By Joyce Heitler, guest writer
Retired from teaching kindergarten in Chicago after 45 years, I, too, have an Inner Italian.
My husband Frank and I went to Italy about 11 years ago with my son- in-law Renato, who was born in Italy, to see his sick uncle in Tuscany. The uncle lived in a beautiful four-story castle with antique furniture.
We decided to learn Italian so Frank looked up schools on the Internet and found a small language school in Pisciotta, about one hour south of Salerno. The photos looked fabulous and we signed up for a three-week total immersion class. After one week, I fell in love with Pisciotta and the people. Being the impulsive person that I am, I decided to buy an apartment there.
Not many apartments were available for sale so when I went to church I prayed that I would find a place. When I left church, a man, who had heard us speaking English, approached us. His name was Agnello, named after the patron saint of Pisciotta. He had worked in New York for 12 years and then moved back to Pisciotta. I asked him if he knew of anyone who had a house for sale and he said, “Yes, me.”