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the rain of Southeast Alaska). Though I had never lived in New Mexico, where my husband was looking at a university in a small town, I was all for it.

Now I live in a small town that, like many small towns, I suppose, is home to many people. Maybe they even use the word "casa," for there are undeniably Spanish and Mexican, in addition to Native American influences, here. One hears Spanish spoken daily at any given place of business in town, or in front of one's house. Probably to my husband's dismay, I wish I had taken my maternal grandparents' name, Castellano, and hyphenated it with my his last name. At least there are a few Castellanos here (the Spanish "ll" pronounced with a "y" sound, though, unlike the lingering double l of Italian) and I wouldn't feel so foreign in this pais of Armijos, Bacas, Garcias, Gonzales and Gonzalez, Barelas and Varelas, Ortiz, Martinez, Vigils, and so many more. I am thankful that I understand a fair amount of Spanish and have dark hair and eyes, unlike my green-eyed, light haired husband, whose speedy finger spelling and American Sign Language skills can't order him carne asada con arroz with correct pronunciation.

The more I think about it, though, I am proud not to be a jumble of ethnicities like many Americans. My family is from Southern Italy, a dry, warm climate, or at least during the season in which I visited. Some of it was very desert-like which, perhaps, is why I like the Southwest so much. I was surprised to see prickly pear cactus growing on my great aunt and great uncle's property, a bit north of the town of my maternal grandparents' origin. And, maybe not so oddly, visiting with them was like going home, to my nonna's home. Maybe there is something in my blood, in my DNA, particles carried through the maternal bloodline, originating in the region of Puglia.

The only way to know, of course, is for me to return, which I will some day; however, realistically, it would be several years from now. This I do know: Rome, where I stayed with a host family for three months, did not feel like home. Even though it was Italy, the food was not familiar, nor did the city feel comfortable. No other town or region in Italy evoked in me the feeling, which, I believe, is what one means by "casa." That feeling of home I got when picking perfectly ripe figs off a tree, branches hanging heavy to the earth, across the street from my great aunt and great uncle's home. Or, while walking down the cobblestone street in my nonni's paese

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