Three weeks in the vineyards with my cousins was more than I had ever dreamed 
this trip would be.  So totally unexpected was the hospitality received along 
with the concern that every moment was pleasing to my uncle Frank and his 
son, cousin Tom, and I that, even now, while reading my copious notes I wonder
how it came to be that this family I had "lost" and "found" had been there all 
along waiting.

My travel was solitary, the only reticence was how would I find my cousins
when I cleared customs at Leonardo di Vinci Airport?  From past experiences
elsewhere, there are multitudes awaiting outside that final door.  Who would
meet me? How would they know me without a current photo? Yet, there they
were, all seven cousins who had a hired van and driver, two families, to
come meet the lone American.  They had waited long, more than three hours
driving across the width of Italy and then my plane was late. I walked
through that door eyes automatically magnetized to my cousin Giuliano on the
other side of the barrier, must be fate.  The red roses for me. Each
person's cheeks kissed (I caught on quickly - aha like the French!)  Well,
can you just imagine?  The mini tour through Rome, was added to this dream.
My grandfather Nicola had left Italy for good May 30, 1905.  Now, here I
was, Nicki, his namesake returning to his family.

Have you ever been totally accepted by unknown family?  That is exactly
what occurred to me.  I slept in my great grandfather's house, where he and
my great grandmother died.  The grill work in a semicircle above the heavy
wood front door with the initials AD, for Antonio D'Angelo (my Dad and
brother's name, too) seemed just perfect.  The kitchen with the large
fireplace where they cooked and kept warm when the winter snow and cold
seeped in was the meeting place for family, neighbors to sit in straight
backed rush seated chairs.  Each morning capuccino and dolce, tarralucci
(sp?), sat waiting on a linen cutworked tablecloth.  Yes, I watched and
wrote the recipe for the dolce.  Not one dab of butter did I see during my
visit, no toast for breakfast either.  The meals were just, well, you had to
be there.  Minimum 10 people at the table, only wine and water to drink at
meals, then expresso.  So much wine because we were in a farming, vineyards,
area.  Casalbordino is about 6 miles from the Adriatic Sea, almost directly
east of Rome, in the Abruzzo, closer to Vasto than to Pescara.  My cousins
belong to a 600 member cooperative, each member farming their own lands 
with white and purple grapes.  Cousin Pasquale is the vice president of the
cooperative and is an "agricoltore" he states definitely.

Each day brought surprises for this family history worker.  What I had
worked so hard to find in those microfilms at the FHC, they had all along.
They lived with it.  Why I couldn't find my g g grandfather's birth record?
Well, he was born in Castel Frentano just north across the Sangro River.
Names, dates, cousins - so many, just this side of overwhelming.  

I tasted wild licorce, pulled up the plant and bit into the stalk just
above the roots, the aftertaste was licorce.  These grew near the ruins of
San Stefano, where Saracens had attacked so long ago.  The ground overgrown
with weeds and stray grain hid the mosaic and rounded stone road the Romans
had even walked upon.

Ceci beans from their pods, fresh, were a treat.  But those almonds out of
the hull! Pure delight!  Lots of almond trees, olives so tiny this time of year.

And more later...hope I don't bore any of you, but this was so memorable I 
truly pray each of you who meet your Italian families have the good 
fortune as I have had.