Have you ever wanted to walk down the streets where your grandfather played as a child, or visit your ancestors' birthplace and breathe the air of the city or village they lived in years ago. With the enormous amounts of information that exists at our fingertips, these fleeting daydreams can now become a reality. There are countless books and numerous new Internet search sites that have evolved out of the demand for genealogical information. When I found my Sicilian roots in the summer of 1999, I was extremely fortunate to have very close relatives to reconnect with. I not only walked the streets where my grandfather played, I visited the city where my name originated and made life-long connections with more than a dozen family members. With a little searching, interviewing and willingness to reach out, finding your roots can be easier and more rewarding than you think. And depending upon where your roots lie and how distant they are, you may get a reception that exceeds your expectations and adds a smile to your travel-weary face. Growing up half-Italian in a Los Angeles suburb, my experience of Italian culture was limited to Catholic church on Sundays, weekly pasta dinners and the inevitable heated arguments that grew to a decibel so loud, my mother had to close the kitchen windows. I never fully understood why my parents stowed hundreds of pictures of Italians in the closet or why my family's favorite movie seemed to be, among the men at least, The Godfather. My father, the full-blooded Italian that he was, didn't speak Italian, nor did he express the desire at any time to travel to Italy. With the exception of his dark complexion and use of animated hand gestures when talking, our family by every measure was typically American. My grandfather Rosario Catanese lived in Italy until the age of 21 before settling in the U.S. He was the only one in my immediate family that spoke Italian and he traveled to Italy often as I grew up to visit his sisters - sisters that my own family never met. So when my girlfriend Krysten and I began to plan for a 10- week journey through Europe last year, it never occurred to me before then that I could contact far-removed family in Sicily. Luckily, however, I learned that my uncle Gus did stay in occasional contact with two of his aunts by mail. Just before we departed, I discovered that my great aunts, Tina and Gifi, both lived in a small Sicilian beach town called Campofelice di Roccella. With this new information and being as young and adventurous as we were, my girlfriend and I started our adventure. Armed with nothing but our backpacks and our small translation book, we arrived in Paris and immediately sent my great aunt's a post card. We explained who we were and that if we were in fact coming to visit and to expect us by mid-July. I had no idea if the postal system was going to be reliable, or if my aunts could even read English, but we figured we should at least try and introduce ourselves before we showed up on their front doorstep malnourished and in stinky clothes. After a whilwind trip through the rest of Europe, we began to question whether or not to catch a train to Sicily. I was so anxious and had so many questions about dropping in on relatives I didn't know. Would it be awkward? How would we communicate? Should we get a hotel room? Would they expect us to go to church? I shuddered. The last thing I wanted was to be a burden. But after some discussion and the realization that, after all, I was their brother's grandchild, an extremely close relative, we found ourselves on a train to one of the most conquered cities in history, Palermo. During the train ride, scenes from Cinema Paradiso, Life is Beautiful, Il Postino, and yes, the entire Godfather trilogy, soundtrack and all, kept playing in my mind. I envisioned old men carrying bread home on bicycles and young women getting harassed by whistles and howls as depicted in popular Ruth Orkin photographs. We finally arrived in Palermo and found the number for my Aunt Tina in a local phone book. Nervously, we made our way to the pay phone with our Tele Italia card and translation book. I had rehearsed what I was going to say in Italian. "Buon giorno! Mi chiamo Alex Catanese, sono in Palermo adesso. Arriveremo domani." I was praying to God that they received our postcard. The phone rang. "Pronto!" came from the other side. I introduced myself and sighed in relief when I told her who I was and heard a burst of laughter and excitement on the other end of the line. A voice repeated "Si Si, Alex Alex." For that brief exchange of laughter on the telephone, Tina could have been my grandmother, happy to hear from her grandson after 27 years of no contact. I told her we would catch the bus the next morning. On our ride to Campofelice I was filled with anticipation, and just as I was daydreaming about how our encounter would unfold, something caught my eye. Along the highway a sign read "CATANESE" next to other words I didn't even notice. Wow! That's my name! That sign was the first concrete realization that I was in fact Italian and that I belonged. My last name, the one that everybody mispronounces and misspells back in the States, floated past us in big, bold, correct letters. Oddly enough, given that even my father never touched Italian soil, I felt like I was returning home. Upon pulling into Campofelice, a picturesque town only a stones throw away from the Tyrrhenian Sea, there were only a few people around. Disoriented, I realized that my attempt to find my aunt's house would probably be more efficient if I asked somebody where her street was located. Asking around, I found a young boy willing to help us out. After a brief conversation, I was floored to discover that the twelve-year-old boy was my very own cousin! In laughter and amazement, we were led by my cousin down the street to Aunt Tina's. After knocking on the door, the spitting image of my grandfather appeared. With a big smile and lots of laughter she immediately invited us inside. That first evening we were introduced to Tina and Gifi's entire family and began the whirlwind of trying to catch up on all the years gone by. Fortunately for us, Gifi and her husband Giovanni spoke English and assumed the role of translators. In that first encounter we experienced hospitality that was simply overwhelming. Antonio, Tina's husband who was 93, kissed me on both cheeks as if I was his grandson. And Graciela, Tina's daughter, welcomed us with an enormous and seemingly endless meal of veal, pasta, eggplant, wine and gelati. Just when I was about to mention that we should get a hotel, my idea was snuffed out quickly as Gifi announced that her son Lorenzo was coming over to show us to our room at his apartment. That first night ended up to be just the beginning of an amazing journey of family and cultural discovery. It also sparked an eating frenzy that would last until we left. My cousin Lorenzo, a huge Pink Floyd fan who owned a BMW and a Kawasaki racing bike, was adamant about us treating his place as if it was our own. He became our guide for the next 10 days, creating entire itineraries with train times and bus schedules. He took us to one of the most famous outdoor markets in Palermo that was a maze of aromatic traditional dishes, fresh-cut flowers, and an electricity in the air that was palpable. He personally drove us to Erice, Monreale, and some of his other favorite places in Sicily. One night, we went to an open-air movie theater where we sipped wine under a blanket of stars as we watched old black-and-white movies. The way Lorenzo treated us was a lesson in generosity. Eventually, I would learn more about the background of my family. I saw pictures of my great-grandparents for the very first time, and heard countless stories. Aside from these family discoveries, however, an important thing that I came to appreciate involved how Sicilians live. I had already witnessed the immense hospitality and the importance of food to Italians. It was offensive to them if you said you weren't hungry and didn't want to eat. My aunts would even argue with each other over who would cook for us and on what night. They scoffed at many of the processed items that we consume in the States. "Jarred pasta sauce…why? " my aunt Gifi questioned. But more than that, Sicilians exuded a sense of relaxation and passion for life. It was common to see entire families taking walks outside and eating gelati until two in the morning. Time seemed to be on their side, a far cry from the hustle and bustle of my life back in my "other" home. It was this approach to life that Lorenzo would describe as being "tipicamente Siciliano." Needless to say I had an incredible time visiting with my relatives. During my stay, I came to feel more like an insider rather than a tourist because I was establishing relationships instead of just passing through. I learned a bit of the history of my family, my culture, and learned that my last name Catanese actually meant someone who came from Catania, a city in southeast Sicily. After we left, we passed through Catania, which brought the sense of returning to my roots full circle. I now feel that my once very diffuse cultural identity has been replaced by a much stronger appreciation for my Italian roots.