regional term for caldarrosta, or roasted chestnut. Linguists are not sure of the etymology of the term, but some theorize that it is a combination of the words bruciare (to burn) and frugare (to rummage through or poke around).

Vellano, the largest of the ten medieval castle-towns in this rugged corner of Tuscany, feels like a world away from the manicured postcards of Florence or Siena. Its stone houses cling to a steep hillside and its narrow alleys echo with history. The air was cool and smelled of damp earth and woodsmoke. We followed that scent to its source, a scene of pure, unadulterated Italian life unfolding outside the local Circolo.

A circolo is a social club, the nerve center of any small Italian village, and on this day its modest plaza was the center of the universe. Two local men stoked a wood fire under a giant kettle covered with an iron grate. They dumped large bags of raw chestnuts onto the grate and then used a custom-made rake to rummage them around.

We eagerly bought a paper bag filled with the steaming hot chestnuts, our first time trying them fresh from the fire. Peeling back the brittle, scorched shells to reveal the pale, tender meat inside was a rustic joy. And the taste? It was…elemental. Not sweet, not particularly savory, but earthy and simple, with a dense, floury texture and a faint hint of smoke. It was the taste of the mountain itself, of the forest floor on a crisp autumn day. It was honest and unadorned.

A whole frugiate and a
half eaten castagnaccia

Emboldened, we decided to dive deeper into the world of the chestnut, a food that for centuries was the very symbol of survival in these mountains. We sampled two other traditional treats made from farina di castagne, or chestnut flour. The first was a neccio, a thin, crepe-like pancake served rolled up. We opted for the traditional filling: fresh, creamy ricotta rather than the more modern substitute of Nutella. The neccio was soft and pliable, but the flavor of the chestnut flour was dominant—a slightly chalky, dense taste that completely absorbed the mildness of the ricotta.

Next came the infamous castagnaccio, a flat, dense cake that looked like a rustic brownie, studded with pine nuts and seasoned with rosemary. This is perhaps the most archetypal “peasant” food of the region. As we took a bite, we understood why. The texture is heavy, almost leaden, and the flavor is a challenging combination of earthy, unsweetened chestnut flour and the sharp, piney notes of rosemary. There was no sugar, no butter, no lightness. It wasn’t a treat in any modern sense of the word.

And this is where the true pleasure of the Sagra delle Frugiate began to crystallize for me. The food itself, by the standards of a 21st-century palate accustomed to sugar and refined flavors, was not particularly tasty. The neccio was bland; the castagnaccio was a culinary oddity. But to judge them on taste alone would be to miss the point entirely. These were not recipes born of indulgence but of stark necessity.

Giacomo, center, and Betty, right, along
with an man whose name I didn't get,
package up the hot frugiate in paper bags.

For centuries, the people of the mountainous regions of Italy lived lives dictated by the unforgiving landscape. The steep, rocky soil was unsuitable for growing wheat, grapes and olive trees. The true provider, the symbol of sustenance, was the chestnut tree, known affectionately and accurately as l'albero del pane—the “tree of bread.” From its nuts, villagers ground the flour that would see them through the harsh winters. It was their source of carbohydrates, their daily bread. The unsweetened cakes and crepes we were eating weren’t desserts; they were survival. Sugar was a luxury for the wealthy city dwellers on the plains below, not for the mountain folk.

Eating that dense slice of castagnaccio, I wasn’t just tasting chestnut flour and rosemary. I was tasting history. I was tasting the resilience of people who carved a life out of these mountains, who relied on the forest for their very existence. The simple, smoky flavor of the roasted frugiate was the taste of a community gathering around a fire for warmth and sustenance. The blandness of the neccio was the taste of a filling meal that asked for nothing more than to quell hunger.

The true pleasure of the sagra was not in a gastronomic revelation, but in a profound human connection. It was in watching the men roast the chestnuts with practiced ease, in seeing families share a simple meal, in understanding that the food we were eating was a ghost, a culinary echo from a harder, simpler time. It was a delicious lesson in history, a reminder that not everything that feeds us has to be sweet. Sometimes, the most satisfying meals are the ones that nourish our understanding.

Finding my voice: From tourist to translator at a Tuscan paper museum

I so admire the people who can translate a rapid-fire speech on the fly, and I’ve always wished that I could do the same. One would think that after living in Italy for three months a year for 14 years, I’d be able to do this, but I haven’t been up to the task. Until this past Saturday. Well, sort of.

Lucy and I went to the Museo della Carta di Pescia, a museum dedicated to preserving the centuries-old craft of handmade paper. Our group leader, Gina Natucci, had arranged a special tour that included a paper-making demonstration led by a true “Master of Paper,” Alessio. Since the demonstration required a native Italian speaker, someone needed to translate for the group. I took a deep breath and stepped up.

This shows a portion of the giant hammers powered
by a water wheel that were used to pound on old
rags soaked in water. Eventually, this turned the
rags into a fibrous pulp used to make paper.

And I did it! As Alessio guided us through the historic building, explaining the function of each intricate machine, I found a rhythm, turning his Italian explanations into English. A couple of times I had to pause and ask him to clarify a term, but to the American group, I hope I appeared perfectly competent.

I must taper my celebration just a bit. The task was made infinitely easier by the visual aides. It was one thing to know that a martello is a hammer, a ruota a wheel, and a stampa a press; it was another to have Alessio pointing right at them as I spoke. The magnificent, hulking machines did much of the heavy lifting for me.

Alessio dipped a special screen into
a vat filled with pulp and skillfully
removed it, magically creating a
perfect piece of paper, complete with
a watermark from the screen.

I’m still keenly aware that I can’t translate a complex sermon on theology or a political speech. I know this because I often try to translate in my mind and find myself stumbling when the speaker expresses an idea I only partly grasp myself. In those moments, I’m secretly relieved nobody has put me on the spot. But for today, I’m going to pat myself on the back for a successful first flight.

The museum itself is a fascinating window into an industry that once defined this region. As Alessio explained, the Valleriana—the valley above Pescia—was once home to more than 25 paper factories. The area was perfectly suited for this industry, with a stream providing hydraulic power and warm valley breezes for drying the paper sheets. Today, many of the old mill buildings still stand, though only three are still in production. Others have been converted into homes and hotels, while some stand as silent, empty monuments to a bygone era.

After creating the pages, Alessio
squeezed out much of the water
in this press.

Our tour began in a multimedia room with a 3D model of the four-story building, where Alessio explained the function of each level: the ground floor for collection and conversion of the fibers to a pulp and creating a raw form of the paper, another for gluing, trimming and other refinements, one for the workers’ quarters and the upper floor for drying. From there, we walked through the historic rooms where Alessio gave us a hands-on demonstration. Using cotton fibers, he masterfully created four new sheets of paper, showing us how they were pressed to remove water and then hung to dry. The final stage, he explained, would be applying a special glue to give the paper strength before a final drying.

If You Go:

·      The Museo della Carta di Pescia is well worth the price of admission.

·      Location: Via Mammianese Nord nn. 229-231, Pietrabuona, Comune of Pescia, Province of Pistoia.

·      Hours: Open Monday, Wednesday, and Saturday from 10:00 a.m. to 6:00 p.m.

·      Cost: €12 for a tour with the director, €15 for a tour with a paper master (like Alessio). Reduced prices are available for students and seniors.

·      Here is a link to the website, which also has an English version: Museo della Carta di Pescia.

The paper mill included a number of skilled craftsmen besides paper makers, including a clever engineer/mechanic who created this unique machine to turn paper into envelopes. The vats to hold the water were hand carved out of large boulders of a local rock called pietra serena.

 

 

A perfect fall day hike, but it may be even better on a hot summer day

We’ve discovered a little-known trail along in the Valleriana—the verdant valley above Pescia—that makes me dream of being in Tuscany in the full unyielding heat of summer. The trail once was a mule route stitching together the villages of Sorana and Castelvecchio. The footpath, which occasionally yields to marshy, spring-fed patches, meanders under a dense, dappled cathedral of chestnut, beech, and oak trees. It faithfully follows the murmur of the Torrente di Pescia da Pontito, a lively creek whose course guides you to the skeletal remains of an ancient mill and its crumbling stone bridge.

Torrente di Pescia da Pontito

Lucy and I were the informal guides to a group of six American tourists staying in Montecatini with my cousin and friend Gina Natucci. We had been gifted a truly perfect autumn morning, bathed in the kind of crisp, golden light that seems to exist only in Italy. We had to hop across large stones to cross the torrente three times to reach the pools and lower turbine of the mill, a hike of about 20 minutes. We found small waterfalls emptying into several pools that measured a depth of about ten feet. Someone had moved some large flat stones, probably left over from the active days of the mill, to form two tables and several chairs that could be put into service for a picnic lunch.

Me with new friend Jaxson

We enjoyed watching the rushing water turn from blue to frothy white while it tumbled down the green valley. We explored the ruins of the mill and watched fingerlings skitter about in the calm pools. We were dressed for hiking and not swimming, but I couldn’t help but think what a terrific place this would be on a 90-degree summer day. While we usually avoid Tuscany during the sweltering summer months, even late spring and early fall can be uncomfortably hot. The valley, trees and rushing water would help cool the air, and if we were still too hot, that could easily be remedied by wading or even soaking in the pools. Very few tourists or even locals spend much time in this sparsely populated valley that is also known as Svizzera Pesciatina, so-called because of a well-known Swiss economist who said it reminded him of the environs of his family home.

From what I can determine, there was a water turbine inside the hollow area of this bridge.

I’ve read that there is another turbine, a small dam and one or two footbridges that we could have seen if we had continued upstream, but we had a schedule to keep; it also appeared that the trail became more difficult at this point. I’ll find them next time. Lucy and I will definitely be back, but hopefully with shorts, a picnic lunch, a blanket and good book—maybe even a pillow, so we can take a nice nap in the cool of the forest.

Stone tables and benches for our future picnic.

We can dip in this pool on a hot day.

.

 

Ethnicity becomes less accurate the broader the gene pool

As a follow-up to my last entry on the improved ethnicity algorithms of Ancestry.com, I also looked at the two generations below my siblings and first cousins, all of whom are about 50 percent Italian, verified by extensive genealogical research, and now also by DNA testing. I’ve noticed, though, that in earlier updates, the amount of DNA identified of Italian origins dropped off sharply for further generations. In the October 2025 update, I see some improvement in the generation just below mine.

Three of my first cousins once removed have tested. By traditional informal methods, they would be considered 25 percent Italian, or maybe since all of us who consider ourselves half Italian tested from 40-50 percent Italian, the next generation down should come in from 20-25 percent Italian. Indeed, SL and JS show 22 percent, a definite improvement over previous results. However, FB shows only 9 percent, far below what might be expected.

Yes, I understand that genetics is complicated, and the distribution of DNA isn’t even from one’s parents and grandparents. One helpful illustration I’ve heard is that we all may come from the same batter made for chocolate chip cookies, but the number and placement of the chips will vary in each cookie. That could be a partial explanation of the discrepancy between the three cousins.

However, in the next generation down, the formula Ancestry uses is definitely problematic. I have at least three first cousins twice removed who have tested. Following the paper trail, they could be considered from 10-12.5 percent Italian. However, SL and DC came in at 3 percent, and ML at zero. It seems pretty unlikely that if you broke one of the parent cookies in half, the resulting half cookie would have no chocolate chips at all. Obviously, it gets very difficult to make ethnicity predictions when one’s gene pool becomes an admixture of eight different great grandparents, each with different ethnicities. I’m not really criticizing Ancestry for this issue, because I know it must be incredibly complicated to accurately figure out the ethnicity of people of such diverse ancestry. Instead, I just want to warn people that their results may not be as accurate as they are led to believe. I know some people who have been disappointed when their DNA results don’t match what they believe to be their ethnicity. In such cases, it is better to trust your traditional research, tracing each ancestor back as far as possible. One should still consider the DNA results, but it’s advisable to treat them with a healthy dose of skepticism, research and reality.

Ancestry.com ethnicity updates have been increasingly more accurate

My compliments to Ancestry.com on its latest ethnicity updates. The company has come a long way from the time in 2018 when it said my siblings and cousins were more French than Italian. Each update since then has come with more detail, and, despite a few rabbit trails in the wrong direction, increasing accuracy.

I can say accuracy with some authority, because I have traced my genealogy extensively, taking some of my Tuscan lines back some 1,000 years, and the area where my family came from was not near a seaport or major trading route. The families there did not marry outside of their own community, and I can verify that with documented research.

I’ve traced Nonno’s Spadoni ancestors back to the mid-1400s and Nonna’s Seghieri line to the mid-1200s (and there were people with that unusual surname living in Pisa hundreds of years before that). Nonno and Nonna had seven children, and each of them married a non-Italian (except for one who did not marry at all). Thus, my siblings, cousins and I are all about 50 percent Tuscan.

I can accept that people from Tuscany will have some genes from other places, so I can’t complain that the six of us who have tested with Ancestry come out between 40-49 percent Italian. The remaining percentage is a mixture of a little French, a little Spanish, and slightly more “Southern Germanic European.” The latter makes perfect sense, as the Lombards (Longobardi) invaded and conquered Tuscany and ruled from about 570 to 774, with headquarters in nearby Lucca. This mostly Germanic tribe was noted for assimilating with the people they conquered, so it’s quite likely that many Tuscans have DNA mixed with Longobardi. In fact, the name Seghieri is of Germanic-Longobardo origin, as are the names of nearby cities Pescia, Uzzano and Altopascio.

Another attestation of the accuracy of the new algorithms is that my sister, brother and I all show up as sharing 25 percent Dutch ancestry, which is spot on. Our grandmother Jeannette Esveldt has a line we’ve traced back to just south of Amsterdam in the year 1630. There is even a town named Esveld in The Netherlands, so it’s quite likely a much older name. She would have been considered 100 percent Dutch, or nearly so, making us one quarter Dutch, as Ancestry confirms. The other one quarter of our heritage, from my mom’s father, is primarily a mixture of English and German, which gives us small percentages of DNA from Southern England, Wales, Ireland, Sweden, Denmark, Germany and Brittany.

All in all, I’m pleased with how the DNA results match up with my paper trail research. I had written highly critical blogs in 2016 and 2018, scolding Ancestry for misleading people about their origins. I also expressed hope that as more data became available, the formulas would become more accurate. Now it’s time to praise the social scientists at Ancestry for a job well done. Siete grandi! Grazie!

Added note: Another great feature that Ancestry added a few years ago is the ability to differentiate between the DNA inherited from father and mother. I can’t explain the science behind this, but it is also amazingly accurate:

Challenges and changed perspectives possible on the Via Francigena

Doctor Dan Thompson helps a pilgrim
with her knee abrasion.

Today we wrapped up our eye-opening and challenging two-week commitment to the pellegrini—pilgrims—on the Via Francigena, which is a pilgrimage that extends from Canterbury to Rome. Most pellegrini only walk a portion of the trail. Some come back year after year to walk different sections. The overall project of our group, which involved two weeks in May and four weeks in September, is also ending, although the Christian group that sponsored it, Cru (Agape Italia is the Italian counterpart), will continue the outreach in various other ways. Lucy and I became involved when we reestablished contact last year with an old friend from our university days, Don Mansfield. We became interested in this outreach when we learned that Cru is hoping to purchase a beautiful convent near our Montecarlo home to be a stopping point for pellegrini. I wrote a blog about this in 2024: The Villa di Vorno.

Not everyone we met was walking the Via
Francigena. Lucy and I had a great talk with
Andrew, an immigrant from Nigeria.
We prayed together that he would
find a steady job. 

Since fund-raising for the convent is still in progress, Cru decided to do a separate but related outreach to pilgrims during the 2025 Catholic Jubilee. Themed “Pilgrims of Hope,” the Jubilee is described as “an extraordinary year of spiritual renewal and grace, running from December 24, 2024, to January 6, 2026, (featuring) the opening of the Holy Doors at Rome’s papal basilicas, encouraging pilgrimage, acts of mercy, and hope in a world facing challenges like war and climate change.” The church and Italian tourist agencies predicted a huge influx of people making the trek to Rome. Those hiking at least 100 kilometers in the last section before Rome are eligible to receive a Testimonium, a certificate from the church verifying their successful completion of the pilgrimage and making them eligible for what the church calls a “plenary indulgence.”

Some of our conversations were
assisted by translation apps.
Our leader Don is on the right.

The concept of the 2025 Cru outreach was to meet pilgrims, hear their stories and provide assistance in whatever ways possible. There were 10 of us working together these last two weeks, and we found that most hikers were eager to meet fellow pilgrims from other countries. As we shared our basic stories and adventures along the trail, a common question was “Why are you hiking the Via Francigena?” Many said the best part was meeting people and sharing experiences. For those pilgrims who said they were hiking for “spiritual reasons,” we asked them to tell us what they had found, which naturally led to us doing the same, allowing us to share our faith in a natural way. Sometimes we prayed with those who were hurting, either spiritually or physically. We had a family doctor on our team who proved to be very useful for several hikers.

We met pilgrims in a variety of ways. We had a punto ristoro in a park in the woods, where we provided water, wine and snacks, and we would invite hikers to refresh themselves at our picnic table and chat. About half would stop. Other times, we would hike sections of the trail and converse with pilgrims as we walked. We also met many pilgrims in coffee shops in the cities.

Don serves up vino and snacks at our punto ristoro near Vetralla.

Lucy and I are both introverts, and while we enjoy reaching out and meeting strangers, for us it requires discipline and effort to do this day after day. Fortunately, the Cru leaders encouraged us to take time to recharge; we often were only on the trail or in parks and coffee shops for four or five hours per day.

By the end of the project, Don told me that adding together the two weeks in May and the four weeks in September that Cru teams had been working in Lazio, they had conversations with some 500 people from 31 nations, speaking in six different languages.

“God is working in European hearts,” Don said. “People who are open to God tend to gather in places like the Via Francigina and the Camino in Spain, and I think we’ve seen that. We set up a stress-free environment for conversations, and we set a tone where we let God do what He’s going to do.”

I walk with a pilgrim entering the centro
storico of ancient Capranica.

One thing that surprised Don was the relative dearth of pilgrims, as the Catholic Church and various tourism sources predicted that the trail would be awash in hikers this year, leading him to believe that we might experience up to 1,000 hikers passing by daily. The numbers, instead, ranged from around 10 to 100. We also had to be sensitive to their schedules, as many had accommodation check-in or finding meals on their minds, so our conversations at times had to be cut short.

An additional benefit of the project was the wealth of tips received that will aid in the management of the convent in Vorno. Having a good website where online reservations can be made was at the top of the list, but perhaps equally important was having a place to wash and dry clothes. Numerous pilgrims said that their first thought upon checking in was how to wash clothes quickly so they could possibly be dry by the morning. I’ll be typing up a more complete list of suggestions to pass along to the leaders of the convent.

A group of pellegrini. Quite likely, many of these
pilgrims simply met up while hiking and
decided to walk together for a day or two.

As I hiked portions of the trail, I came to understand the appeal of going on a pilgrimage. We saw new portions of the spectacular world God has created. We pushed our bodies up steep slopes, looking within to find strength to continue. We found time both alone and with friends to pray and meditate. We shared stories and new points of view with fellow pilgrims, and we met dozens of Italian residents who made us feel welcome in their little communities. Rick Steves has written much about the benefits of travel, and I’ll include a lengthy quote from him to end this blog entry, but I’ll add that by combining a pilgrimage with travel probably at least doubles the results that Rick speaks of:

“Globe-trotting destroys ethnocentricity. It helps you understand and appreciate different cultures. Thoughtful travel engages you with the world—more important than ever these days. Travel changes people. It broadens perspectives and teaches new ways to measure quality of life. Rather than fear the diversity on this planet, travelers celebrate it. Many travelers toss aside their hometown blinders. Their prized souvenirs are the strands of different cultures they decide to knit into their own character.”

The team for the final two weeks (minus Lucy), enjoying one of our days off and dining on the shores of Lago di Bolsena. It was an amazing group of loving and committed forever friends.

 

The Dolce Vita--sweet life--is far more than an itinerary

Today we have a rare and special blog entry about the sweet life from my sweet wife Lucy.

Paul and I have always said about our travels, “It’s the people we interact with that make the deepest impression.” The art and architecture, the mountains, the rivers, the festivals are all very important and impressive, but it’s our conversations—with both locals and fellow travelers—that reach our hearts and stick with us for a lifetime.

Paul and I are working with a Christian group called Cru, staying two weeks in Vetralla, about 60 miles north of Rome. It’s situated on the Via Francigena, the pilgrim trail that runs from Canterbury to Rome. People walk this trail for many reasons—spiritual, a love of hiking and nature, exercise, and to meet people. Our aim is to serve these pellegrini (pilgrims), whether that means providing them with snacks, water and wine, fixing their wounds (we have a doctor in the group), providing sympathetic listening ears, and when appropriate, sharing our own experiences with God.

Today I went with my friend Terrie to a local shop called Il Pastaio (the pasta maker) to help interpret while she learned from the pastaio and helped his crew make gnocchi from scratch. We had purchased some ravioli from Cesare Birelli last week, and when Terrie expressed an interest in learning the pasta making process, Cesare responded with “Certo!” and invited her to come back in a few days.

At the end, we received fresh
gnocchi and sauce for our 
group's dinner

We arrived a bit shy and uncertain, but Cesare greeted us warmly, along with co-workers Alexandra Bordeianu and Laura Bartoli. Alexandra originally hails from Transylvania and has been working with Cesare for a year, while Laura started just two weeks ago. They had clean jars waiting to be filled with spicy pumpkin and chestnut soup. They placed them in an industrial-sized steamer to seal, and then they filled more jars with soup made with fresh porcini mushrooms and potatoes. They said that later they would also be processing a mixture that included strawberry grapes—but first, we must make gnocchi!

Alberto is a healthy 97-year-old 
regular customer of Il Pastaio.

Cesare had cooked the potatoes and showed Terrie how to rice them, a fairly strenuous process, she said. Then they weighed out a kilo of potatoes, an etto (100 grams) of flour, two handfuls of salt and 150 grams of potato flakes. All this was placed in a mixer to create the pasta (literally paste). Then they took hunks of dough and hand-rolled them into cylinders which were then cut it into half inch lengths, dusted by Terrie with rice flour who set the pieces on trays. Alexandra would stop as needed to serve customers.

That’s an overview of what happened, but the real story is the friendly banter we shared. We sang songs from “Alexa,” joked (macho, macho, man…), laughed and shared details of our life stories and spiritual journeys. We felt completely comfortable and included as these gentle friends initiated us strangers into the bella vita of Italy. We found that each of these pasta makers has a personalized and somewhat humorous nickname. We heard about their families, and noted that Cesare had a framed photo of “Nonna” on the wall. In the end, we prayed together that God would continue to bless their lives, their families and their shop, and we promised each other that we would share more stories in heaven. Thank you, friends. We love you, too!

More adventures with the transit police on the Firenze tram

 The transit police struck again when Lucy and I took the airport-to-train station-tram in Firenze a few days ago—but they didn’t get us this time. In fact, we went on the tram for free, sort of.

This story really began last spring, when we were taking the tram from the train station to the airport. You can read the full story here, but the short version is that the tram was packed like grapes in a wine press when we boarded, and we couldn’t reach the ticket validating machine. By the time we reached the end of the line, though, the tram was no longer crowded, and that’s when two transit officers entered and fined us 50 euros each for having unvalidated tickets. However, they didn’t confiscate our tickets, and I had saved them in my wallet all summer. I saw nothing on the tickets that suggested an expiration date, so I used them when we boarded the tram this time. Of course, I validated them immediately upon entering.

At about the third stop along the route, I looked out the tram window and saw a dejected and confused elderly couple seated at a bench, conversing with a tram officer. I noticed the man reaching into his pocket to pull out his wallet. As we watched, a lady next to us on the tram quickly gathered her things and exited; it was obvious that she wanted to avoid the same fate. Seconds later, two other officers entered our tram and began checking for validated tickets. Our four-month-old tickets passed the test.

Photo from May 2025.

All the people around us passed as well, but I overhead one of the officers telling a couple in the next car that they must exit at the next stop, and I knew this meant that the officer would exit with them and charge them for having unvalidated tickets, or maybe no tickets at all. And that’s fair, because they couldn’t even argue as I did last time—unsuccessfully—that the validation machine couldn’t be reached. And ultimately, I could have reached it after the crowds had thinned out, so my fine was justified as well. It’s hard to mount a very effective argument that I was too lazy to get out of my seat after I had finally found a place to sit. Some people must learn the hard way.

The treasured last letter of an Italian mother to her teenaged son

Fifteen-year-old Seghiero Giocondo Seghieri left his home in the San Salvatore suburb of Montecarlo, Italy, in early February of 1909—one of some 3 million Italians who came to America between the years of 1900 and 1915 for the opportunity to improve their lives. He was fortunate to have as traveling companions his brother Ruggero, his sister Anita, and Anita’s new husband Michele Spadoni. Both Ruggero and Michele had worked in America before returning to San Salvatore, and this eased Seghiero’s transition into the new world. Michele had worked in America from 1903 midway through 1908, and when he finally felt prosperous enough, he returned to Montecarlo to marry Anita in November of 1908. Through Michele’s connections, the three men were all able to find housing and immediate employment in Clay City, Washington, a factory town near Eatonville where Michele had previously worked making bricks.

Seghiero Seghieri

Like most Italian immigrants, Seghiero had hoped to return to his parents and friends in Italy with a tidy sum of money in his pockets, but it was not to be. He did finally return to visit Montecarlo when he was in his 60s, but by this time his parents and most of his acquaintances had passed away. When Seghiero himself passed away at the age of 89, his granddaughter Lita Dawn Stanton Ancich found a weathered letter tucked away in his dresser. It was from his mother, Ines (Capocchi) Seghieri, sent to him in early 1910.

“It was written on that light air-mail paper and had begun to deteriorate,” Dawn said. “None of us had ever seen it.”

Ines

The letter is full of motherly love and pride in the success of her teenaged son, whom she recognizes as having become a man. She also joyfully looks forward to his return. Sadly, Ines never saw young Seghiero again, as she passed away suddenly on March 1, 1910, just 10 days before Seghiero’s 17th birthday.

Dawn recently sent it to me for translation, and I received the able assistance of our friend and cousin Elena Benvenuti. “None of us had ever seen the letter,” Dawn said. “His mother’s beautiful hand-writing made it possible to identify most of the spellings, but using Google Translate to decipher her message was a challenge. Your translation gave us the opportunity to revisit that time. The longing for her son must have been unbearable.”

Here is the letter.

My dear son Seghiero,

I had a feeling there was a letter on the way for me, and it eventually arrived. I cannot describe how happy I felt. I cannot describe my joy. You asked me to forgive you for not writing to me before. How could I not forgive you? Poor young Seghiero, forced to find a job and to part from his parents, over there, in that kind of desert. And when you come back home, very tired from work, you do not feel like writing to me, should I hold a grudge? I would be very ungrateful. I am very grateful that when Anita writes to me, you add greetings by your hand. By recognizing your writing, I can imagine that I see you; seeing your handwriting with my mind, I see you. Ruggero said you've turned into a young man, and I am happy, I do not think I deserve it!

As I have said to Ruggero, please send me a pair of stockings. Tell me what you are doing, so when Pipi comes I will gladly send him to you. Your friends here want you and often ask about you; the  girls often ask about you. How happy was your father (and so was I ) to see how much money you earned! 

May the Good Lord be thanked that you are in good health. Pray to him, Seghiero, so that He will keep us in good health till the day we will hug again. What a party it will be! We must turn the whole San Salvatore upside down. Keep yourself healthy. Take care of yourself. Do bear love for me and receive a thousand greetings and kisses from your mother, who always thinks of you.
Ines Seghieri

Prologue: Seghiero and his older sister Anita, my grandmother, did return to visit San Salvatore in 1912. Anita brought with her daughters Nelda and Clara, ages 1 and 2. While there, Anita gave birth to another daughter, named—in honor of Anita’s late mother—Lola Ines. Anita’s father, Torello Seghieri, then age 65, was still in good health, though he passed away three years later. The youngest child of Torello and Ines, Rosina (age 12 when her siblings departed), had remained with her parents, finally immigrating in 1919. By then, all of Rosina’s siblings had moved to Shore Acres, a community on the edge of Gig Harbor, Washington. Rosina joined them there, using (presumably) money she had inherited from Torello to purchase and operate a small grocery store. The Seghieri and Spadoni families played a significant role in the social life and development of Shore Acres, and their heritage continues today.

Additional note: It is not known to whom Ines refers to as “Pipi.” This nickname was used for males, so it did not refer to Rosina. It probably referred to one of the male first cousins of the Seghieri siblings.

Top: Seghiero Seghieri, Anita Seghieri, unidentified cousin. Front: unidentified cousin, Ruggero Seghieri, Rosina Seghieri. I believe the unidentified cousins are the daughters of one of the sisters of Ines Capocchi. This photo was taken in Italy, prior to 1909, when all of the offspring of Torello and Ines were still at home in San Salvatore.

Speaking another language on the phone can be a challenge

I woke up yesterday morning to a WhatsApp message from Juri, my downstairs neighbor: “ciao paul ti posso telefonare?” It was a nice courtesy to ask before he called, since we have a nine-hour time difference. Of course, I said yes, I’d be available, but my answer came with a bit of dread. Is there something wrong with our house? Did a pipe break? Is the roof leaking? But beyond these possibilities, a major part of my reluctance was knowing that I’d have to speak Italian over the phone. Why couldn’t Juri just write to me?

Aurora

It's not that I’m afraid to make mistakes when speaking Italian. I already know I make a million mistakes a minute, and I can accept that. But the combination of the lack of visual cues, the sometimes fuzzy connection, and the inevitable pauses when I have to mentally translate and then come up with the correct Italian words that really bother me. In a face-to-face conversation, I have a better chance of understanding what is said, and the people I’m speaking to can read the confusion on my face when they start talking too quickly. They can also observe that I’m processing the information and working on coming up with a response. On the phone, I feel rushed. Taking five seconds to answer what may be a simple question makes me feel stupid. Or maybe I should say it reveals that I am stupid, which is perhaps what the person I’m speaking to is thinking. Maybe Juri thinks my Italian is better than it is, because I usually communicate with him via email or WhatsApp, where I can take my time or even use a translation program.

In any event, Juri did call, and nothing was really wrong with the house. He wanted to paint his veneziani (blinds), and he wondered if I wanted to do ours as well, so we could share the cost of the painting contractor. I said no, because I had painted our veneziani myself last fall. I had noticed that the paint on the metal parts—the hinges and latches—had become worn, and the metal was starting to rust. The rust had made some stains on the walls, something we’ll have to deal with in the future. I had asked Juri this spring if he had any paint of the proper color to cover the rust stains, and he said he would ask the painter. I didn’t ask about this, preferring to wait until we return to Italy to discuss this again in person.

I recently watched a very funny skit by a bilingual Italian woman who offers online language lessons. Aurora often posts humorous conversations with herself that highlight the frustration of learning a new language, and her skit about speaking on the phone cracked me up. It perfectly captures the frustration of being an imperfect language learner and then having to use the phone. You probably need a Facebook account to watch this, but if you can, it’s worth a couple of minutes of your day: https://www.facebook.com/share/v/1BwyMbvBz5/

Wisdom on self-acceptance from a daughter who is beautiful in every way

This message has nothing to do with our Italian adventures, but it is too important to not pass on. At times like this, I wish I had a broader audience, because I would like every young person—and some older ones, too—to hear what one of my wise daughters has to say—about society, about life, about personhood.

This daughter sent me this message in response to a request for a Father’s Day gift. I wrote to all my kids and grandkids: “Please tell me something that you are proud to have done. Maybe it’s something quiet that went unnoticed. Maybe it’s something that you weren’t sure you’d be able to do—but then you did it. Maybe it was something that took patience, perseverance, hard work. Or maybe moral courage. Or kindness. Truly there is no greater gift I can receive than to know that my children and grandchildren have made a positive impact on the world or have overcome obstacles to achieve success.”

All the responses I received were meaningful and special, but this one deserves to be broadcast to the world. It made me happy and sad at the same time. Happy, because of how wise my daughter has become, but sad to hear about the struggles she faced. Maybe I could have done a better job of preparing her for the challenges of life. Well, that ship has sailed, so the next best thing is to share what she wrote, rejoice in her attained wisdom, and hope that her well-expressed message will help someone else.

Dear Dad,

This Father’s Day, you asked me to share something I am proud of. I thought about various accomplishments—degrees, jobs, milestones—but I kept coming back to something more personal and quiet, a sort of shift within myself.

I am proud of learning to accept all of who I am. It didn’t happen overnight—it was a journey of unlearning and relearning. I had to peel back years of shame, release the grip of perfectionism and stop measuring my worth by how others saw me. Choosing self-acceptance meant dismantling unconscious beliefs and learning to trust my own voice. 

From the time we are kids, we get fed images of what girls and women are “supposed” to look like—thin, smooth, symmetrical, forever youthful. These ideals are manufactured by a billion dollar industry that profits from our insecurities, and are upheld by a culture that tethers a woman's value to her appearance. I didn’t choose to internalize those ideas, but I did. And so did my friends, many of whom privately suffered from eating disorders at some point in their lives. Body shame is insidious because it feels so normal in our culture. It's like a low hum in the background of your life, whispering into your head that parts of you are unfit, unworthy and must be hidden or starved if you ever want to be loved. 

The need to police myself for others' approval diverted precious time away from my own growth, joy and self-expression. The energy I wasted being preoccupied with how I look and feeling insecure about it could have gone into things that were real and exciting for me: gardening, dancing, building, dreaming. Unlearning the default shame was the first step on my path to healing and was inspired by my observations of other strong women living their lives boldly and unapologetically (I worked with a few women at a native plant nursery who were very impactful). I started going to therapy and read books by Brené Brown, a researcher who studies shame and vulnerability. I began to see self-acceptance as a radical act, one that reclaims autonomy over how I see myself, how I live in my body, and what I value. I had unknowingly allowed that mental space to be rented out by someone else’s agenda. Piece by piece, I started taking it back. 

Rejecting body shame was—and still is—a process that requires intention, healing, and defiance. It’s daily work and I hope by doing it, I make more space for others to live fully in their bodies too. If I can inspire one young girl to realize how perfectly okay it is to be fully herself, my life will have meant enough to me.

When I stopped believing that my body existed for the approval of others, letting go of the remaining perfectionism that held me back in life seemed to unfold naturally. I used to feel self-conscious about doing anything that I wasn’t skilled at in front of other people. I didn’t want my mistakes or lack of experience to be observed by anyone because it felt shameful and embarrassing. If I looked stupid then I must be stupid. This unconscious belief kept my dreams and goals on hold, paralysing me with a sense of failure before I could even get started. Creativity thrives on trial, error and imperfection. As Jake the Dog says, “Sucking at something is the first step towards being sorta good at something.” This wisdom has been permanently etched in my head ever since I heard it.

Being human is inherently imperfect but imperfection is where the learning happens, where the most honest parts of us are revealed. I’ve come to revel in the messiness of it all. And for that, I am deeply proud. 

Thank you for asking this question. Thank you for loving me exactly as I am.

Happy Father’s Day! I love you, Dad.

 

Lucy and I are snagged by the transit police on the Firenze tram

After nearly 25 years of both visiting and living part-time in Italy with spotless records, we were nabbed for not validating our transport tickets this week in Florence. Argghh, fines of 50 euros for each of us! And it was totally preventable, caused by my laziness . . . and compounded by my stupidity.

It happened on the tram from the train station to the airport. When we boarded, the tram was so jam-packed—and we were the last to enter—that Lucy’s backpack initially got stuck when the doors closed. There was absolutely no way we could have pushed through the crowd to reach the little machine that would stamp our tickets with the day and time. And I figured there was also no way that a transit police officer could get on the tram either. Even if he could, it would be obvious that I couldn’t have stamped the tickets—plus, he would have to delay the tram to deal with such a crowd.

So we were perfectly safe, right? But there are nine other stops before the tram arrives at the airport, and after the seventh one, enough people had exited that we were able to take a seat. On the eighth stop, Lucy pointed out that now I would be able to reach the ticket validation machine. I shrugged. “We’re almost there now,” I said. I’d been standing most of the way, and now I had a seat, and I didn’t feel like getting up. Lazy. Stupid. Because on the ninth stop, two transit officers boarded. Now they only had about a dozen people in each car to confront. Smart. Easy prey.

Of course, I showed my purchased tickets and tried to explain about the crowded cars. “Not my problem,” the officer said. “It’s not crowded now.” His logic was impeccable. He asked for our passports and explained that if I paid immediately, the fine would be 50 euros for each of us, but if I waited, it would keep increasing to a maximum of 360 euros. It took me a few moments to get over my dismay and anger, but I realized that I was trapped. He had our passports in hand and was entering our data into his little computer. I had no doubt that if I refused to pay immediately, this incident would come back to bite me in the pocketbook later.

I bit my tongue, swallowed my pride and pulled out my wallet. He was just doing his job . . . and doing it smartly by entering the tram when there only a handful of people were on board. And because it was the second to the last stop, he was not delaying the tram. We all exited at the final stop and conducted our business on the platform at the airport.

One thing that prevented me from being more upset was the thought, “At least this will make an interesting blog entry.” I quickly pulled out my phone and opened the photo app. I knew the officer would object to having his photo taken, but he was busy entering the data for Lucy’s fine and didn’t notice what I was doing. Rebel that I am, I was able to quickly snap off one photo before his partner saw me and stopped me from taking more.

If you’re thinking that officers accepting cash payments might be pocketing the cash, those days are probably in the past. Now they have machines that record the data, take credit card payments, and print out receipts. They also work in teams of two. I doubt any officer would risk losing his job by taking payments “in nero.”

Losing 100 euros for being lazy and stupid upset us for a time, and I have to give Lucy credit for not being angrier with me. She had prompted me to validate the tickets, and I just shrugged her off. “It’s my fault too,” she said. “I should have just grabbed the tickets and done it myself.” But in the end, we grant ourselves a little grace. We had not intended to defraud the system, and while my first reaction was to tell the officer that I wasn’t going to pay, I’m happy I was able to get my emotions under control and not make a fool of myself. And also happy that I didn’t delay paying out of pride or anger and then have to cough up 720 euros at a later date.

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Postscript: We had another experience with the transit police when we returned to Italy a few months later. It was happier experience for us, but not for some others. More adventures with the transit police in Firenze.