A Rose From Maria

Barga is a medieval Italian town just outside of Lucca, the popular Provence capital in Italy where my big, crazy family and I recently spent a few days vacationing. Most would probably pass over the small mountainous town of Barga, but my grandmother planned a day trip there with a particularly far-fetched goal in mind: to find my great great grandmother Maria’s pre-WWI home. All we knew were a few small details, like her name and age, and we hoped that that would be enough.

After an hour of taking in Barga’s narrow, steep alleyways, our Italian-speaking tour guide, Franco, stopped a police officer to ask him for help with our mission. He directed us to the town hall, which to our surprise held very detailed records dating back to Maria’s birth, marriage, and… address! We had hit the jackpot and wasted no time rushing back to the car before making our way there.

Just a quick countryside drive away, we found a big, beautiful home with lush landscaping surrounded by a big iron gate. The house was either completely renovated or built from scratch, and our hopes of finding Maria’s original home were starting to wear thin. After several minutes of ringing the buzzer to no response, we started to pile back into the car, defeated.

As fate would have it, a car pulled up into the driveway just as we were about to leave. A confused-looking young girl came out and stared at us, clear trespassers. As our Italian savior Franco told her our story, the stern expression on her face changed to a smile. They both excitedly hopped into the car and motioned for us to follow. We were directed down a road around her house, through some trees and over a hill, and what we found surprised us all.

We found my great great grandmother’s home. It was big and beautiful and everything I hoped it would be. Somehow, the original house had survived after more than a century. Time froze as the eight of us stood there, taking everything in. Renovations had clearly been started at one point as some of the windows had been replaced, but the gardens were not maintained at all. Everything was mostly overgrown or dead, until something bright and pink caught my eye.

Among the overgrown weeds and dead foliage, one single thorn-covered stem bearing three light pink roses climbed up the wall beside the front door. One for my nana, one for my mother, one for me, and not a single flower more anywhere in sight. I called them over immediately and, judging by the looks on their faces, it was clear we were all thinking the same thing. Maria had left us a gift.

Despite our initial odds, it was astonishing to me that everything had worked out in the most serendipitous of ways. As my father broke the stems and handed the roses to my Nana, I couldn’t imagine a more perfect and poetic ending to our journey in Barga.