Murphy’s Law is in action for my audition pieces. Of course they’re coming easier than ever to me, and I’m not nearly as nervous as in the past for my audition in two weeks. You know why? Because I have another career passion now, and I’m not placing all my eggs in one basket. Maybe the judges smelled my desperation in the past.
“Nala, what did you think of my performance tonight?”
She continues to toss around a thread that must’ve fallen from a piece of clothing. It’s way more important than my question. The nerve of her, acting like a cat.
Spotting my laptop on the couch, I say, “You know, I should try to find something on Pietro’s winery again,” continuing to talk to Nala like I’ll receive a response. I was sucked into all the info about wine and vineyards so fast before and never got back to looking into what prompted the search. “The need for change overtook me, principessa. Ooh, maybe I can find a bit of info to help me sway Christian away from Malibu. Something’s not right over there, Nala. Don’t ask what I’m looking for, but it’s worth a try to search for it.”
She rolls over and away from me, extremely interested.
But as I open my laptop, I see her stop moving then glance back at me, as if knowing she’s being naughty. “What’s going on over there?” She’s chewing on the string, so I rush to pull it from her mouth. “Hey, that’s not for eating.”
She stares at her lost toy in my hand with an unchanging downturned grumpy mouth.
“We gotta keep you alive, amore mia,” I say as I pet her lioness mane of fluffy fur.
She lifts her head so I can rub under her chin more effectively. I know her game.
“Oh, you cutie. That’s right, here you go. Now be good. Momma’s gonna look up something.”
Back at my computer, I wonder what terms I can enter that’ll bring up my ancestor. And I won’t get distracted this time, I swear. Pietro Agosti is such a common name, though, jeez. There are pages upon pages of men with his name.
Scrolling, scrolling…
Nothing looks favorable.
Hmm, maybe I need to enter the year he came to the US with his name. So, I type in Pietro Agosti, 1911.
Oh great, now every entry listing is in Italian. I don’t know that many Italian words. Let’s try Pietro Agosti, 1911, Los Angeles. Come on, English.
After I click enter, the first listing that appears seems promising. Yet, all I see is a story about another man mentioning Pietro Agosti as a fellow Italian immigrant. I’m not even sure this Pietro is my Pietro.
By examining a few more links, my attention is captured by an article explaining how immigrants not only followed advice to start their livelihood making wine from friends and family in this foreign land—owned by Mexico at the time—but also their hearts. Just like Pietro! And all because that one man, Jean Louis Vignes, took a chance to pave the way, influencing American history.
Wait a second. His name was Vignes. I remember seeing a street downtown called Vignes Street. It all comes together now…
I type in the last name plus the word meaning into Google, and sure enough, it shows what I thought—the word vines. Mr. Vines, make way for Ms. Vines. And since all of this happened at around fifty years old for Mr. V, I’ve still got plenty of time. Good for you for reaching success in later life, Mr. Vignes. I stop and stare out the sliding glass doors, imagining possibilities planted by pure belief.
Searching deeper online, I see how wineries covered as far north as Macy Street and south to Washington Street, with Los Angeles Street in the west to Boyle Heights in the east. Wow, to think I’ve driven in that area countless times and never knew its history, passing through Little Tokyo and the oldest area of downtown. Some of those streets may not even exist anymore, but they were there and made an unforgettable impact.
Come on, Google, let me find more on Pietro.
After what feels like seconds turning out to be hours, I come across a picture of a list of wineries and their owners. Oh my God, there’s his name, listed almost at the top because of alphabetical order. Pietro’s winery was called Agosti Cantine. But isn’t the word cantine or cantina Spanish?
My mind speeds in a million directions. I have to find where his winery existed. I need to visit! But first, I type cantina into Google Translate, which reveals the meaning of cellar in Italian. Alright, so Agosti Cellars. The stunning name makes me sit taller.
“Nala, I know the name of my family’s winery!”
She continues sleeping without a movement in reaction.
I return to a previous tab and examine one article again, hoping I missed a clue about Pietro’s winery location in something I read tonight. Spoiler alert: I didn’t, but there is an encouraging link at the bottom titled “Prohibition and the End of an Era.” That’s a must-click.
Scanning it, I see what Uncle Roberto told me matches this information to a tee. Poor Pietro was forced to watch all he built slip away during those years of Prohibition. It’s heartbreaking.
But what’s this?
A section of the article has quotes from various winery owners of the time. I wish Pietro was one of them, but regardless, here’s more emotional evidence that I’m on the right track.
“I knew this was the land for me when I saw it, no matter what happens now. I do not regret anything.”
Emiliano Nelli
Another man’s words sum up how I feel about the immigrants that built America.
“I will start again, until I die. Nothing will stop my dream.”
Marco Zanoni
That’s the Italian American way right there, and it lives in me with every beat in my chest.
Even though what I found tonight aren’t cold hard facts to pursue my vines, I take them as omens that I’m headed in the right direction, placing my sights in Temecula Valley. Christian will be hearing his own bit of advice—he needs to give my idea for location a chance as well. And I need to uncover the guts to let him know about it.