Altamura

On Wednesday I finally got to walk the streets my grandfather walked as a child. We went to Altamura. I was so excited that I didn’t bother bringing a book or any other diversions. The train ride was short – only about half an hour from Matera. We arrived and the train station employees were confused with our request for a map. The town does get some tourism, but not enough to merit any info point at the train station. We found the center of the city, walking through some newer neighborhoods (by new, I mean newer than my grandfather’s time). In the center, we stumbled upon a tourist info and shop where I got a map. For an hour we wandered the older part of the city and went inside the cathedral where photographers had set up their equipment to photograph some of the statues inside.

The streets were narrow and windy. Many of them were either one-way or pedestrian-only. There were some tabaccis (news stands) and other shops in this part of the city. It was surrounded by a wall, which is not the “alta mura.” The “high wall” was slightly further out and we did find some of its remnants later on. Inside the old center, I went to a bakery that had been in the same place since the 1423. Inside they were making thick pizzas, which were more like focaccia with vegetables and other toppings.

As we were trying to find stamps, a woman saw us admiring the façade of an old palazzo. It had been carved into apartments – I’m guessing she lived in one of them – and she invited us inside to see how pretty the courtyard was. She was really excited to show it to us and we took some pictures inside. It was so nice of her to invite us, total strangers, inside this private space. We went into the tabacci across the street and bought stamps. Then we walked through more of the old city coming to a municipal building. I went inside to try and figure out what kind of office it was. The woman didn’t really speak any English but as soon as I told her “mi nonno nació (Spanish word) Altamura” (roughly “my grandfather born (in Spanish) Altamura”), her face lit up. She told me to go to the birth records office and wrote down the street name. She then told me how to get there, which I understood in her slowed- and dumbed-down Italian. It was already one in the afternoon, so we weren’t sure if the other office would still be open.

We found the birth records office, which was still open. I tried explaining that my grandfather was born in Altamura. They asked what date, which I wrote on a piece of paper. Two women (one was actually about my age and spoke a few words of English) walked over to a huge revolving machine and pushed a button until the 1916 book appeared. My grandfather was the 86^th birth in 1916. They were able to locate his birth certificate pretty quickly and asked me if I wanted a copy. I said that I’d love a copy. The actual copying of the certificate took quite a bit longer than finding it in the book. When they came back with a copy I had to fill out a request form. I was probably the only young American who had shown up in their office to make such a request. They didn’t really know how to fill out the form because it had one space for my address in Altamura and another space for my Italian ID number, neither of which I could provide. I handed the girl my passport, my NJ drivers license, and my expired Spanish ID card (I figured this was probably closest to the format of an Italian ID card and that she might understand it better.) Then there came the confusion of how I, Rachel GEYLIN, could be requesting the birth certificate of someone I say if my grandfather if his name is Vito CLEMENTE. Why don’t we have the same name? I had to explain that my last name is from my father and this Vito is my mother’s father. In America we don’t take our mother’s last name at all, just our father’s. I was used to explaining this because the Spanish were constantly asking me why I only have one first name and one last name. Eventually they just wrote my NJ address in the blank and my passport information on their request form. I was handed a stamped, official copy of my grandfather’s birth certificate. We had been in the building for almost 45 minutes. It was now 2 pm and they were closing. We were actually still inside as the metal grates came down. We looked at the door with a semi-confused expression and another woman directed us to another exit. At this point we were minor-celebrities in this office: it’s not every day that Americans wander into the Altamura records office.

I took another look around Altamura, but everything had closed down, so we headed for the train station.