We were tired when we got to the Hotel in Letojanni after a long, red-eye flight from Asheville, via Philadelphia, followed by a shorter flight from Rome to Catania, and a shorter still ride from the airport. I don’t remember much after that. I’m sure we ate, probably with Titus and Maureen, maybe at Ciao Ciao.

I woke up early, well before first light and went out on our balcony. The town was quiet except for an occasional car or motorcycle. I dressed and went out, in search of a caffe’ doppia and a chocolate croissant. It becomes a morning ritual and I settle into a small bakery, Il Gabbiano. I sit among old Sicilian men, drinking espresso and smoking tobacco. I watch them as they laugh and tell stories, starting their days, their own ritual. I see something of them in me and can place myself in that picture.

We went to the beach every day. By that time I had given up worrying about the get together and party and decided to relax and enjoy myself. Letting go is not my strongest trait, but relax we did. Bruschetta and wine on the beach. Crystal clear water at the perfect temp. Two women walking the beach all day, every day, offering massages and umbrellas to shade us from the Mediterranean sun. It was idyllic, bordering on decadent, but lovely, fun.

Kate seemed to meet everyone on the beach. At one point she walked me over to these two bronzed women who were from Frankfurt and another couple from Marin County, CA., a former Economics professor, my worst subject in college.

Caution, potter at play, Letojanni, Sicily, 10/23

Two women from Germany on the beach, Letojanni, Sicily, 10/23.

Food played a role in everything we did. Two hour lunches became the rule. Dinners with twenty that lasted until midnight. And the fish. Mussels, prawns, redfish, swordfish, the best wine, and inexpensive, all. Pasta alla norma, pasta alla vongole were my two favorites. The flaming salt-encrusted fish blended nicely with a Sicilian Dance troupe.

All four photographs from Nino’s restaurant in Letojanni, Sicily, October 2023.

We had the party. I would encourage everyone to check out Bill Mosher’s site, BillyBaba’s Wanderings @ < https://billybaba.com/ >. Go to his October 14 entry for a nice look at the party and follow his site. Bill is a truly amazing 85 year old who travels incessantly. He’s a perceptive observer.

The party, the whole week really, was equally affirming, humbling and unsettling for me. Emotionally and physically draining. The idea of having a birthday party for yourself, and staging it 4,000 miles away in a foreign country, is more than a little audacious and narcissistic. The fact that over 70 people came, both family and friends, is cause for reflection, a look back.

This party was to celebrate my 75th birthday and I wanted to have it at my maternal grandfather’s birthplace in Sicily. My cousin owns a hotel in a small town there and we booked much of it for the party. My grandfather left Sicily with his brother when he was sixteen. He never made it home again and never saw his family after leaving. For me, there was a certain symbolism in being in Sicily. Our grandfather’s three grandsons returning to family ground with our children and grandchildren. Letting him know that while he couldn’t make it back to his family and homeland, we would do it for him.

With the recent passing of my cousin Dolores, I am the oldest member of the American side of our Sicilian family, the Galeanos; I am the patriarch, so to speak. That knowledge heightened my desire to link with the past and offer that same link to other, younger family members.

The Catholic in me asks, “what have I done to deserve this bounty?” I went to Mass the day after the party, my first time in many, many years. Mass is a good place for self doubt and I spent much of the service thinking about the many masses I had attended when I was younger and the effect it had on my life, much of it not positive. Still, I remembered much of the Latin liturgy from my days as an altar boy and the ritual itself was oddly comforting, both familiar and foreign. My cousin once told me that everyone in Italy is Catholic but few people pay attention to its rules.

After mass we went to the cemetery and visited the family crypt that houses our great-grandparent’s remains. Caterina Cicciu and Vincenzo Galeano.

My great-grandparents crypt, Letojanni, Sicily, 2005.

Family members looking at the family crypt, Letojanni, Sicily, October 2023.

My cousin Enzo Costantino talking about different family members who had died, Letojanni, Sicily, October, 2023.

Joey Galeano and Audrey DiPiazza at their great, great, great grandparent’s crypt, October, 2023.

Vincent Galeano standing under his great great grandfather’s crypt, Vincenzo Galeano, Letojanni, Sicily, October, 2023.

From the left, Enzo Costantino, our Sicilian cousin, my brother Mark, Me, and our cousin, Joe Galeano from Maryland. In Letojanni, Sicily, October, 2023. Photo by Kate Amberg

My mother and maybe my grandmother would tell me stories about my grandfather’s family in Sicily. Much of the reason he and his brother left Sicily was because of the rampant poverty gripping the island and the entire south of Italy. Mom remembered while growing up her parents would send care packages back to the old country, much like all immigrant families do. Money, clothing, shoes, towels, sheets. I think this is part of our family’s memory, a link that crosses thousands of miles and five generations.

Thank you Enzo and Margie. You welcomed our entire group and treated us like family. I’m glad you are in our lives.

Pictures & Words