Frank Di Ionno is racing through the mountain roads outside of San Bartolomeo, Italy, like a young Mario Andretti. He is 67 but has the energy and sense of immortality of a man one third his age. I look over at the speedometer. It bounces between 110 and 120. I realize its kilometers but it sure feels like miles...
Frank Di Ionno is racing through the mountain roads outside of San Bartolomeo, Italy, like a young Mario Andretti. He is 67 but has the energy and sense of immortality of a man one third his age.
I look over at the speedometer. It bounces between 110 and 120. I realize its kilometers but it sure feels like miles per hour to me. I am in the passenger seat, belted in. I notice Frank is not. I understand that. I admit I don't normally belt up when I'm driving, either. We both ride motorcycles. That speaks for itself.
Frank rides a Ducati (what else?) and is clearly skilled. The hairpin turns, continued curves and abrupt elevational changes of the mountain roads demand it. They are a relentless thrill ride, demanding constant and intense concentration. I know those roads made Frank a better rider than me. The evidence? I limp; Frank does not.
When Frank has four wheels under him, he tames these roads to the point of recklessness. I find myself gripping the overhead handle as he dives into turns, as if that will save me during a multi-rollover down a steep, rocky hillside.
In the back seat, are two of Frank's friends, Mike D'Andrea and Benito Pacifico. I thought they yielded the front seat to me out of politeness because I am Frank's American guest. Now I'm not sure. The suicide seat, and all that.
Pacifico, 77, speaks some English and is working as the translator. D'Andrea, 40, is keeping up. Frank has no interest. When Pacifico chides him, "Frank you must learn to speak English," Frank waves a dismissive hand followed by a stream of lyrical Italian with inflection that ranges from defiant to apologetic. But he makes either Pacifico or D'Andrea join us for most of what we do over the next few days, including a visit to the family crypt.
Frank Di Ionno is my second cousin, though I had never communicated with him until an hour before this ride.
Our fathers, Antonio and Anthony, are first cousins. Antonio is 97 now, my dad is 93.
When my father was a very young boy, his father took him to San Bartolomeo several times and he and Antonio played together.
Fifteen years ago, on a trip to Italy with my sisters, my father wandered into Garibaldi Square in San Bartolomeo and asked if anyone knew where Antonio Di Ionno lived. They pointed him in the right direction and my father found him living in the same place he had visited as boy.
Before I left for my trip, my father could only describe the house as "right near the square." Unfortunately, that also describes hundreds of others in this typical Southern Italian mountain village, where two- or three-story homes are clustered side-by-side around ancient plazas and Catholic churches.
Before leaving, I sent Frank several Facebook messages but apparently Frank holds Facebook and learning English in the same regard.
So I landed in Naples and, in a rented Opal, found my way to San Bartolomeo, 90 kilometers northeast. The use of "found my way" is purposeful because there were many times when I was lost, especially where the highways end at the soaring gateways to remote mountain villages that existed long before Columbus discovered America.
A map of Southern Italy reads like a phone of North Jersey. The names are familiar, from Abate to Zuppino. Alfano, Battaglia, Castellano, DelVecchio, Fabrizio, Gallo ... you get the idea.
The surnames of my mother's family -- Brienza, Caggiano and Tricarico - are all names of villages near Potenza, where my maternal grandparents came from and where much of the family still resides. (See next Sunday's story.)
On my father's side, both of my grandparents came from San Bartolomeo. There were two waves of immigration -- at the turn of last century and for an extended period after World War II. It's safe to say there are more people in New Jersey "from" San Bartolomeo than are people in San Bartolomeo.
"We had 20,000 people after the war," D'Andrea said. "Now we have only 3,000."
And this is what brought me to Italy, specifically to San Bartolomeo, a typical mountain top village of a few thousand people, and Potenza, a city of 70,000 and the capital of the province of Basilicata.
This is my first trip here and rather than going to the artistic and cultural capitals of Rome and Venice, I opted to explore Southern Italy, exclusively. I am, after all, a New Jersey columnist.
MORE: Recent Mark Di Ionno columns
My search for Frank Di Ionno began in the local Farmacia. I parked my car in a random neighborhood in the town, chosen because it was the only available spot among the chaotically strewn Fiats, Peugeots and Opals.
In the Farmacia, the pharmacist asked if I was English.
"No, American," I said. "From New Jersey."
"Ahh, New Jersey," he said.
Everyone in San Bartolomeo knows New Jersey. The Italians who left San Bartolomeo seemed to go mostly two places: Newark and its suburbs, and Brockton, Mass. That's why there is a street named after Rocky Marciano in the town. The old heavyweight champ's mother was from San Bartolomeo.
I told the pharmacist my father's family was from the village. I told him my last name.
"Ahh, Francesco. Frank."
"You know Frank?
Si, Si. I know Frank. He lives not far from here."
I soon discovered everybody knows Frank.
The pharmacist wrote down the name of Frank's street but in the maze of small streets and alleys I was soon lost, unsure of even how to find my car. I approached two men fixing a World War II Memorial fountain slightly up the hill from the square.
"Scusi ..." I said, exhausting my knowledge of Italian ... dove a Frank Di Ionno?"
"Ahh, Frank, Frank. Si si," one of the men said.
After a broken English and Italian conversation that included mostly hand gestures, it was understood that I was Frank's cugino from New Jersey. The man took out a flip cell phone. It turns out he was a cugino of Frank's wife, Giovanna.
Once again, I got directions I had no chance of following, not knowing my sinistra (left) from my a destra (right). The only thing I really understood were the words "Palio Bar," one of the dozens of cafes where mostly men sit and talk or play cards.
At this point, I began walking up the steep hill as directed but found no Palio Bar. Instead I got a panoramic view of the adjacent mountains and valleys below. There is no describing the beauty, so I won't try. Like they say, you had to be there.
Walking down the hill in another direction, I heard the sounds of boys playing soccer on the concrete court. I was parked across the street, so I was relieved to know I would at least find my car - which, by coincidence was parked not 15 meters from the Palio Bar. I went in, ordered a Peroni and asked the bartender if he knew Frank Di Ionno.
"Frank. Si. Si.," He gestured me to the back window and pointed to a row of homes. "Frank. First house."
I walked down and called in through the beaded doorway, which serve as screens in Southern Italy. An elderly couple came to the door. It was Antonio Di Ionno, right where my father had found him, and his wife Anna.
I was in town less than an hour and I had found my famiglia.
I thought it was miraculous until I discovered that everyone knows Frank. He's gregarious, fun, and loves to talk and talk.
"Me and you, we the same," he would come to say, touching his index fingers together.
Antonio was unclear of exactly who I was, except a Di Ionno, but he rang the bell at Frank's apartment and Giovanna appeared on the balcony.
"Who are you?" she asked.
I explained and she understood enough English to welcome me.
A minute later I was in their living room meeting Frank. We went back downstairs to explain to my parents and their eyes teared. They stared at me with fixed smiles, and with Giovanna acting as an interpreter, I answered their many questions about my family and my life.
We would have talked all night, but there was tomorrow. For now, Frank had plans and he insisted I come along. That's how I found myself strapped into his Peugeot blasting through the Italian countryside on the way to a feast of baccala and potatoes in a place called Piscina Ristorante, 50 kilometers away near the highway to Campobasso.
We walked in and the waiter said, "Ciao, Frank."
This is how it was during my two-and-half days in San Bartolomeo. Knowing Frank brought privilege.
As I strolled through the streets on the second day in one of the rare few hours I had alone, I came to the Church of San Bartolomeo, started in 1533 and finished in 1647. The rounded, green-tiled steeple appears like the lone candle on a cake of red terra cotta roofs. The church was locked and I asked a man outside when it would be opened. Then I explained why I was in town.
"Ahh, Frank. Frank Di Ionno. Si. L'aspetta (wait)," he said, which in the Southern Italian accent sounds like aashpet.
He disappeared into a house and came back with keys and I was allowed into the sacred space of the patron saint. Another man joined us.
"A cugina a Frank Di Ionno," the first man explained.
Ahh, si. Frank," he said and took me proudly onto the altar to see the gold and silver statue of San Bartolomeo behind the glass.
Then they gestured for me to follow them up the narrow stone and plaster steps to the bell tower. On the way, I asked their names. The first man, the caretaker, was Alberto Castello. The second man was Tonino Dariano.
Dariano was my paternal grandmother's maiden name and she, too, was from San Bartolomeo. I explained this to Tonino, who understood despite our language differences.
After taking pictures of the view and of each other, we headed down. There, Tonino met an old woman and told her I was a Di Ionno and a Dariano, from New Jersey.
"Ahh, Dariano. Si. New Jersey. Capire."
A few minutes later I sat outside a cafe on Garibaldi Square, drinking a 2-liter bottle of Leggera bottled water. As people wandered by, I realized I'd seen them all before. In Summit, where I grew up. In Millburn, my father's town. In the Oranges and the North Ward of Newark. In Verona, Bloomfield, Belleville and Nutley, and all the other New Jersey towns San Bartolomeo lost people to. The good hair, the olive skin, the quick smiles and the lyrical sounds of the language engulfed me. Something lost in my soul was found. I felt grounded. This was home, at least to my DNA.
And at that moment a man inched by in a car on the narrow square road. He could have been the identical twin brother of my friend Eddie Spallone, who I have known since I became cognizant of my surroundings. We nodded at each other.
"Ciao."
Mark Di Ionno may be reached at mdiionno@starledger.com. Follow The Star-Ledger on Twitter @StarLedger and find us on Facebook.