I will never forget the first time I saw San Donato. I had just crossed the Apennines from Pescara and descended into the Val di Comino. I drove, awestruck, into the gently lit village nestled into a notch between two snow-dusted mountains. It was incredibly beautiful — it reminded me of a presepe, the elaborate Italian Nativity scene that often sets the Holy Family among life in an idyllic little hamlet.

I eased into the tiny piazza, not wanting to disturb what I immediately knew was sacred. I exited the car and walked up to a weathered monument honoring the village dead of World War I. Etched into the marble of the obelisk, I saw my last name, unique to this part of Lazio, and I was overcome with a desire to throw myself on the ground and kiss the stone.