Foreshadowing in Agropoli

During our October 2015 trip, we had only one day/night on the itinerary for Agropoli, the town where Jeb's grandfather was born on the southwest coast of Italy. Despite Jeb's attempts to reach out to his American relatives for clues of family ties, he had no contacts there. Decades and generations had passed, and with them, the treasured connections to long-lost relatives. Most of his grandfather's (very) large family had immigrated to America, so any remaining family in Italy would most certainly have been distant cousins, perhaps belonging to branches of the family tree several degrees from his grandfather. Nonetheless, we set out to explore the small city on foot, hoping that maybe, we'd get lucky.

Once an ancient maritime settlement, Agropoli is now a normal working-class town. It's rare to find anyone who speaks English there and tourists are limited to Italians who come to the seaside on holiday. A beautiful beach with a smattering of hotels is the only indication that the locals cater to outsiders. These are the reasons I loved it so much: to experience a snapshot of everyday life in Italy, without crowds, peddlers, and overpriced accommodations, was refreshing and authentic. As we walked the few miles to the top of city center from our beach-side hotel (view from hotel to city center below), we passed by the dry cleaners, mechanics, salons, and tailors. It was gritty and real.

The uphill climb to Castello Aragonese, a medieval fort built by the Byzantines in the 6th century, was well worth the effort. The beautifully preserved castle is situated at the apex of city center, surrounded by seaside cliffs overlooking the Tyrrhenian Sea and stunning views to the north of the Amalfi Coast. 

Below, the view from the castle of the beach, our hotel somewhere toward the middle.

Below, Jeb standing on an opposite tower at Castello Aragonese.

We meandered down through the historic and pedestrian-only city center, which was draped across the hillside below the castle like a Christmas tree skirt. Ancient staircases and alleyways in every direction led us to one jaw-dropping landmark after another... medieval architecture, sculptures, and churches at every turn. 

It was suspiciously quiet. You might hear the echo of a closing door, the clanking of silverware, or a far-away child playing in the alleyway. The Italian siesta, or riposo, is several hours in the afternoon, anywhere from noon to 4pm, when businesses close down and people rest, eat, and maybe take a nap. It's one of the many appeals of Italian life. As we made our descent, I stopped to snap a pic of the beautiful (yet typical) doorway pictured below.

We eventually stumble upon a small restaurant that appears to be open, somewhat. Like the other locals, an old pup is sleeping in the street outside the restaurant's doors. Satellite picnic tables are situated nearby under a canopied patio overlooking the city marina several hundred feet below. We inquire within, and they hesitantly agree to serve us a litre of wine.  

Children are playing at the fountain, making "wine" in empty soda bottles from grapes plucked from the hillside.

Of course, the house wine is amazing. And cheap. After a little while, we inquire with our young waiter, who speaks no English, whether he has a local phone book. He politely brings back a brochure with phone numbers to the hospital, police, etc. Even with Google translate, we're experiencing a bit of a language barrier. He runs to fetch an older gentleman, presumably the owner, who arrives at our table with a big smile. His English is slightly better, about as good as our Italian. We explain that we're looking for relatives of the Carnicelli family (Americans pronounce this Carna-SELLI, while the Italians pronounce it Carna-CHELLI). He nods and smiles, indicating his comprehension, and makes circling gestures around his face with his hand, pointing to Jeb and saying, "Si, si, si, Carnicelli!" We take this to mean he knows a Carnicelli and Jeb resembles that person. He points up to a balcony a few stories above where we're sitting, literally, and repeats, "Gaetano Carnicelli, si, si!" Suddenly, a flurry of butterflies come over our stomachs. Is this really happening? Could this be a relative? He assures us he will be back in a few minutes with Gaetano. He scurries off. 

We're literally speechless, staring at each other across the table, tears welling up in our eyes at the possibility of this fabulously random and fateful experience. A few moments later, and older couple and young boy return with our friend: Gaetano, his sister, and presumably his grandson. The resemblance in Jeb's and Gaetano's eyes is immediately and eerily apparent. We shake hands and introduce ourselves. Jeb introduces himself as Gerardo Carnicelli, which is his mother's maiden name. They are friendly and curious about these Americans.... We try to explain in more detail who Jeb's relatives are, using our phones to translate and point out a genealogical website documenting the Carnicelli ancestry. There's a lot of nodding and smiling; Gaetano understands. After a short while, he invites us to their house. We quickly pay the bill and follow them up a series of staircases.

As luck would have it, we arrive at their doorstep, the very one that I had stopped to take a picture of an hour or so earlier. Jeb and I pause in disbelief. The picture on the right below is a straight-on shot of their door under the archway. Uncanny doesn't adequately describe this experience...

We follow them inside, where Gaetano's wife, who is much younger than him, warmly greets us. Turns out the older woman was his sister, and the young boy his third son. His two older sons are late teenagers, who politely gather into the living room to meet us. His wife whips up espressos for us and we all sit down. Gaetano fetches his family photos and memorabilia, including his family tree. The middle son knows some English, so the two of us are helping to translate while Jeb and Gaetano intensely investigate their common heritage, below.

Before long, the jury's verdict is in: Jeb's and Gaetano's great-grandfathers were brothers. I'm still not sure exactly what level of "cousinship" that equates to, but it really doesn't matter now does it. However distant, they are blood relatives. The names on Jeb's documents match the names on Gaetano's documents. They are FAMILY. Jeb comments that Gaetano's sister, whose name escapes me now, looks very much like some of his mother's sisters in America. Armed with the very satisfying confirmation of their connection, they take us up to their second story balcony, the one we sat beneath, to show us the magnificent view below. 

Not surprisingly, Gaetano tells us that he is a retired fisherman, and his father was an expert craftsman who built intricate model ships. I wonder if he once built seafaring ships too.

If we'd been able to speak more Italian, we surely would've visited longer and told them more about Jeb and his family. Alas, Jeb and Gaetano exchange emails and we say our sincere goodbyes. Of course, big hugs are in order. Jeb and I return to our little restaurant on the sea, order more wine, and decompress. I order the special on the chalkboard, pasta con cozze e fagioli; still one of the best meals I've ever had in Italy. But our consumption that day surely exceeded food and wine. We consumed history and heritage beyond our wildest dreams. Truly an unforgettable 24 hours in Agropoli.