Dorothy of Wizard of Oz fame tells us there is no place like home.  Dorothy has many wise words, but on this one, I’ll have to respectfully disagree.

During my travels over the years, I’ve stayed at wonderful hotels, not so wonderful hotels, encountered a mosaic of interesting individuals and captured stories that will remain with me forever. But very few places have felt like “home” – the place where you can kick off your shoes, hang out with a few books and chill.

I arrived for the second time at Hacienda San Agustin de Callo on Thursday (I came for a day visit in July during my first trip to Ecuador).  Inside the hacienda’s majestic historic walls, there’s a special room – what’s known among the visitors and staff as ‘the living room’ – where numerous new and old books, plush sofas, an ever-roaring fire and pictures of the hacienda’s past bring the room alive. Give it character.

The room is just one of many of the unique aspects of Hacienda San Agustin – but likely my favorite.

Last night, like every night there, the guests gathered in the living room for pre-dinner cocktails. We were quite the mixed and matched crowd – a few visitors from Italy on a long holiday trip, one couple stopping by just for dinner and some friends of the owner, Mignon Plaza.  We all spoke different languages, but translated for each other along the way, managing to cover a range of topics – from the health care situation in the U.S. and to Ecuadorian President Correa’s political view to raising children and favorite artists.

Each night at the hacienda features different faces and conversations. For me, bands of energetic people and animated chats easily remind me of home – with four siblings, we grew up with friends coming in and out, music always playing and food always at the reads. My parents kept the door open for everyone – something my sister, brothers, close friends and I  remember fondly to this day.

Perhaps that’s my personal connection – the familiarity of the way of life – even if in design, the hacienda is geographically away from where I live.

But, despite Dorothy’s popular mantra, perhaps we are meant to have more than just one place that feels like home.

Are there places – near or far – that are your home away from home? Share in the comments and be sure to tell us where and why.

*The picture above is my own and is a snapshot of the hacienda living room coffee table books. Right next to the fireplace. Awesome.

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Not long ago, I visited Ecuador on a short holiday. I spent my time hiking, horse-back riding interviewing and hanging out with locals, trying to perfect my mediocre Spanish.

As with all of my adventures, I met so many great people along the way. One of them was Mignon Plaza, who owns and runs Hacienda San Agustin de Callo, a magical palace right outside of Quito, Ecuador. San Agustin is replete with rich history, culture and adventure – I noticed it the minute I was greeted at the entrance.

After I finished my horseback ride, Mignon and I had coffee, chatted about life and our interests. I shared my writing and marketing experience and my obsession with researching and capturing the stories of the global cultures, people, places and things. Mignon graciously invited me to come stay with her and the staff there to help capture the San Agustin story, brainstorm innovative ideas to help raise awareness of this exquisite cultural destination and spend time with the magnificent people of the village.

Of course, accepting this invitation was a no-brainer. I am eternally grateful and hope this is one of many such projects and expeditions I’ll lead during my lifetime.

I have a million ideas, completed many weeks of research, outlined my activities and planned a few intended adventures during my stay. I know not all of this will go according to plan, and that’s the part of the expedition that I love.

To round this out though, I need your thoughts, your creative minds, your insightful angles.

What do you want to hear about from the expedition? Questions I should ask the people to help bring the culture alive in words, photos and video? Feel free to share your thoughts in the comments below – let’s make this a collective project!

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This is another guest post from my Dad, Ron. He loves to tell stories – you can read Dad’s previous TJCC guest posts here.

You did not misread the title.

Yes, my Mom . . . that sweet little Italian lady . . . was a bootlegger.

Here is the true story:

Following World War I and into the early 1920′s (Jun 16, 1919 thru Dec 5, 1932 to be exact, the 18th Amendment to the United States Constitution prohibited “… the manufacture, sale, or transportation of intoxicating liquors within, the importation thereof into … or the exportation thereof from …. the United States and all territory ….”.

This meant: legal booze was ‘out ’.

My father and mother were married in Italy on January 6, 1920, and emigrated to the US a short time after. My sister Adeline was born about 2 years later (followed by 4 more children, my birth being the last). During this period of time, Mom took care of the house, cooked breakfasts, lunches and dinners for everyone, including the boarders living in our house, and did all the laundry by hand. The greatest gift she received years later was a washing machine!

In her abundant spare time, she made the wine, beer, and ‘bathtub’ gin, all of which she sold for about $1 a gallon for wine or beer, and “who-knows-how-much” for the gin. This process went on for a number of years.

Then one day in 1932, in the depths of the U.S. economic depression, she walked into the Peekskill Savings Bank (one of three private banks in New York State that didn’t fail), and plunked down $5000 dollars (!) to pay off the mortgage on the house.

The president of the bank, Mr. Gish, boisterously welcomed her and made sure those waiting in line to withdraw their money (for fear that the bank would fail) heard his loud comment that “Mrs. Cococcia is depositing HER money”. Well, just about everyone in town knew and trusted Mom, so most of them left their money in the accounts. Until the day he died, Mr. Gish always said that Mrs. Cococcia saved the bank from failing.

A follow-on part of the story deals with my father’s construction business. When he needed a loan for a new truck, all my father had to do was mention it to Mr. Gish who, unhesitatingly, gave him the loan and ‘took care of the paperwork’ himself, personally. Mr. Gish never forgot the good deed my Mom had done for the bank.

None of the children – my three sisters, my brother, nor I – knew about Mom’s bootlegging career path.

The Discovery

The first “clue” (and at the time we didn’t know it was a “clue”) happened at Mom’s funeral wake. One of the family friends – Mr. Aloysio – (who owned a dog that understood only Italian) – commented to me in his best English: “Ronnie, she made-uh the best-uh wine .”

I had no idea what he was talking about. My thought was he was saying the requisite nice thing about the deceased person, and it got lost in his translation to English.

About 6 months later, my brother and I were cleaning out the basement of our house. My brother found a case of beer, bottles un-opened, covered with much dust. While examining the bottles (no, the examination did not involve drinking that stuff), my father happened to walk in. My brother exclaimed: “Pop! We found a case of beer! ” My father hurriedly and immediately said to get rid of it. But my brother persisted, and my father finally admitted
it was beer our mother made, and left over from the “old days”.

He then told us the whole story about Mom and her “career” in banking; he had kept it secret all of those years so that none of the children would think badly of their mother.

Of course, all the other families knew about Mom’s bootlegging business, but they too maintained the ‘omertà ’.

And that, dear readers, was my wonderful Mom.

What family stories or traditions still live on until this day? What lesson or memory stands out the most for you?

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