The Ancestral Quest

Our friend Bekah, who is studying in Rome, came to visit us for the weekend. Her great-grandfather Meucci and all of his family were born and raised in the tiny Tuscan mountain village of Medicina. Naturally, we had to take a pilgrimage (an "ancestral quest," if you will) to the old family homestead. It's great to have genealogically diverse friends. On Saturday we hopped a train to Pescia, a small town west of Florence. From there we took a bus up the narrow, windy roads to Medicina. After arriving, we would have loved to de-stress with some aromatherapy candles (or, at the very least, take a few minutes to delicately pry our cold fingers from the death grips they held on the armrests of the bus)... but alas! Our voyage was not yet complete. The jig was not up. The journey was not yet ended. The fat lady had not sung. We had not yet viewed the ancestral home! So, we got off the bus...




... and found ourselves literally in the middle of nowhere. The bus driver said he would return at 2:30. We showered him with commendation and said, "Superb! This will give us an abundance of time with which to explore the territory and locate our companion's ancestral home. Knowledge of her heritage will finally be united with sight! She will henceforth be satisfied and complete." The bus driver blinked and sped away.

With the knowledge of adequate exploring time firmly in hand, Bekah scouted out the territory. I took an artsy picture of her that only vaguely resembles the work of a stalker.



Before long, the Meucci ancestral home was located. It's definitely a fixer upper.



As we left the house, we stumbled upon a home with the name "Iva Meucci" posted outside. Bekah knocked on the door and explained in Italian to the aged woman that she was also a Meucci. The woman was overjoyed and summoned us all inside for coffee and biscotti. In broken Italian Bekah and Iva communicated about their family history. Iva stroked Bekah's red curls with her crimson fingernails (don't you love them?) and repeated, "Bella, bella." She told us that she is the last Meucci in the village and that she was so happy we came to visit her. Half past two came all too quickly. Bekah promised Iva that she would return as we ran out of the house to catch the bus.


Unfortunately, there was no bus to be caught, hailed, called, lassoed, or otherwise summoned. We immediately assumed that the bus driver had abandoned us because he was freaked out by our flowery discourse. However, we later learned that the bus only makes the trek up the mountain for those who have made a reservation. Interesting concept.




We discussed the possibility of making the trek on foot and quickly realized the likelihood of getting run over if we attempted to walk down the narrow, windy roads. That's when we decided to thumb a ride (that's globetrotter jargon for "hitchhike"). Unfortunately, villagers driving down the mountain are few and far between. After much reminiscing about the now seemingly carefree bus ride up the mountain, we flagged down a nice middle-aged couple and asked if they were going to Pescia. They kindly offered us a ride and took us all the way back to the train station. Luckily, they were not people-stealers, they did not speak of bodies in their basement, and they did not follow us back to Florence and park outside the apartment in a creepy van. As much as we enjoyed our village experience, we were glad to finally leave!

Nota Bene: Details of this story have been only slightly enhanced by the editor.