The Inheritance of Place

What my family’s geography taught me about belonging.

“The master travels all day without ever leaving home.” -Lao Tzu

I thought returning to Italy—a place so steeped in memory and meaning—might spark something big: an epiphany, a reawakening. But the shift was quieter than that. Almost imperceptible.

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My aunt and uncle met at a bar in Portland in the late ’80s, as reggae music played in the background. Geary remembers Mary Lee setting her hand on his leg that night, and for the whole week after, she didn’t sleep. A couple of years later, they moved to Italy—having both lived in the States until then—to get a taste of international life. One year became two, and this year marks 37.

In that time, they’ve raised a family, including a daughter, Ginna, with whom I stayed last week—born just six days before me. Our parents—her father, my mother—are the eldest of four siblings.

Along with Ginna, my cousins Ryan and Marina—whose name translates to ‘shore’ or ‘coast’—are dual citizens, fluent in Italian and English. They’re at home in both Italy and the States, having visited the U.S. throughout their lives.

I’ve been lucky to visit them, too. My first trip was when I was a baby, to the Aosta Valley. (Ginna’s middle name is Aoste, and our family has a timeshare in the region.) When I was six, my dad—a teacher—was granted a yearlong sabbatical, and we spent it in Italy. We rented a home near my family’s, in a small village called Nocchi; I attended first grade in a nearby town while my brother Adrian went to preschool. We both learned Italian and were fluent by the time we left, and I’m lucky to still have memories.

I’ve returned many times since, seeing the classic tourist sites but also delving into lesser-known regions—places foreigners rarely get to know intimately. I thank my family for that.

On this trip, I was ready to see Milan, Pisa, and the area just south of Cinque Terre—but that’s not why I came. I came to be with family, to stay in a familiar place. And I felt content heading out the front door with Ginna for morning runs through the pine forest, traversing the beach midday, and walking the shipyards in the evenings, where yachts destined for the world are built.

Viareggio on the left, Carpinteria on the right.

The landscape in Viareggio mirrors the one in Carpinteria, where I grew up—ocean on one side, mountains on the other. Familiar, but flipped. A symmetry that settles me.

In Viareggio, I felt oddly at home—perhaps because I once spent a year there, and perhaps because its geography echoes that of the small California beach town where I was raised.

On both beaches, I can stand looking north, with the ocean to my left and the mountains to my right.

Under me, sand. In the air, salt.

In one place, the Mediterranean; in the other, the Pacific.

So there, I felt both rooted and free.

There, I felt at home within me.

My life in San Francisco is different from the one Ginna leads in Viareggio, and yet elements of it feel familiar. Her boyfriend, Rocco, studied in Milan but eventually returned, wanting to be near his family. I understand that yearning. Now, the two of them live within biking or driving distance of their parents—and just a seven-minute walk from the beach.

We’re a family of travelers—or maybe explorers. But we’re also rooted, deeply shaped by place. Don—my grandfather, who lives in Carpinteria and is the original owner of that Italian timeshare—gifted me this trip to Italy. After my year of medical leave, tethered to home and care, taking flight again felt like a homecoming.

Back in San Francisco now—emerging from jet lag in my downtown studio—I’m re-evaluating. Geary and Mary Lee were about this age when they moved to Italy.

In my future, I know I want to be writing, coaching, and creating—and continuing to explore. I’m done overextending and feeling burdened by American pressure. But I also believe I can carve out a life in the States that honors my sovereignty and lights a path for others.

What will this next chapter look like? I don’t know yet. I’m open. Poised in all directions.

I carry my lineage with me—its tendencies for adventure, for rooting, for finding belonging across oceans. For exploring, and for creating a sense of home no matter where I go.

My family taught me to move. But somewhere along the way, I learned to stay. Not in one place, but in myself.