Our Italian Journey

By Ilene Modica and Gary Modica

Can you imagine living in Italy for one full year? This was the dream. That was the promise. After a rollercoaster ride of three years to obtain Italian citizenship, Ilene and Gary achieved their goal. In 2019, they packed up leaving family and friends to live this dream in Italy.

This is their travel memoir and personal adventure, which has changed their lives forever. In Our Italian Journey, you will discover and share their desire for a genuine experience with an Italian family and how this dream came true. Enjoy their stories and witty insights about new Italian friendships, reconnecting with old friends, meeting up with subscribers to their blog, and the countless experiences through the various towns they stayed and explored.

In Our Italian Journey, Ilene and Gary provide you with an entertaining look at life in Italy. A journey with a bit of history, tradition, and culture that is written from their hearts. Experience and appreciate Italy’s charm and appeal while joining in the laughter as they also divulge the trials and tribulations they encountered along the way. Through this journey, they eat and drink their year through Italy visiting 8 regions and 46 cities; include Sicilia and—Licodia Eubea, their new Italian birthplace. They picked up their Italian birth and marriage certificates during the adventure in Sicily.

Their debut, writing this book together as their journey unfolded in 2019, was a step outside of their comfort zone and a new venture for them. Ilene and Gary invite you to take a glimpse of Italy through the eyes of locals and their pride as new Italian citizens. Our Italian Journey would make a great “Italy Read” prior to an upcoming visit to Italy or for someone who just enjoys the Italian culture and would like to experience it firsthand with this couple.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ilene Modica
• Release date: Jan 24, 2021
• ISBN: 9781735376103

Ilene Modica

Ilene and Gary are award-winning bloggers and authors of two books.Their very first memoir has been transformed recently into an audiobook! The best part is, that they've narrated it themselves, enhancing the connection between author and audience, and bringing their written words to life in a new way. Listening to their authentic voices recounting the stories and experiences that have shaped their lives has been an incredibly personal and emotional journey."When Your Heart Finds Its Home," (their second book) is a continuation of their first - but... it is also a stand-alone memoir. Finding their "perfect Italian town" became a reality and now they are living La Dolce Vita in Italy.The first book, “Our Italian Journey,” was written while living in Italy for one year in 2019. Writing as they traveled through various towns they stayed and explored, they share their trials and tribulations, as well as the laughter in this lighthearted book. They describe artful depictions of Italy’s seducing charm, their experiences in daily life, Italy’s cultural differences, and the well-known Italian zest for living. Live vicariously through them in their spiritual experiences throughout this beautiful country they can now call home.It took them three years to become Italian citizens through the Jurs Sanguinis and Jurs Matrimonii application through the Los Angeles, California Consulate. They would describe this process as a rollercoaster ride and currently help others with their applications, questions, and travel advice. Obtaining Italian citizenship became personal for Gary in wanting to bring his name back home to Italy.Currently, they are living in Lucca, Italy.

Book preview

Contents

Introduction

Bringing My Family Name Home

Preparing for the Journey

All Roads Lead to Rome

Orvieto | Sicily: Marsala | Castelvetrano | Sciacca | Sambuca | Corleone | Licodia Eubea

Conversano: A Gem in Puglia

Matera | Polignano a Mare | Monopoli | Alberobello | Lecce | Martina Franca | Bari

Our Passion with Florence

Venice | Tuscany | Prato | Arezzo

Scafati: A Different Experience

Sorrento | Naples | Capri | Salerno | Amalfi

Foligno: Exploring Umbria

Spello | Spoleto | Perugia | Assisi | Montefalco

The Charm of Arezzo

Verona: The City of Love

Padova | Innsbruck, Austria | Bolzano | Trento | Brescia |

Lake Como

Medieval Lucca

Viareggio | Livorno | Chiavari

Reflections

Acknowledgments

Update 2020

Personal Request

A Little Humor

About the Authors

Introduction

Gary

T

he Italian Consulate in Los Angeles is a modern high-rise structure made of steel and glass which sits squarely in the heart of Hollywood at 1900 Avenue of the Stars. It was here, in November 2015, our initial appointment with the consulate was scheduled to present my application and papers for requesting dual citizenship with Italy. With the help of our attorney in Arizona, Ilene and I gathered all my documents, apostilles, and translations needed for the first appointment. I had to apply and prove my bloodline, Jus Sanguinis, through my grandfather as my father had been born in America.

Standing in front of the small, plexiglass, bank-type window, we met Mrs. Buiano. Her appearance… a bit on the short and round side with wavy, shoulder-length blonde hair. Her smile looked warm, yet she had a stern demeanor about her. She spoke perfect English, aiding in our easy conversation. I passed along each requested document, one by one, through the slot in the glass located below the open speaking circle. Nervous and naive and the years of gathering the materials prior to this day were weighing on my mind—not to mention the expense! Mrs. Buiano, readjusting her reading glasses several times, examined each document carefully, advising me, of a few things she immediately noticed needed attention.

No problem, I replied.

She summoned Ilene to approach the window. Do you also want citizenship?

"Si," she answered immediately and without hesitation.

Mrs. Buiano took out a paper, slid it through the slot in the glass, and requested Ilene sign—her maiden name. Women in Italy are known by their maiden names.

But I want to be a Modica, Ilene blurts out, probably a bit louder than anticipated and a bit exasperated.

"No, sign your maiden name here," Mrs. Buiano replied sternly.

And so, Ilene did. We certainly didn’t want to make any waves.

We left the consulate in silence not feeling one hundred percent confident and a bit antsy about our appointment. Would everything fall into place?

We waited a few weeks and checked with our attorney about our application. She indicated she had spoken to Mrs. Buiano and everything seemed satisfactory. However, she advised us the process takes time. Lots of time. She also mentioned they discussed the fact that if we were serious about Italian citizenship, we should consider selling our home. Hold everything! We were so very naive. Why didn’t we question this statement? Plenty of people own homes in both locations. Did Ilene and I both misunderstand?

So, what did we do? Yup, we put our home of twenty-seven years on the market. It became too large for the two of us since our girls left home. Eventually, we would have put it up for sale anyway. It sold in a week! We sold everything—furniture, possessions, and ultimately our cars. We did not want the added expense of a storage unit for the year we planned to be in Italy. All we had left fit into four, large, green Rubbermaid containers—you know—the kind you use to store Christmas decorations? It was all quite liberating, but we didn’t even bother to check or question why they thought we needed to sell the house. We just did it. Silly us.

Months and years passed, and most months we received no communication at all from the consulate. We often wondered and worried that they had lost our application—it had fallen into paperwork oblivion—some deep black hole. This became our deepest fear. Meanwhile, during this limbo state, we alternated staying with family and renting a condo from my friend Tom. In the midst of this pandemonium, we returned to Italy twice, staying ninety days each time, trying to make the best of the current situation. First, we went to Parma, then—abiding by law—had to return to the United States for ninety days before returning to Florence.

After about two years from the date of our initial filing, we heard from Mrs. Lualdi at the consulate requesting amendments and changes to certain documents. What? It takes them two years to determine we need changes? My grandfather’s age on my father’s birth certificate was incorrect and my father’s name wasn’t exact on other documents as well. All these documents needed corrections. These corrections needed to go back through the Vital Records Department in New York—where I was born—to have the changes made. It was necessary for each document to be verified by the city, county, state, as well as new translations for each one. Originally, when requesting these documents from New York, I would send them back to each department multiple times to secure all the changes with necessary stamps and seals, taking months. Even though some departments were in the same building and even just down the hallway, they had to send them back to us only for us to turn around and send to the next department. For the final document, I finally found a service that could take care of all these changes in one or two days for a reasonable fee.

Mrs. Lualdi also informed me my grandmother was married prior to my grandfather. I would need a copy of her first husband’s death certificate or divorce papers proving to the consulate she married my grandfather legally. Luckily, this death certificate came directly from Italy and didn’t need any translation.

Each one of these amended documents became part of our file, but not before they went through the verification process at the consulate. To our dismay, this did not happen overnight. After every corrected document, we were advised they would contact us again if any further information was needed. The silence became difficult to handle. Several times we questioned whether I would ever obtain citizenship. So did family and friends, who were kind enough to not express their thoughts and fears to us.

Finally, on September 11, 2018, I received an email congratulating me on becoming an Italian citizen. A one sentence email without any pomp and circumstance. Since I had been approved for citizenship and married before 1983, Ilene’s paperwork was ultimately processed through the Vital Records Department at the consulate for her citizenship through Jus Matrimonii.

In summary, it took nine days short of three years to obtain both our Italian citizenships and Italian passports. Now, the process takes much longer. At the Los Angeles Consulate—it can take up to ten years! During our application period, the Italian government had two years to process, accept, or deny our application. A new law in January 2019 increased the timeframe to three years, allowing them a much longer time to process all requests. This new law also added a language requirement for a spouse. Ilene was ecstatic she snuck in just before this change took effect. If I recall, dancing in circles and a great deal of singing was involved in her celebration.

We are grateful the years of uncertainty, and the lengthy application process, are finally behind us. We started our blog initially to document the dual-citizenship process and to help others with theirs. The blog has now expanded to our exploration and insight of various Italian cities and towns, as well as travel tips, restaurants, hotel recommendations, and even recipes we enjoy.

We have made every effort to make sure our Italian pronunciations and spellings are correct but remember… we are learning Italian. Stiamo imparando l’italiano!

You can find more information on most of the cities we talk about in this book on our blog. We invite you to join our journey at ouritalianjourney.com.

Bringing My Family Name Home

Gary

T

here are many reasons why people want to move to Italy or acquire dual citizenship. It might be the love of food, the delicious wines, the beautiful architecture, the fine art, the historical surroundings and, of course, Italy’s most precious jewel—her people.

Ilene and I visited Italy in 2010 and again in 2012. On these typical two- to three-week vacations, we ran around willy-nilly to see as much as we could in the time we had off from work. Not the way to truly enjoy all Italy has to offer. During our flight back home to Phoenix, Arizona, in 2012, we looked at each other. Without saying a word, both realized somehow, someway, we needed to be in Italy. I thought perhaps through citizenship. But how? Was it even possible? I realized there seemed to be another reason for me wanting to become an Italian citizen—and it was personal.

I grew up in the town of Maspeth in New York City in the 1950s. During this time, Maspeth consisted of predominately Italian and Polish families, and I counted as part of both communities. We didn’t ask people about their nationality. Instead, we asked, What alley are you from? You see, there were two alleys in Maspeth: Polack Alley and Guinea Alley. No one took offense to the names back then, and knowing where you lived pretty much said what nationality you were. Being part of both neighborhoods meant something very special to me, my father being Italian and my mother Polish. Each community had its own identities and customs. But, more importantly, each held a strong sense of family and was not afraid to show it. I couldn’t ask for a better place to grow up.

* * *

A little history of Italian families: the first-born boy in an Italian family is the king, the heir apparent to the throne and, unfortunately, it wasn’t me. I was my mother and father’s second son, while my brother was the first-born boy. Because of my mother’s Polish nationality, to my Nonna, Nanny, and others in the family on the Italian side, I identified as The Polack. No matter what I accomplished or did for them, I was still The Polack. They say misery likes company, so my three male cousins were treated the same way by our Nonna, even though they had been born to fully Italian parents. Of course, my two female cousins didn’t count either.

On the other hand, it seemed all right because to my Nonno, Pop, Aunt Mary, and especially my father, I was Gary, not The Polack.

* * *

Still, in 2012, relaxing during the flight home, I realized I had to become an Italian citizen, even if for selfish reasons. It became my quest in life to be the one in the family to bring our surname back to Italy. You see, other than my Uncle Sal during World War II (WWII) and my grandparents, of course, no Modica had ever stepped foot in Italy. None, nada, zippo. And they were considered The Italians. Among the seven grandchildren, and my Uncle Joe, Aunt Mary, and my father, I would be the only Italian citizen in the whole bunch. Imagine that…The Polack—a citizen of Italy!

To this day, to the best of my knowledge, I’m still the only family member to visit Italy, let alone be a citizen. Imagine, Nanny, The Polack is the one to bring our family name back home. I obtained my Italian citizenship for two people. For myself and, most of all, for my Pop—Sebastiano Modica.

Preparing for the Journey

Ilene

G

ary and I promised each other, when this entire rollercoaster process of dual citizenship became final, we would spend one year in Italy. A gift to each other. Not in one town but traveling through regions we had yet to discover. A minimum of one month would be needed to truly acquire a feel of a city and its people. Two or three would be better, like we had done in the past, but this had consistently been our plan.

Our passport appointments, scheduled after the entire citizenship process of three years, fell into place on October 22, 2018. It was a miracle we secured these two Monday-morning appointments—they had just opened on the previous Friday, three days before. These appointments are scheduled months and even years in advance. A Facebook group we belong to led me to think outside the box to obtain these appointments. As it turned out, our original appointments, scheduled for March 2019, could now be canceled. We scrambled to make a hotel reservation near the Consolato Generale d’Italia in Los Angeles, the same location as our initial appointment back on November 3, 2015. We notified both our employers we would take Monday off, and they expressed sincere happiness for us. Our family, friends, and coworkers had been part of this extensive process from the beginning. All were supportive, even when it seemed like it never would happen.

We arrived and took our seats, waiting for our appointment time. We had requested to meet Mrs. Buiano prior to our passport appointment with another consulate representative. After all, our journey started with her at our initial appointment, and we wanted to thank her, especially for her assistance by email these last few weeks. We had brought her a box of Baci chocolates as a small gesture of thanks. As we patiently waited, taking in a deep sigh, I glanced around the room. In all this time, the office had still not changed. The décor appeared the same, and the bank-style windows flanking both sides of the office remained, still a bit intimidating. As we sat in the uncomfortable plastic school-like chairs, we were told Mrs. Buiano would see us. Gary and I stood in anticipation. The slender woman appeared with a cute hairstyle… we hardly recognized her. She smiled as she read our minds.

She whispered to us, This is what going through a divorce can do for you.

Both of us grinned back and told her she looked lovely. She appreciated the box of Italian chocolates and was more than happy to let the security guard take a snapshot of the three of us. Showing my emotions as I usually do, tears of happiness came easily to my eyes. We had come full circle. We had started our journey with Mrs. Buiano so long ago, and that day we saw her one last time—nine days short of three years. She told us she was so pleased for us, and Gary informed her we were leaving shortly to live in Italy for an entire year. Her expression said it all, as she clearly knew how much it meant to us to finally attain Italian citizenship. I held my right hand to my heart, and she hugged us both. She excused herself and walked away, back to work but not without turning around and waving to us one last time.

Back in the uncomfortable plastic seats, we waited for our appointment. After only a few minutes our names were called. As my luck would have it, there had been a SNAFU during our passport appointment. All appeared to be going well but, during the fingerprinting process, Maria, the young woman behind the glass, stopped and flipped some papers back and forth. She stopped again, examining them a second time and looked at me. My heart stopped beating, I’m sure of it. My hands grew sweaty.

She asked me, Where were you born?

After taking a deep breath and gathering my composure I explained to her it had been in Amityville, New York. It appears my birth certificate and our marriage certificate had me listed as being born in two different cities: Amityville and North Massapequa. Technically, the hospital was in Amityville, but somehow North Massapequa—where I grew up on Long Island—turned out to be listed on our marriage certificate.

She held up her index finger and stepped away from the counter. I looked at Gary with tears welling in my eyes, thinking to myself, we have gotten all this way, and now I’m going to be the issue, the problem that stops the process?

A few moments later, Maria returned with a supervisor who didn’t speak much English because he spoke to her only in Italian while flipping the same papers back and forth. I inconspicuously wiped my hands on my sweater, which I had to remove because the room had suddenly turned quite hot. He asked me to explain the discrepancy and I began my demonstration by opening my arms wide, indicating New York, the state. Next, I showed Long Island by making the space between my hands smaller. I continued my explanation by placing my left index finger on the counter and saying, Amityville. Finally with my right index finger, I placed it next to my other and indicated North Massapequa, trying to suggest the towns are located right next to one another.

They continued their discussion for several moments, although it seemed like an eternity, and I could kick myself for not already learning more of the Italian language. We had no idea what they were saying to one another. I made eye contact with Gary. He seemed so calm, no signs of stress, and I wondered if this was truly how he was feeling on the inside.

After several moments, the supervisor left the small room, not even glancing our way again, and my expression conveyed my concern to Maria. I have never been a good poker player, you’ll know how I feel, courtesy of my facial expression.

Maria looked at me, noticed my apparent trepidation and said, "Don’t worry. It’s alright. From now on, you must be from North Massapequa."

My shoulders began to relax, and a tear fell from my eye as Gary grabbed my hand and squeezed it beneath the counter out of Maria’s sightline.

Crisis averted, we paid our fees and handed her our overnight envelope. Maria smiled and told us we would receive our passports in a week to ten days.

On the drive back to Phoenix, we called our children one by one, to tell them the good news. We had already made our plane reservations for after Thanksgiving. Our passports were delivered by FedEx to my work on Thursday, October 25th, and unimaginable relief flooded me after the ups and downs we had been through during the previous three years. I immediately called Gary at work and told him what I was holding in my hands and sent him a photo. We had sold our home, cars, and almost every possession—all in anticipation of this day. On the way home from work, we stopped at one of our favorite restaurants in Phoenix, The Sicilian Butcher, to celebrate with Prosecco, a dry Italian sparkling wine.

Our journey for citizenship completed our adventure could begin.

* * *

As it grew closer to Thanksgiving, I was reminded how much I love the fall and the changing of the leaves. Growing up on Long Island in North Massapequa—ahem—New York, it became my favorite season. Of course, in Phoenix, Arizona, things are not quite the same at that time of year. There are no leaves changing colors unless you go up north toward Prescott, and then it’s minimal compared to what I grew up with on The Island: the wind blowing the leaves across the streets in a whimsical fashion and piling up along the curb and sidewalks. No aroma of burning leaves, although that practice had been banned for quite some time. In Phoenix, it is brown. Different shades of brown, but brown, nonetheless.

* * *

Spending this holiday with our entire family was a momentous occasion. We lived within thirty miles of one another in Arizona, but each of our blended families had other obligations. Knowing we were leaving for Italy in a few days, each family member made the holiday special for us by gathering at my stepdaughter Melanie’s house.

She and her family were the last to move to Arizona to join the rest of the family. Melanie and her husband, Jerry, had an extra room in their beautiful home with an en suite they allowed us to stay in while we figured out our living situation. We’d yet to determine where to purchase a place to live—and when. This question will be revisited quite a few times in the coming year.

Spending Thanksgiving and celebrating our thirty-eighth wedding anniversary on the same day, we enjoyed a fabulous time with good food, conversation, and our last special moments with our nine grandchildren. Several photographs were taken to represent our last family gathering of 2018—memories which will need to last for Gary and me. As the evening ended, we helped put the grandchildren in their car seats. The tears started rolling for me. I couldn’t contain my sadness and, of course, the young ones were confused.

Why’s Nana crying? they all asked.

The most challenging part of this year, this journey of ours, would be leaving our young grandchildren and only being able to video chat with them every couple of weeks. Trying not to dwell on it too much, I knew in my heart it would be difficult. For me as well as Gary. But seriously, we were going to go live our dream in Italy—in Italy—for one year!

* * *

As our departure date approached, the process of packing began. I am not a very good packer. I want to bring everything. How does one pack for a year? Piles lay everywhere. Summer and winter clothes, jackets, must-haves, and the possible collection if room allows. Sneakers, boots, sandals, wedges, flats, what should I bring and leave? It was daunting.

Doctor visits scheduled, we needed our prescriptions filled for a year. Over-the-counter medicine in Italy is expensive, so a trip to Costco for large bottles of aspirin and joint medication was needed so we didn’t incur the added expense.

We allowed ourselves one large suitcase and one carry-on each. Gary’s bag, the largest permitted measured 28, and mine, 24. Gary packed our all-important immersion blender, which we love and purchased in Italy on a previous trip, so it has the correct electric plug. We use it for frothing milk for a cappuccino made at home and for blending sauces and soups. Our bags are heavy, but we decided one bag would be more comfortable than carrying several lighter bags. As our bag contents were finalized and zipped, I thought, Is this finally happening?

* * *

Bags packed, we wait for our Uber driver to arrive and head for Phoenix Sky Harbor International Airport. The years of waiting for our citizenship, the rollercoaster ride—it’s all behind us, and we are finally leaving for Italy.

Our day has arrived: November 27, 2018.

We purchased our tickets using our frequent flyer miles, so arriving at the airport and finding out Gary’s luggage is over the weight limit—costing money—irritates me.

Let’s put some of your things in mine, I say to Gary with the excitement of the light bulb just going off in my head.

The tall, burley baggage handler with a scrawny beard at the curb lets out a chuckle when he overhears my comment. Yours is just about at the fifty-pound limit, it won’t matter.

We pay the hundred dollars but not before grumbling a bit—what are we going to do at this point? We look at each other, shrug our shoulders, and nod in agreement, leaving our bags in his capable hands, and head inside the terminal.

Once inside, we find the counter to check in.

"This is really happening! I say to Gary my voice shaking a bit, you might have to pinch me."

We head up the escalator to our gate and find a seat. I had made a sign on the computer to hold up in front of the Rome destination sign at our gate as a moment to document our journey’s start. I spot and ask a nice young man to please take a photo of us holding the sign, and he does so without hesitation.

Grazie, I say in appreciation, preparing for my year of speaking Italian.

All Roads Lead to Rome

A close up of a map Description automatically generated

Ilene

W

e arrive in Rome, or Roma as it’s called here, after a stopover in Philadelphia. We begin to disembark, and my heart begins to pound. I can hardly contain myself. We follow the crowd down to the baggage area and wait, hoping and silently praying our luggage arrived with us. We quickly identify both bags by their red, white, and green ribbons, tied tightly on each handle. I silently release a sigh of relief. Gary hauls them from the carousel. We realize one of the wheels on Gary’s luggage isn’t working correctly, making wheeling it straight challenging for him.

Let’s take a taxi to the apartment, I say, and he agrees quickly.

We normally would take the train, but a taxi represents the solution to this luggage situation. We discuss, and both decide during the taxi trip to the apartment to ditch our luggage and purchase new while in Rome, especially a piece for Gary. After all, hauling a broken piece of luggage throughout Italy for a year would be a headache, especially on cobblestones.

Arriving at the apartment arranged through a real estate company before leaving for Italy, we ring the bell. Our real estate agent Bonnie greets us there. She’s an American, married to an Italian, and has been in Italy for about twenty-six years. She’s lovely, thin, blonde, and dressed so nicely, as are most Italian women. We also meet the apartment owner, Massimo. I admire how well she speaks Italian to him.

This is my goal, I