Tom’s grandparents on one side came from Italy;  his grandmother came from the small hilltop town of Verbicaro, which is why we were in this neck of the woods in the first place.  Having got a good night’s sleep, Tom got out the GPS and plotted a route back down our mountain and up the next.

Approaching the town, it looked very lovely, but the outskirts weren’t attractive.  Lots of blocky apartment buildings with fading paint stood around like strangers with nothing to do.  Strangers who didn’t know each other, either, because there was no cohesion to it.  We found a church in that neighborhood and looked in.  The parish offices seemed to be in a building around the back, and we went back and rang both the doorbells, to no avail.  I was mentally practicing what I could say in Italian to explain our presence on the doorstep.

Having had no luck, we descended into the older part of town, looking for the town cemetery.  We thought we might find Tom’s great-grandparents, whose names we knew.  We got as far as a small piazza, but then could drive no further.  We asked directions, and found out I had the wrong pronounciation for “cemetery”, but finally got directions, and found the place outside town, down a badly-maintained slip road.

There was no sign with a phone number to call for information, so we went in and browsed, “Hi, anyone home?”  A small older center of the place held a grassy area with older, simple iron crosses.  Some had names, but they were either rusted away completely or so hard to read, it was hardly worthwhile.

All around, like the more affluent neighbors of the suburbs, stood family mauloleums, some very eleborate with standing areas inside and glass doors;  some with marble slabs announcing the name of the deceased within.  In some cases the tombs were so tightly packed together that you had to kind of slide sideways and crouch down to read the names.  We came across some familiar family names, but no hits.

I had picked up a Sunday bulletin in the church and once we got back to the hotel, I called the number.  Unfortunately, I got a recorded message which was so fast, I couldn’t understand a word.  I got hold of the number of the Diocese, and tried to call there, hoping there would be cemetery records which might help.  No answer at all.

Feeling a little let down by the whole thing, we decided to let it go until we could pursue family research from home.

We were beginning to be a little disappointed by the appearance of Italian houses and villages.  Maiera’ was apparently an exception, being well-kept and even decorated, with a sense of identity.  We noticed that houses we passed seemed to have no attention paid to their outside areas;  curbs were crumbling, weeds grew everywhere, paint was fading, peeling or non-existant.  There was a sameness to the styles that reminded us of the shapes of ancient Roman houses;  maybe all the decor and sense of comfort is inside?  The outsides were very uninviting, in any case.  It was late afternoon by this time, and we decided to call it a day.