Orero? Or Orero?

A key goal on this trip to Italy was to make another attempt to find the farmhouse in Orero, Liguria where my grandmother's family -- the Bricchettos -- had lived prior to selling the farm to their cousins, the Sanguinetis, before booking passage to America in 1912.

Researching transportation options on my last trip to Genoa in 2010, I found that only one bus ran to Orero daily -- much like the Lane Transit District bus that travels from Eugene to McKenzie Bridge and back -- so that idea didn’t work out.

This time around, my hosts at the Hotel Colombo checked on the cost for a cab to Orero: it was reasonably priced at 100 euros round trip with an hour in the small village to look around.

Only one problem, they said: turns out, there are two Oreros, one due north of Genoa about 50 miles and another located about 80 miles to the northeast of the city. We opted for the one closer to Genoa, assuming that my grandmother had spoken in a Genovese dialect.

Andrea Giovanelli (above), our cab driver, arrived promptly at 12 noon to escort us into the hills of Liguria near its border with the Piedmont region. The narrow mountain road twisted and turned on our way to Orero, located just south of Sant’olcese Chiesa and Casella.

Arriving in Orero, our cabbie doubled as interpreter and was enthusiastic about helping us locate family. “This is a treat for me,” Andrea noted. “Most of the time, I just drive around the city.”

After stopping to speak to two young Italian lads about the exact location of the village, we proceeded to the Church of San Lorenzo in Orero (above), which featured a plaque (below) honoring the memory of local residents who had died in the war.

Just then I remembered my Grandma’s comment that they had left Italy because "the scent of war was in the air," and that many Italians were doing “the 23-skidoo,” as she so colloquially explained it.

Next, we went to a local bar, where Andrea inquired about my family with local patrons. No luck there, so we drove to another location nearby and just walked through the neighborhood.

We spotted an elderly gentleman sitting on his front porch, so Andrea asked once again about the family names: Brichetto, Sanguinetti and Arata. The elderly Italian, probably in his late 70s or early 80s, didn’t recognize any of the names but was impressed with our efforts to return to ground zero of the motherland.

With Andrea as interpreter, the “paesano” explained that many in the village had emigrated overseas, either to America, or surprisingly to me, Argentina. His wife would periodically come to the door and abruptly but politely put in her two lire, complementing his narrative.

We continued to amble through the small neighborhood, taking pictures here and there before beginning the drive back to Genoa. Back in our hotel, my brother Robert had sent me a YouTube clip of Orero, suggesting that we were in the right place.

Unfortunately, he also sent me an email explaining that we had, in fact, visited the wrong Orero. The correct village was the one near Cicagna, north of Rapallo, not the Orero near Casella, north of Genoa. Who could have imagined? Two Italian towns with the same name in the same province? How Shakespearean.

Though initially disheartened for guessing wrong, the news did little to diminish our experience that day. Our driver was a delight, and the people we met in the village were very happy to see us. “Well, if you’ve seen one Orero, you’ve seen them all,” I mused to myself.

I make light of the situation because it was likely very similar to what might have been in the "other Orero," and now I have an excuse to return to Italy. You know what they say: third time’s the charm. BTW, check out the phone booth in the back of the house (below).