“We don’t receive wisdom; we must discover it for ourselves after a journey that no one can take for us or spare us.” — Marcel Proust

A long road that went fast: That is how the first half of the DNA trek went. Now it’s time to begin again.

Here is a quick recap of the journey, thus far. And I’ll tell you what’s next.

Italy was a dream, start-to-finish. A visit to my maternal great-grand parents’ village, Cuggiono, about thirty minutes south west of Milan, was greeted with smiling, interested, helpful men; local leaders of sorts. They had no idea I was coming. I had no idea where to start. But we found each other. One of these men, thinking it relevant to this project, immediately took me to his office. A non-profit he founded with the mission to find and tell the Cuggiono emigration story, tracking the people and families who left for the United States.

The question: “Why would they leave their home?” is matched with historic answers, the forced risk and adventure to seek out a better, different life. Thousands did it, including my own blood.

The results of this mass exodus are mixed, but overall inspiring. Especially when you consider what some of these weary travelers encountered at Castle Garden or after 1890, Ellis Island, in NYC.

It wasn’t an easy transition. If you were Italian, your choices were limited, because of language, but also because of prejudiced perceptions. My great-grand father, to support his family, became a coalminer, working himself to death so the a few could make big profits.

That common story might make some people’s blood boil, but I wonder what my great-grand father would think. His son became a successful man, a self-made millionaire; given a opportunity the homeland could not offer.

What happened with that small fortune is another story for another time.

Makes one think though, if the American dream is really American. Maybe it’s just a maladapted marketing spin on what is essentially human nature and goes the way of human history, repeated. Immigration, emigration, however it you want to define, people relocate to find a different way of life, to follow a dream.

It’s a form of evolution at it’s most real.

Cuggiono’s local men took great care to give me any and all information possible to track down my family’s backstory. From introducing me to a professor in Milan who is writing a book on emigration, to opening up the village museum to show me the history of the place these thriving locals still call home.

They were not the only ones to welcome me quickly and deliver what they could.

I opened my eyes in Sweden, taken by the surrounding beauty and got back to the reality. This project is not a dream. It’s very real. My life. Our life: The family saga.

First steps into Stockholm direct into a taxi. I took a look at the available Mercedes Benz lined up with men smoking and chatting, waiting for customers — and choose one, by chance and the right choice, to befriend the driver who invited me to dinner with his biologist friend who had done scientific research on memory. It was an interesting discussion regarding where memories are stored, in the brain or in our DNA.

Later my new taxi-driving friend, whose passion is “rock n’ roll” and Harley Davidsons, not driving taxis, took us to visit Greta Garbo’s grave, a distant relative of his. I can’t help but think our DNA memory was trying to tell us something. The site reminded me of previous discussions and drawings in Italy. A friend who was designing a cemetery in South Korea. Unrelated, but struck me for some reason.

By this time, I began to believe, as much as an agnostic can, in omens. What are these signs trying to tell me? To continue is all I could do.

A couple days into a Sweden I rented a car and took a three-hour road trip from Stockholm for a visit to my maternal great-grand parents’ hometown, or rather, humble village.

It was hidden almost an hour from main roads, amidst farms, the focal point being a church from the 12^th century, and a cemetery just as old but with recent graves mixed in. It was likely related to the royal dynasty, of sorts, that continues to modern times.

The ancient church is small with a tall tower, cold and empty minus welcomed literature describing relevant history illuminating the life of these ancestors. Based on the honor system, I could trade a small amount of currency for prepared details of the location and it’s people. Clearly I am not alone in my quest. I left the desired Krona, took what I needed and learned that Bjälbo is a place where kings and queens were born.

Whatever the history, the place felt like a lost home. It was peaceful in a neutral kind of way, very Swedish.

This branch of the family immigrated versus emigrated, the difference being they choose to leave versus being forced by outside forces, such as famine, etc. Or that was true for my great-grandfather, who had land and money and could focus his time on his art versus survival. Not true however for my great-grandmother who left for the USA courageously alone, running from an unhappy home, looking for a complete change far-far away.

There is more to the Swedish trek. As I continued south into Göteborg, I ran across the Youth World Cup that brought me back in time when I competed in the Jr. Olympics in Los Angles in 1984. I played soccer from the time I was five up and throughout high school. It was a big part of my family life.

An anticipated trip to the southern beaches was delayed to watch very talented kids from countries all around the world play at the highest level. The excitements brought me close to tears, watching the families on the sidelines cheer or bite their lips, hugging their kids in happiness or comfort of the win or loss. I know and miss those moments of unity. Forgotten but absorbed memories, to be sure. A family unit coming together to support one of it’s own. Parents and grandparents wearing club colors, taking sides.

Sporting events seem like modern civilizations way to continue the clan and tribal wars, without the complete destruction. It’s exciting.

That was the beginning of my journey and the end of the maternal side of the DNA trek. From this point the European tour went from near to far, into a vague definition but strong presence. From a 50/50 2^nd and 3^rd generation maternal branch to a paternal side that went all the way back to the Revolutionary War, the founding of the United States as we know it, which gave the blood plenty of time to mix. Like a prized mutt.

Hence I began to put the pieces together for this complicated and intriguing paternal side of the DNA Memory and started my journey to the UK, Germany and France.

Scotland gave me insight into my roots. I wasn’t sure until a new sign was revealed. But I arrived not only at the right place, but also at the right time. Another taxi driver informed me on where to go and what to do.

Turned out to be a special weekend in Edinburgh, the big “Homecoming” where people from around the world come to Scotland to celebrate their heritage. My new taxi driver friend took me to the festival, after one of the most thrilling conversations of my life (I’ll tell more later, but let’s just say if I were to title my next book it would be: God is a Taxi Driver).

I met my Scottish clan leader, who quickly gave me our family tartan to sport around the event. The clans are still very competitive, but instead of the land and power grabs it’s about market share these days. They were pleased to find a new member. For me however it was more puzzle pieces linking this critical past to living instincts that are powerful, if diluted.

The randomness of gene expression is the base of who we are. The diluted blood from generations ago can pop-up in a newborn baby, skipping recently acquired traits of it’s parents. That is what I was thinking when I visited the UK. I felt almost as close to that land and people as I did in Italy and Sweden, which I have a much closer relationship with. I felt the energy of my distant relatives in Scotland.

My luck was inexhaustible.

I received a last-minute acceptance email to attend a Scottish Parliament meeting on Diaspora. I was able to sit in the newer, odd, and not popular with the locals, building designed by the deceased Spanish architect Enric Miralles Moya, and spend hours listenings to very impressive thinkers. Tom Devine, a respected historian, Richard Holloway, Chairman of the Scottish Arts Coucil, and the like, spoke about what it means to leave home, for a country to lose much of it’s brain trust and how to get it back. Or at least create a global network for a broader life helped by linking the past with the present; leveraging their pride to inspire another and new enlightenment.

So many interesting, good ideas! I, like thousands in the crowd, possible distant blood relatives, felt proud to be Scottish.

After Edinburgh I took a small detour north, past the Highlands, missing the million dollar photo of Loch Ness and into the Isle of Skye, made famous, in my world, by a brilliant Virginia Woolf book To the Lighthouse. Check out the photo section of ZoeBios.com for decent iPhone shots, which fills about 90% of the section.

My family clan however is from the Lowlands, and coincidently of Scandinavian decent.

Another landmark, Sorbie castle, built in the 14^th century, is still a source of hard fought and won pride, as is the surrounding area of Wigtown; officially designated as Scotland’s National Book Town. But before arriving in the old paternal homeland, I took a few days in Glasgow and continued my European art history tour.

Without a doubt I’ve seen some of the world’s most amazing museums, some of the most coveted art. From the Sistine Chapel in Rome to Konstmuseet in Göteborg, to the Tate Modern in London, Gemaldegalerie in Berlin, and the Louvre in Paris, and many more. I enjoyed and learned much about the DNA of the land and people from art history. I have multiple books of scratched notes taken in each country.

After Glascow I went to the south west coast of Scotland.

Five days at sea, my first sailing lessons around the Isle of Arran. Warm waters, sandy beaches and palm trees, thanks to the Gulf Stream. It was one of the most magical though challenging experiences. Days and nights at sea in Sadler 34 Cruiser/Racer that was over 20 years old, though very well cared for, with four men, complete strangers, learning a life or death skill, exhausted and completely exhilarated from morning to night. The RYA (Royal Yachting Association) course comes recommended.

Our final night sail shared with a full moon. I was alone at the bow of the boat, watching the phosphorescent plankton lighting up our slow trail back to port. I prayed to the powers that be, to the unknown, and said thank you. Life is good.

Pre-sailing lessons I met and partied with a group of lads at the birth place of golf. I call this tight group of local friends, the “Troon Rat Pack.” That should give an idea of how the night went. They talk smart and drank hard. It’s truly a compliment to be described as “clever” from one of these fine boys.

The UK tour was completed after a few touristy days in London. Brick Lane was fun. Poet’s corner at Westminster Abbey is cool. I would have enjoyed seeing Stonehenge more, had I not been so tired. Although it’s impressive, it’s really not that exciting. Though that may have something to do with seeing something similar to it; Ale Stenar, also over 5,000 years old, when I did eventually make it to the souther Swedish beaches. I had already did the research.

More, I required a break. Went for a short stay in Amsterdam with wise friends. Once there I passed out for what seemed like days.

When I was awake I was privileged to spend time with talented artists who opened-up and shared their own lives, offering rich context, filling in critical historic details. Sublime hours spent in post World War II socialist gardens, enjoying the sun, doing a little manual labor and biking around the city. I parted from my friends on the sleeper train to Berlin, dreaming of my travels thus far, full of gratitude.

Germany filled the project with a bright new life. And I got back to work.

I found a sweet renovated sublet on the third floor with great views of a busy captivating corner in a “hip” part of town. A work studio in what used to be on the wrong side of the wall. Inspired by the locals and my time in Amsterdam, I bought a beautiful vintage Victoria and adopted a car-free lifestyle biking to all points of the city, celebrating 20 years since the fall of the wall. I couldn’t help but be reminded of its history at each turn, and not exclusively by virtue of the citywide exhibition, the anniversary of the Reagan and Gorbachev era.

Kurt Vonnegut dramatically relates one of my strongest DNA memories in his book Slaughter-house Five. To give a quick idea, I was unaware where my grand-father was shot down in World War II, forced into a German concentration camp for POW’s. Not the worst of its kind, but horribly overcrowded. Located in Austria, named Stalag 17. Close to death my grand-father did survive, marched out with other starving, abused men who also barely survived, and like many veterans, never forgot.

It’s not a memory that can be easily erased or buried.

My plan was to road- trip from Berlin to Paris, a clear, direct route. For some reason I took a detour, got lost if you will, leading me darn close to the area where my grandfather was imprisoned. Stranger still, I couldn’t stop thinking about concentration camps, that I should visit one before I left Germany, to see what comes up for me. But just couldn’t get myself to do it.

To this day, I can’t stand to see anything graphic, even the Americanized version. Despite how good-bad-or-indifferent, I’ll never watch Schindler’s List. I have witnesses to my pathetic reaction. I am too organically, sobbingly empathetic.

So it goes.

France wrapped up my European DNA trek with old-soul-youthful spirits. An artist residency filled with good people, more lifetime friends made, and a needed peer review for this project.

Zoe Bios is my main topic of conversation. I chat about the project with anyone who will listen. In a perfect world, get a opportunity to listen to others’ shared stories, which thankfully was many. I am humbled to know that other people believe this is an important, worthy project, based on an interesting theory. It’s nice to exit the vacuum of my mind and get an outside perspective, no matter what the feedback.

I was accepted into two artist residencies. The first one was with the Bau Institute in one of the most beautiful places I’ve been blessed to visit. This is a place where the Italians go to vacation. If you’ve been to Italy, then you know that means something. Gorgeous. Special. No tourists — just clear blue waters, fresh fish, delicious food, open vistas, family owned vineyards, and an ancient castle nestled within old city walls. This harbor town connected to the Adriatic Sea is about an hour from Lecce (one of the G8 locations Obama visited last year) and a two hour scooter ride to the heal of Italy’s boot. Also made infamous for being the location of the first-ever gothic novel, The Castle of Otranto.

The second residency, Camac in Marnay sur Sein, was more my speed, though I truly fell in love in Italy, this particular program mixed a cross-disciplined, younger artist crowd. Housed in a lovely 17th century priory, a UNESCO site in a very small quiet village alongside the beautiful Seine River. An hour outside Paris, and only a few kilometers short of a nuclear plant powering the big city and surrounding areas.

That looming plume of vapor hogging clear blue skies, the nuclear plant spitting out the used river waters made each resident pause and think, move on. The locals are given pills in case of an accident. The “Nuke Pills” are supposed to alleviate symptoms of radiation. And like the locals we ignored that threat and spent our nights drinking, and on really good nights, dancing.

We did what we could. What immediate choice do we have but to continue living? Yes.

Everyday of the journey, to this day, I enjoy 30 minutes of meditation. A luxury I make sure to give myself. Don’t think this is some crunchy hippie kind of thing. It’s not. It’s not New Age either (check out the video section for David Lynch’s description). It’s a clever trick to clear my thoughts and keep my life on track by focusing on priorities. And it’s interesting, again, to see where I naturally gravitated for this essential practice.

I took advantage of the stunning churches and cathedrals across Europe. And I miss those, my sacred spots. The heavy fragrant of invested wood, incense burned across generations, the art and wall paintings, the incredibly high ceilings and openness, the quiet rainbow colors spraying through the stained glass windows. There are two favorites retreats for mediation: nature and old churches.

A few times I opened my eyes, shaken to realize I’m smack in the middle of a religious ceremony, including weddings. By far some of my most entertained moments involved these “awakenings.”

I spent about a month in each country, ending the European DNA Trek in Paris, France. From there I had to go back to Los Angeles to take care of some personal business, but also had a memorable stay in NYC, taking my own pilgrimage to Ellis Island, the first landing in America for much of my blood, maternal and parental.

The Statue of Liberty made it’s impact.

‘Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!’

Now let’s fast-forward. The current status of Zoe Bios, the future is now. I’m in Israel, prepared as I can be, excited as ever to continue this amazing journey.

Everyday of the DNA trek is about the project. I’ve dedicated my life savings and over a year to this journey. Researching while also being open to where the journey takes me, not dictated by pre-planning. If an instinct or memory lures me to a discovery, I chase it down and try to put the pieces together.

But does DNA Memory exist? I’ve gathered some compelling, though not scientific evidence. I offer, for your consideration, stories within an interesting context. That is what the book is spotlighting. And I’m still in the process of writing the book. For now we I have this vehicle to connect me to you, a platform for us to discuss: ZoeBios.com.

Coming soon! This website is about to undertake some fun happenings. I’ll be updating more often, sharing bite sized notes along the way. The second part of this journey begins. I arrived in Tel Aviv about a week ago, in time for a fantastic 2010 New Year’s party with friends. I have scheduled trips to Jerusalem, the Dead Sea, Red Sea, then to Egypt, to the Sinai Desert, Cairo, up to Alexandria, plus Jordan, to visit Petra, the Manchu Picchu of the Middle East.

Stay tuned! You will see it here, my trek into the “Holy Land” — life that is visceral, controversial, and omnipresent in many global discussions, in our DNA.

Leave a comment and tell me what you think.

You are here. Let’s discuss.

XXX

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