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Having been born in the United States, a second generation Italian-American, I had never thought much about the home of my ancestors. I grew up loving Italian food and was happy when Italy won the World Cup in soccer. Yet, except for the mafia references when I mentioned my Sicilian heritage, it meant little to me.

That changed when I found myself living in England planning our 1983 Easter vacation. All of a sudden I had a burning desire to see the home of my grandparents and possibly find some relatives still living in the "old country." A call to my brother, the family historian, provided the name of the village, Milo. Armed with only this small amount of information, we flew to Palermo to launch our tour of Sicily and the search for my roots.

A visit to the Palermo tourist center produced a pleasant surprise -- Milo (pronounced "MEE-low") is where the famous statue, the Venus de Milo, was discovered. This seemed odd a first, but then we remembered that in ancient times Sicily was an important part of Greece, the city of Syracuse being prominent in much of Greek history. The village of Milo, we learned, is located far on the east side of Sicily, near Catania, upon the slopes of Mount Etna.

So, it wasn't until a week later that we approached my ancestral home perched on the side of Mount Etna. The village of Milo is arguably the closest community to the crater itself. The commune, like the rest of northeastern Sicily, is dominated by the snow-capped active volcano. It stands about 11,000 feet high, which in itself may not seem impressive, but from that altitude it slopes gradually and directly to the sea over a distance of 13 miles. Unlike many large mountains, which reside among clusters of similar peaks, Etna stands alone, visible for a hundred miles. And when it speaks, its voice is heard almost as far, an event that was occurring as we approached.

An eruption had produced grand clouds of steam and rivulets of molten lava encroaching upon the roadway. Undeterred by this aberration, we drove on until encountering a roadblock and an elaborately dressed, but stern, policeman, who informed us that it was verboten to go any further (all Western tourists look German to Italians). Having been diverted from our intended course by the Carabineri , we circled the crater and were passing through great fields of lava that are prevalent on all the slopes. Experiencing the rumble gives one cause to wonder why anyone would choose to live that close to possible disaster. The answer is provided by what occupies the fields not heaped in lava -- grapes! The lava-enriched soil, south-facing exposure, and moisture from the sea make it a prime wine producing area.

Our lack of planning and Italian proved to be our undoing. We arrived in the midst of the afternoon siesta, which goes from one o'clock until four. No one was about. The shops were all closed and the small albergo was tightly shut. We spent the next few hours touring the village uncovering little information. (We stopped at a statue of the Madonna erected in thanks for the village being spared from destruction when a lava flow stopped just (!) short of the town in 1950, reinforcing our opinion of the vulnerability of human life here.) At four o'clock none of the shops showed any sign of life. Our timing was doubly bad because it was a Wednesday afternoon when shops in small towns do not re-open.

Finally, we noticed some activity at one end of town. Further investigation revealed a wine cellar where a man was dispensing vino from a huge wooden cask. Retrieving two empty bottles from the car we returned to the cellar. The wine seller was happy to fill our bottles for what was a very reasonable price. However, he insisted we drink a fair amount from the 75cl. container so that he could top it up; he sold wine by full liters only. The wine proved delicious, but finding a Strano proved more difficult. He recognized the name, which was printed on one of our sweatshirts, but was unable to help further, language being a big barrier.

The albergo was still closed as the sun started down, so we reluctantly headed out of town. As the road wound down toward the sea it ran past a long high wall. We sped past an open doorway through which tombstones were clearly visible -- the village cemetery! "Maybe we can find some Stranos there!"

After parking the car, our search was soon rewarded with several tombstones bearing not only the name of the deceased, but his or her photograph. Feeling rather ghoulish, we ran around taking pictures of the stones and photos. At least we now knew we had the right village.

Over the next eleven years I often mused about the failure to find any relatives. So, when our plans for 1994 called for an extended stay in Sicily, I was determined to try again.

Our preparation for our next attempt began while we were spending a few months on the Greek island of Crete. A week of one hour a day Italian lessons conducted by an Italian also spending the winter on the island provided a basis for learning the language on our own. Once in Sicily, we obtained a phrase book and a dictionary. We then spent some time each day improving our language skills.

After ten days living only 20 miles from Milo, I could wait no longer. Driving our van part way, we climbed on our bicycles to ride the last seven miles to the village. Normally this would be a short ride of 30-35 minutes; however, when climbing the side of a volcano, it is pretty steep going. First gear was the order of the day as we followed the twisting road as it traversed the lava-strewn countryside, passing through other small villages, like St. Alfio and Fornazzo. The locals greeted us with either countenances of wonder or amusement -- only crazy tourists would ride bikes up these double-digit percentage grades. About two miles from our objective, the use of bicycles paid off. With no advance warning, the road was blocked by a large pile of dirt and rocks. The reason for the blockage was a collapsed section of road that left only one lane intact. The fault appeared recently formed and the local authority apparently decided to block the road entirely until more permanent repairs could be effected. Fortunately for us, we could walk our bikes around the rubble and pedal onward to Milo.

The road actually flattened out as we entered the community. Searching our minds for remembered landmarks, we quickly found the wine cellar. Alas, it was closed. A sign instructed us where to obtain vino nearby. Continuing on to the plaza in front of the church, the orientation of our previous visit fell into place. As we secured the bikes to a fence in preparation to setting off on foot, a car pulled up dropping off an elderly priest. This was what I had been waiting for. Surely, the priest knew everyone in town. So, I approached him, and in my practiced but halting Italian I began. "Il nome é Strano. Il mio nono nato in Milo." Louie, my wife, who was standing behind me, swears it sounded coherent to her. But the priest reacted in a terrified manner raising his hands and shaking his head pleading, "No! No!" I quickly apologized, retreating from the frightened priest with my confidence shaken. Yet, having regretted my previous failure for 11 years, I needed to try again.

We began walking along a narrow street lined with small shops, searching for a friendly face; I caught the eye of an older man sitting in front of a shop. The verbal exchange went better this time, even establishing the fact that my grandfather ("nonno") had left Milo in 1912 for America and had died many years ago. But, the man could not help me. A young woman standing off to the side was listening to the conversation, but she offered no help. So we continued on a little farther down the street, where we stopped before the office of Dottore Rosario Strano . "Wow, a doctor in the family!" The door was locked, but the office hours were posted: 9:00 - 11:00. It was noon; bad timing strikes again.

Unable to make any positive contacts, we turned our attention to obtaining some Vino Milo . Of course, as soon as we had decided to pursue some other goal, we strolled right up to Tourist Information. The door was open with no one inside, though. We examined postcards, pamphlets on nature walks, and a small book relating the history and life of Milo and the Parco Etna in which it is situated. The walls were covered with posters of the wine festival, which takes place every September, and a glass case containing bottles of award winning wines from the Etna area, which is a distinct class of wine. Waiting for someone to show up proved fruitless, so with the above-mentioned pamphlets in hand, we departed in search of a wine cellar. Unable to achieve this, I inquired at a small bar as to where one could buy some vino . I had lugged an empty two-liter bottle up the mountain just for this purpose. The young man working in the bar took me to the door and pointed across the street to a stationery store. I was afraid he had misunderstood me, but when I approached the man in the store, he reached behind a curtain and withdrew an unlabeled liter bottle of red wine. After handing it to me, he asked for 2500 lira (approximately $1.50). Pressing my luck, I made my Strano inquiries, but they failed here also. It was now almost one o'clock; the shops were closing. Our mission had once again failed to find a live Strano. We would have to try again.

Our third visit to Milo was timed to coincide with the visiting hours posted at the doctor's office. Driving the van all the way this time, by unobstructed roads, we were able to dress more appropriately, our feelings being that the biking shorts and shirts we wore might have put the more conservative locals off. Much to our delight, the door to the office was open. Ascending the stairs of the sparsely decorated building, we entered a simple office with no receptionist or nurse and found the doctor himself. He is of medium height, a little on the heavy side, with a reasonable head of hair. I was hoping he would be bald, like most Strano men, including me. He directed us to have a seat in front of a wooden table that served as his desk. The room itself was very plain: no charts of the human body, no indication of medical equipment. He was dressed very casually in an open-necked shirt showing from beneath a bulky knit sweater. The doctor appeared an agreeable person, so when I started into the now smoother version of my search for a Strano, I was encouraged when his face filled with a warm smile. Yet, when I said, "Possìble, il mio cugino?" (Possibly you are my cousin?) he shook his head saying that he was a Strano, however, but not from Milo. His family is from Reposto, another coastal town. We spent the next few minutes discussing his family, establishing that he had an uncle who had immigrated to Oswego, NY and then moved to Florida. The doctor himself had been to visit him in Oswego with a side trip to Toronto, where it snowed. This very nice man asked for our address in the States. We in turn asked him if he possibly had any Stranos for patients. He found two or three names in his book, but didn't seem to know much about them. We had at last found a live Strano, but not one I could claim as kin. So after saying good-bye, we found ourselves back in what was becoming a familiar place -- the shopping district of Milo.

Convincing ourselves there must be some Stranos about, we headed back to Tourist Info. Unlike our previous visit, the office was full of young people busily hanging posters and preparing for the upcoming tourist season. As soon as we entered, an attractive young lady approached. I asked my questions hoping that she might have studied English in school, but, no luck. Another girl joined us trying to help with our inquiries. I even heard one of the others in the group repeat the name Strano. Finally, she turned toward a desk upon which now sat a telephone book, where Louie was already turning the pages, copying down names and addresses. Five Stranos were listed for Milo. The young ladies gave us directions and another Milo booklet, which I decided to save for my brothers.

We set off with renewed vigor, got all twisted around, but eventually found one of the addresses by sheer coincidence. The building is fairly nondescript of an indeterminate but not old age. There was no sign of habitation. Our experience with the priest had made us reluctant to approach without knowing what lay behind closed doors. Language being the huge barrier it is, caused us to refrain from conversations with older people who did not know us or the subject of our investigation.

The next location was the one I thought most promising. The name listed was Alfio, which is the same as my grandfather. The house is a little brighter with rose colored concrete and fresh green trim. It is one in a long row of rather featureless houses that predominated the town, doing little to inspire the belief it was the home of my ancestors. The building next to it looked much older, so the appearance of the first house may have been simply a case of better maintenance. Once again, no one appeared to be home. I say this because Italians tend to leave their doors open or sit outside when they are at home. This tends to service as an invitation; the lack of this, the opposite.

Two addresses were on Via Mazzini, so we located and started following this street. The Italians waste no house numbers, i.e., no house, no number. We were looking for number 76. We had walked for quite awhile. Reaching the outskirts of town, counting the houses one number at a time approaching number 34, it dawned on us that this was a job for the van. (We had found a different road to Milo.)

Lunchtime was approaching, and so was one o'clock. We bought panini (rolls), prosciutto (ham), and for good measure some salsiccia (sausage) for later. Today was Milo day for us. We extended our time here by taking one of the walks mentioned in the booklet. We chose "il grande leccie di Pantano," which is the trail to the biggest and oldest oak tree in the park. The starting point is just outside Milo. We followed the directions as best we could, finding a pathway lined with beautiful wildflowers. Small daisy-like blossoms were everywhere, such is the advantage of mid-April, the tourists don't come till May. Trying not to trample the flowers, we continued along the obvious path, which wound its way through vineyards and orchards of cherry and almonds, both types in beautiful bloom. We walked along the terraced landscape thoroughly enjoying the experience. I say terraced because there is little if any flat ground anywhere around except for what some of my ancestors provided. Grapevines and fruit trees do not flourish on steep hillsides. So, sometime in the past, someone created flat spots through hard work and the use of abundant lava rocks. Depending on the terrain, the retaining walls range from 6 to 20 feet wide and are about 4 feet high. The entire area is stitched together by these, creating a rich agricultural environment where none had existed before.

Nature provides chestnuts and oak trees, so it was not for some time that we realized we were not on the proper trail. So what! When we reached a steep drop barely supporting a decrepit stone building, we decided to retrace our steps. All the way back we worked on orienting our map to the countryside. It wasn't until we reached the van that we spotted the correct path a little further beyond our first turn. By now we needed sustenance and fortification -- ham rolls washed down with vino de Etna. Our new path became steep quickly with fewer wildflowers, but led us to an ancient live oak tree, which stands 100 feet high and said to be 700 years old. We rested enjoying the serenity. Our return ramble down the lava rock path was halted only temporarily by a slender snake wriggling across our path. Are there poisonous snakes in Sicily? We'd just as soon not find out.

Back to house hunting. Our last address yielded a large locked gate protecting an apartment building. The phone book had not indicated an apartment number, so once again we were reluctant to intrude. We departed Milo with our mission unfulfilled.

We were at a loss as to what to do next when our search received an assist from an unexpected source. While shopping in a local supermarket, we spotted "Fratelli Strano Pasta" among the many pastas on the shelves. Naturally, we bought some, carefully saving the cellophane package it came in. The Fratelli Strano pasta factory is located in Giarre, which was where we parked the van the day we cycled to Milo. Had some of my cousins moved down the mountain a few miles to open a spaghetti works by the main coast road? I say "cousins" because "fratelli" means "brothers" -- it was a long shot that we were related.

A few days later, while celebrating my birthday and that of a new found New Zealand friend, our suspicions were eased somewhat. Salvatore, the manager of the campground where the birthday party was being held, told us his father had worked at Fratelli Strano for 25 years and that the company was still run by Stranos. Salvatore gave us specific directions. So the next week, armed with renewed resolve, we headed for Giarre.

As we cruised the narrow, congested, one-way streets in search of the pasta factory, we quickly spotted a Strano's jewelry store. We also paused at another indication of Stranos living in the area, this one of a more somber nature, a funeral notice. In Sicily, when someone dies, the undertaker posts large 2' x 3' paper signs in conspicuous locations in the nearby vicinity giving the name of the deceased and other pertinent information. The one I saw was old with the first name missing. We were too late to meet that Strano.

We had yet to locate the pastaficio . When the Strano furniture store appeared before us, we stopped. Leaving Louie guarding the van, I entered to make inquiries. The large brightly-lit store was filled with many fine looking pieces of furniture tastefully displayed. In a few moments a short gray-haired man in need of a shave, wearing a white smock, emerged from the back room. Could this be my cousin? As I started my now confident Italian litany we were interrupted by a woman shopper. The man excused himself tending to the signora . I fidgeted nervously, waiting to resume our conversation. When the man turned his attention to me and finally understood what I wanted, he told me he was not a Strano; the capo was Signor Strano, but he was not present or expected to be so soon. I then asked if he knew where the pasta factory was. He did but was having trouble making me understand directions. When he asked if I spoke German, I quickly summoned Louie from the van, since she can speak that language better than I speak Italian. After a short discussion with false starts, the man motioned us outside, locked the store, and led us two blocks down the street. Upon turning a corner, we immediately saw a sign advertising the Strano gift store. We thanked the man enthusiastically and hurried to our new destination. The name of the store was deceiving, it was more like a gallery with vases and expensive looking art pieces on display. In order to enter, we needed to push a button and be buzzed in. Once inside, we were confronted by a group of very well-dressed people who had been admiring something in a glass case. An attractively dressed young woman broke away to receive us. She politely inquired as to our needs, but was obviously not pleased with our casual attire (jeans and sweaters). After I completed my speech, which ended by stating that I hoped to meet anyone with the name of Strano, she indicated that the tall man with reddish hair standing by the case was a Strano. Ah, ha! However, my enthusiasm was quickly dampened when she added that he could not possibly be my cousin since his Strano ancestors came from Calabria, across the Straits of Messina on the mainland of Italy. It was very obvious that the tall man had no desire to extend his family tree to include me and would be happier as soon as we left his store. They did however give us directions to the pasta place.

Within a few blocks we found the address at last. Entering what was obviously the loading area, we saw several vans painted with the words "Fratelli Strano" and the company motto "mangiar sano" (eat healthy). We cautiously explored the courtyard looking for an office, wary after our cool reception at the gift store. Upon seeing us meandering about, a young fellow on the loading dock beckoned us to come up the steps. He appeared very friendly, and when I completed my spiel, he smiled and led us inside to a window that opened into the office area. I performed my act once again, and was greeted by another smile and an invitation to come around the corner into the office. A short dark-haired lady of about 40 greeted us. When my last words were spoken, she too smiled exclaiming, il mio padre nato in Milo" (my father was born in Milo). It was then that an idea of Louie's proved invaluable. We produced a rough drawing of my family tree starting with grandfather Alfio Strano being born in Milo, getting married, bearing my Uncle Sebastian, then moving to the U.S. and having several more children including my father, under whom came me, then my two brothers. This piece of paper was passed to everyone we met to be examined and remarked upon. We were soon introduced to other Stranos, one, a lady about 60, said she knew the house where my grandfather was born because she hand been born in Milo. She couldn't give us an address, but described the street. Louie and I believe she was indicating the rose colored house we saw belonging to Alfio Strano. Because my cousin, the oldest grandson, is named Alfio, and I, Alfred, bear the anglicized version of the name, it appears to be a family name, supporting the belief that we are related.

Lilla, the first lady we met, took us on a tour of the factory where we saw the entire pasta making process from the raw wheat arriving, being ground into flour, mixed with hot water, extruded, formed, dried, and finally packaged. Returning to the office we were introduced to Signor Alfio, the head of the company. What a surprise -- another Alfio! He was a short man of about seventy with thinning gray hair and rather large ears. He was immaculately attired in a pinstriped suit and looked the part of a capo of a prosperous business. He, too, examined the chart and asked questions about Philadelphia and what kind of work I did in the States. We gave Lilla one of our Christmas greetings relating our travels. She was able to read it, translating most of it to her sister Anna, proving it is always easier to read a language than to understand a conversation. As we prepared to say good-bye, we were presented a gift of 10 kilograms (22 pounds!) of various styles of pasta. Given a buss on each cheek and feeling very fulfilled we bade arrivederci .

Along with our hoard of pasta, we had also acquired a large wall calendar. Even though it pictured the same packages of pasta on each month's page, it delightfully featured "la ricetta del mese" (the recipe of the month), which naturally required a different Strano product for each. So, with pasta and recipes in hand we translated them, then tried them, and shared the results with our families, providing a delicious ending to my tale.