Family Ties

by Helen Shorthouse (New Zealand)

Making a local connection Italy

“Patalano?” “Si, Patalano!” ‘Patalano’ is my husband’s surname. He’s never met anyone outside his family with the name and it tickles us to hear two elderly Italian cousins shouting it as they try and locate each other on a sunny winter’s morning. We’re currently having a ‘grown-up gap year’ and have driven our campervan to the island of Ischia in the Bay of Naples. Chris has never been particularly interested in his ancestry, but a relative has traced the family here as far back as 1783 and so Ischia becomes our target. He doesn’t look at the family tree until the night before the ferry crossing. Parked on the slopes of Mount Vesuvius, with the lights of Naples and its Bay twinkling below, his roots suddenly came to life and he becomes surprisingly emotional. Clambering from our campervan we stop to watch the old men playing 'bocce' on the harbourside. The large, brightly coloured balls are thrown towards the ‘jack’ with varying degrees of accuracy, but for one short, weathered man in leather jacket who repeatedly hits an ace shot. I snap photos, with the town’s pastel buildings behind, climbing the hill towards volcanic cliffs. I turn around and Chris is showing his passport to the crowd of men. “Ciao” we smile and saunter off. Moments later a car pulls up and we are beckoned in, pretty sure this is one of the men from the bocce, so don’t panic! On the edge of town he pulls over and says “Patalanos live here” gesturing an alleyway. We’re not getting any introductions, so begin peering at letter boxes identifying residents by name. We’ve scoured a dozen before I spot a lady sweeping her steps and speak my few Italian words: “My husband, his family is Patalano from Forio” “Ah” she laughs and gestures to herself “I am Patalano!!” We meet the excitable and deaf elderly nona, the young impatient teenager, the aloof husband, the brother recalled from church and the nosy neighbour. Several hours later we leave with the English-speaking niece who appoints herself our guardian for the week. We visit the church (closed) and the municipal offices (“the genealogy expert is not here today”). We take photos of dozens of 'Patalano' gravestones - each one bearing a photograph; a tradition that warms me for identifying a life lived, rather than a loved one lost. From here we perch on a wall overlooking the stormy sea, picnicking on smoked cheese, fresh crispy bread and lashings of warm, fresh salty air clearing our minds. We meet Franco Patalano who owns the fast food outlet and feeds us arancini balls with crispy coats and moist rice inners. He looks more like our Patalanos than anyone else. It’s the nose!! It’s our last day and we have exhausted all avenues so head to Sorgeto Bay where a scalding natural thermal pool is doused with icy January waves, alternately stinging my skin, making me half laugh and half cry as I pretend to relax. En route, we stop at a hotel we’ve been told sells ‘Patalano’ wine. We discover they don’t sell it anymore, but, wait - they are Patalanos too!! In comes Luigi and makes us a coffee, typical Italian espresso, strong and downed in two sips! Family trees are poured over to see if connections can be made and then we are driven to his cousin, the holder of the family records. And so here we are, laughing at how ubiquitous Patalanos are if you know where to look! Chris’ great grandfather left the island, following scores of others to New York. Tourism drives today’s economy, but in the late 1800s, it was agriculture and fishing. Men left home to survive, never to see their families or homes again. We’ve been enthralled by how this unknown past has shaped our family’s current reality. Have we discovered more ‘facts’ to add to our family tree and met any genuine relatives? In truth, probably not. But we have relished this opportunity to experience the true Ischia. Its natural beauty is one thing, but it’s the kindness and enthusiasm to assist that will stay in my mind as a special place for Family Patalano.