Leaving America: My Life Sentences From Italy

By Fred Gagliardini

I’m an American criminal defense attorney from California. Now retired, and having Italian heritage and recently acquired Italian citizenship, my book recites my first year living in a new country. Leaving America begins with a personal account of the emotional decision to move from a large city in America to Italy. After having represented criminal defendants in death penalty cases, these anecdotes will unfold as my “life sentences” from Italy. Why Italy? Why Abruzzo? Why Colledimezzo? The answers will unfold in this compilation of short stories containing my personal observations, thoughts, and no nonsense – and often unfiltered - reflections on the first year of my new life in Italy. The adventures are focused on the people and happenings in Colledimezzo, a small hill-top village in rural Abruzzo, and the surrounding villages. Leaving America describes my attempt to assimilate and make a new home in Italy. The experiences are eye-opening and thought provoking. From learning the language to understanding the culture. Living according to new customs and retooling my old American lifestyle to one as an Italian. Will I ever be more than an American immigrant? Can I ever become a part of this comune? My life sentences from Italy describe the good, the bad, and the ugly as an American expat in Colledimezzo, a small village of a few hundred people in the beautiful province of Chieti near the Adriatic Sea in central Italy. What a rollercoaster ride – and it’s not over yet.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fred Gagliardini
• Release date: Nov 26, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463380581

Fred Gagliardini

I’m an American criminal defense attorney from Central California. Retiring after having spent 20 years in the practice of criminal defense, I used my Italian heritage to gain citizenship, and moved to Italy. Leaving America begins with a personal account of the emotional decision to move from a large city in America to a rural village in Italy. After having represented criminal defendants in death penalty cases, these anecdotes will unfold as my “life sentences” from Italy. I hope you enjoy every moment.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

The decision has been made to write. To write my life sentences from Italy about leaving America. If I’m going to tackle writing about any topics related to Italy, I guess I should start with the emotion filled topics. The topics that created waves of emotion then in real-time, and now when my fingers come anywhere near the keyboard to write about them. Topics that involve God and my faith, my health, my profession, love, possessions, persons near and dear, and a myriad of other areas that are causing tears to flow again just thinking about them. My mind is reeling with current and past thoughts, trying to decide just where to start. I can feel the tears welling up again and slowly rolling down my cheeks while looking at a blank computer screen. Looking at the screen while looking inward to my memories.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve known I was Italian. For god sake, my name is Gagliardini. In kindergarten I was the last one to learn how to spell my family name. We had a big family. Lots of uncles, aunts, and cousins. Sunday meals were common for the Gagliardini family. You’ve either had them yourself or you’ve seen them. The family gathered together and ate more food than we should have. Some or these feasts made Thanksgiving look like just another lunch. Usually the meal was devoured at my Nono and Nonna’s vineyard in Madera, California. While growing up I was around family, the vineyard, its grapes, winemaking, the garden, cooking, baking, pasta, polenta, ravioli making, hunting, women wearing aprons, dogs, and our history. Lots and lots of history. I knew our family roots originated in Cupramontana, a small village in the province of Marche. The province just to the north of Abruzzo is where Cupramontana is located.

My great-grandfather (Cesare) came to America with his wife (Filomena) and four children. The family grew after arriving in America. They left Italy and came across the Atlantic Ocean on a ship called the S.S. Calvo in 1905. It’s still difficult for me to believe, but they ended up imprisoned on a sugar plantation in Gueydan, Louisiana. They were technically called indentured servants. Reality is, that’s political shorthand for slave. After escaping the sugar plantation in Louisiana, they made their way to Madera, California and planted their American roots.

My grandfather was born in America, as was my father, and I. Leaving America and retiring in Italy was never a life-long dream. Nor was it ever a thought that existed in the forefront of my mind. In fact, until quite recently I had never explored the concept or process of leaving America for another country. But we all change over time. Life changes us. Priorities change. For me, the entire course for my life was altered over the course of a few months. The result? I’m sitting at a kitchen table in Italy, watching the sun rise over the mountains, while typing this story and occasionally peaking at God’s beauty out the window. The smell of freshly brewed coffee from my Moka pot lingers in the kitchen. The sweet smell of the cappuccino envelopes my nostrils as I recall the emotions and events that led to this very moment.

I’m not sure exactly what put me on the track of gaining my citizenship in Italy. That part was more happenstance than purposeful. However, I do recall specifically what prompted me to do it when I did. The Italian immigration laws permit a person of Italian ancestry living in any other country to apply for Italian citizenship. But, the applicant must be within three generations of an Italian ancestor who never renounced Italian citizenship. In short, if I could determine whether Cesare or Filomena died in America not having renounced their Italian citizenship, then I could apply to become recognized as an Italian citizen by blood. Italians call the process jus sanguinis. I also learned that if I could become an Italian citizen then my children and my grandchildren could follow the same track as me without any difficulty whatsoever. But, the downside was if I didn’t attempt to become recognized, or failed, then the door would be closed on my family forever. It was important to me to keep that door open for my sons and their families.

The application process was tedious and time consuming. Forms needed to be completed in English and then translated into Italian. The forms I submitted as well as many official birth and death certificates needed to be translated into Italian. Many of these required an apostille from the appropriate government agency in Italy to be considered by the Italian Consulate in America. The work included arduous research, appointments at the consulate, an initial denial, some homework, more documents, an appeal, and a trip and interview at the Italian Consulate. But finally, in February of 2017, I received my recognition as an Italian citizen and, as you know now, made the decision to leave America.

A couple of years after starting the process and gaining my citizenship, several life-changing events occurred. It was the combination of those events that prompted the move to Italy. Some of these events are more difficult to share than others. Pardon me, but some of the most personal of the many reasons is being reserved. Maybe in a later volume or chapter. But not today. Now. I just can’t. Not yet.

Cancer. That is a word that can change you forever. When you’re sitting in a chair in the doctor’s officer, waiting for the results of a biopsy, those moments can seemingly drag on forever. My hearing isn’t as good as it used to be, but I could hear every tick of the wall clock. I could hear my heart pounding in my chest. I could feel the beads of sweat starting to creep into my palms. I could smell the odor of disinfectant from the adjoining exam room. I hadn’t heard any news at all, yet I wanted to cry. My gut was churning. Bubbling with acid. It was a Friday morning when I got the news. I had started a criminal jury trial a week or so before. My plan was to get the results and then go to court and continue the jury trial. Being positive, and being realistic about gossip in a courthouse, I had only shared the reason for the medical appointment with the judge. That privacy was going to be very short-lived.

Cancer. The news I didn’t want to hear. There it was. That word. Cancer. I acknowledge that most men will get this cancer at some point in their life. But I was only 58 and that felt awfully young.

The doctor explained the treatment options. None of which was appealing. I left the doctor’s office and went to the courthouse. I told the judge what the diagnosis was and he made the decision to dismiss the jury for the weekend, continue the jury trial to the following week, and allow me some time to process the news. My preference was to continue the trial so that my mind would be distracted from cancer and diverted on the events in trial. The judge wasn’t having that. Not at all. And as I look back, I’m grateful for his insistence.

Sometimes it’s not one big thing that alters our lives, but an accumulation of a lot of little things. I had already noticed that my legal prowess was diminishing. Small, subtle, almost unrecognizable mistakes in recollecting the state of the law. Others didn’t see these little missteps, but I did. I found myself looking up references that a year ago I could have spouted from memory.

As a private pilot with an instrument rating, it is imperative to be accurate and precise during flights in instrument conditions. Fog, rain, clouds, are conditions that make for difficult and challenging approaches to airports. Mistakes in the cockpit – even teeny tiny mistakes - can be unforgiving and at times fatal. Yep. Small mistakes were occurring. Not on every flight. Not huge. But mistakes nevertheless. A missed radio call, transmitting on the wrong frequency, changing over late on a route adjustment. I chalked them up to being distracted with life events. Maybe…

Simultaneously, my caseload grew heavier and heavier. Defending clients accused of capital offenses (death penalty cases) is stressful and emotional. These clients – guilty or not – are facing the most severe of all penalties permitted in California. Death. The number of cases I had was many and the complexity of these cases had grown over the years. Prosecution and law enforcement discovery materials now included cell tower pings, recorded phone calls from jail, wiretaps, DNA forensic reports, complex financial documents, and video surveillance. The materials to review were extremely time-consuming.

The workload was increasing. The hours per week I was working was increasing. The complexity of the cases was increasing. In contrast, the time for stress relief, vacation, relaxation, and self-care was disappearing. My healthcare premium was going up year after year. Taxes were increasing, gas costs rising, food costs going up, and the overall quality of life in Bakersfield was rotting away. Serious crimes were occurring daily, homelessness was spreading like wildfire throughout the city, public injection of narcotics by abusers was commonplace, community division was becoming more apparent, and the resentment created by illegal immigration was on the rise.

I tried looking into other parts of California, Washington, and Texas to relocate. Exploring Placer County, Del Norte, Austin, Houston, and Tacoma, was interesting, but none looked much different than where I was. It was frustrating. Disheartening.

Then it happened. I was listening to a podcast by Andy Stanley. Andy is a pastor from Georgia and is the son of Charles Stanley. Without infringing on his copyright, I’ll make this short. His message that week was a story from Ecclesiastes 4:6. It is better to have one handful with peace and tranquility, that two handfuls with strife and chasing the wind.

It hit me. Like a two by four to the head. I was chasing the wind. I was racing against others who didn’t even know a race was going on. Without a finish line in sight. I was working more and more, to get more and more, and all the while losing my joy and peace. I had a large home in an exclusive neighborhood, heated pool with a waterfall, and a large outdoor kitchen. I owned an airplane and motorhome. I had a small home in the mountains. I had cars, collectible art, autographed guitars from Buck Owens and Charlie Daniels, expensive this and more expensive that. But the one thing I didn’t have was peace.

I was, for whatever reasons, unwilling or unable to be satisfied with one handful and enjoy peace. My life had been filled with an empty effort to gain more and more. I was chasing the wind. Chasing something that can never be caught. Racing against whatever and whomever. No finish line or end in sight.

At that moment, during that podcast, I made the decision to change my life. To take a cue from all the not-so-subtle nudging I’d been getting and make a change. To finally realize that there were some people in my present and past that would never truly know me.

Knowing that my health was in flux, a change was imminent, yet Social Security was a few years down the road. I needed to be thankful for my handful and quit chasing the wind. I needed to decide where to live out my final chapters. One of those chapters would be entitled retirement. My choice was clear. I must retire. But where? How? The questions began to crystallize. Where can I get the biggest bang for my buck? Buy a house? Have decent healthcare for little or nothing? Pay little or no property tax? Enjoy a low cost of living? Not too hot and not too cold? Close to the beach and mountains?

There was a running joke I had with my dad. Once he retired, almost every conversation would include a reminder that he was now living on a fixed income. That phrase used to make me laugh on the inside because, quite frankly, everyone is living their lives on some kind of fixed income. It may not be the same for everyone, but it’s pretty much fixed. And if it’s not fixed, it’s clearly well-defined. And well-confined with limits. One thing is certain, our lifetime is fixed. Our time is fixed.

So, the decision was made. I was going to retire. I can tell you that the decision to retire was much easier than figuring out where and how to do it. Between the start of my citizenship application process and receiving final citizenship documents, I was diagnosed with cancer, underwent treatment, suffered from Valley Fever, lost friends to death, and renewed strained relationships with family members. In the midst, a lengthy relationship ended with someone I still love very much. These were a few of the factors that made retirement the correct choice for me. But I still hadn’t picked a place yet.

I toyed with the idea of completing my commercial pilot license so that I would have some supplemental income after retiring from the practice of law. Maybe even stay in California. Unfortunately, discussing that plan with my physician brought that thought to an abrupt halt. Without getting too political, the United States – and especially California - seems to be hell-bent on a course of self-destruction. Those that work or have any funds are being taxed more and more to pay for those that don’t. In California, much of my taxes were being spent on public safety, real estate, and automobile registration. A huge chunk of what remained was spent on health care premiums, prescriptions, and co-payments for treatment.  

My online search for potential places in Italy quickly narrowed to two regions. Abruzzo and Molise. Abruzzo, the green region as it’s called, looked beautiful in the images on the web. Molise, no offense, didn’t trip my trigger. If I was going to retire and move to Italy, I had some personal preferences for location. Inexpensive housing, depressed economy, low cost of living, near the ocean and mountains, and no appreciable snow. I like the sun and beach, mountains, lakes, and green. Not so much the snow.

You may wonder why I would purposefully seek out a place with a depressed economy. Right? In America when one thinks of a depressed economy it is usually equated with a crime-ridden area of inner-city blight and nasty housing. In Italy, it simply means there are no jobs. I’m not looking for work though, I’m leaving work. So, a depressed economy that has resulted in equally depressed housing prices is the perfect place for me.

After many hours of internet surfing and charting. I had created maps with temperature ranges and housing costs. Completed spreadsheets with economic factors and distances to various services. Together, I

Reviews for Leaving America

[Ariana Cunningham · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I delighted in reading the stories shared by Fred... honest, transparent , raw with emotion and also hopeful as he adjusts to a brave new life in rural Italy. Should we all take a plunge into a new existence and share with others .... I hope to !!
Thank you
Gillian