Meeting Bisacquino

Barely having time to scribble down the address I scramble out the door of my hostel to catch the 8.15 bus to Bisacquino. The hot sticky Sicilian air temptingly lulls me into a sleeping daze as our bus ride begins through what is some of the most breathtaking Mediterranean countryside. Two hours later our bus pulls over on the side of the highway and a small sign points down to the red roofed village below. It reads “Bisacquino”. Following the main road down I enter into a web of small homes and cobblestone streets. Lines of laundry rustle softly in the breeze making rainbows of fabric outside every window and terrace. The village is sleeping and there seems to be little activity other than the few cats who scurry across our paths and the grandmothers who peer at our unfamiliar presence. I carry only a slip of paper in my hand that reads “Santa Lucia 4. Near the small catholic church and city water trough.” This is the address of Gioacchino Magro – the address of my great grandfather.

I had imagined that I would simply stumble upon the stoop of my Magro ancestors, or that I would follow the sound of a single church bell that would lead me towards the home. Little did I know Bisacquino is sprinkled with about a dozen small churches and even more fountains, wells and troughs. My map-less quest would prove to be a bit more difficult that I had anticipated. What I did stumble upon after an hour of fruitless meandering was the Piazza Triona. A large church, a large fountain, rows of old men communing in the Sicilian sunshine, still no Santa Lucia 4. Naturally, when hope seemed lost, we turned to food as the answer. A cappuccino and a croissant was just the thing.

As the coffee was brewed and the pastries served, a small conversation between my little Italian and the baristas’ little English began. My family immigrated out of Bisacquino. I am here to see the home of my great grandfather. Their surname is Magro. “Magro, Magro, Magro”. The two baristas, smiling middle-aged women wearing brightly colored tops, wracked their brains for any knowledge of the Magros. No success. Bring in the old men communing in the Sicilian sunshine. “Magro, Magro, Magro”. They searched the recesses of their mind. No success. Gioacchino Magro, I said, my great grandfather. The crowd of Bisacquino citizens grew, phone calls were made, phone books were searched. They wanted me to meet my family, to meet any Magros that might be left in Bisacquino. They decided that the language barrier was just too much and so called in the only person in Bisacquino who could speak English well to act as our translator. Five minutes later she pulled up to the little café to offer her assistance. Some Magros were known of, but not in Bisacquino anymore, they lived in another village just five kilometers away. The historical office was closed, as were the churches, and all the people seemed a little disappointed that they couldn’t be of any greater assistance. Slowly the crowd dispersed, of course after paying for our lunch and pointing us in the direction of Santa Lucia, a small catholic church located a few blocks from the Piazza.

Surely I hadn’t meet any Magros, but I had met just about every citizen of the village and experienced a sort of Sicilian hospitality like I had never seen before. I didn’t just see Bisacquino, I experienced Bisacquino, I met Bisacquino. A short walk down Via Roma brought me to Santa Lucia. A small catholic church, a town water trough, and a number 4 above an old wooden door. I’d found home.