Di Paolo pilgrimage

Yesterday, I decided to brave the 5 1/2 hour journey each way to visit our ancestral roots in San Vito, a small village on the east coast of Italy. I convinced Sue that this pilgrimage was only mandatory for "blood" and set off on my own.
Being my first solo journey in Italy, the anticipation was equal to the fear that I would wind up on the wrong coast or even the wrong country. I've become somewhat... ok, heavily reliant on Sue's broken Italian and smile that got us out of other jams.
Starting at 7:30am and with only a couple of periods of anxiety centered around the fact that San Vito goes by at least three names, I arrived in the town of my forefathers around 1pm - yes, everyone has forefathers. My parents warned me that it was "up a hill" but hills seem bigger in Italy... and old people seem smaller. It took a full hour of climbing, walking at a brisk North American pace, and asking my one well rehearsed phrase, "Dove cimitero?" - where's the cemetary.
It seems obvious now that memorizing a two word phrase isn't the hard part of communication. Understanding the Italian response was the important and impossible task. I settled on just understanding the first direction provided knowing I would ask another small old person for the next step. I felt like a baseball player asking the coach at each base how to get to the next base, never knowing whether you'd find home plate (a completely inappropriate analogy since our family has never successfully hit a baseball).

The cemetery was small but beautiful with large family mausoleums and single person marble tombs. It seemed far more personal compared with the vast cemeteries I'm used to.
After only five minutes of searching I came upon the Di Paolo mausoleum. There was about six Di Paolo's resting there with a small picture of each. I can't say any of the pictures reminded me of my Dad's photos of our great grandparents, but I've been in Italy a long time and there's always something a little familiar about older Italians.
I took some pictures and spent some time bonding with previous generations before moving on to peruse the rest of the cemetery.

D'Allesandro, Mancini, Bianchi, Di Paolo, Rossi, ... Wait a minute, another Di Paolo mausoleum!
With more trepidation than at the first one, I peered into the vault. The pictures resonated as much or as little as the first Di Paolo discovery. Now, do I go through the same routine as I did on Di Paolo 'A'? What if Di Paolo 'B' was the real thing and Di Paolo A was an imposter? Not wanting to piss off the dead, I took my pictures and reconnected with Di Paolo B.

Having both bases covered, I felt good about myself and moved on. But right you are, there are three bases in my ill conceived baseball analogy.
As I entered Di Paolo C, all old Italians started to look alike. I made a mental note to ask for some first names before going on an Alex Haley-like journey again. I did an abbreviated ritual at Di Paolo C before retreating, a little shaken up.

On the way out of the cemetery, I noticed there were public washrooms. If I paid any attention to my bowels back home, and I sure as hell did, I was now completely obsessed with emptying my system every chance I got. In Italy, you never know how long you have to wait for your next usable toilette. There was also something profound about squatting over the same seatless toilet as my relatives surely had, as you fish old kleenex out of your pockets.
On my walk back to the train station, I came across a little church that I'm sure was frequented by generations of Di Paolo's. I can only imagine the penances that were handed down to Di Paolo children at this confessional, especially to little Michel Di Paolo who was a handful.

I also found proof that the Di Paolo clan still has a tremendous impact on the village of San Vito. Without my namesakes in town, it would be virtually impossible for the villagers to acquire high end Italian footware. Di Paolo Calzature was closed for the day otherwise I might have come home with some new Mephisto's.

On the way back to the train, I walked along the San Vito Marina with waves crashing onto the sandy beach. I did a pathetic attempt to skip stones like I'm sure my young ancestors did. All of a sudden the Burlington beachstrip didn't feel that far away.
After an uneventful journey home, I was back in Rome by 10pm feeling more connected to my Italian heritage and confident that the ghosts of three Di Paolo families were having an animated debate about who I was really related to.