We flew over to Bari, the main city in Puglia, and there we were: 30 minutes away from meeting my long-lost family. When we arrived in the small town of Palo Del Colle, we were greeted with a warm Italian welcome: 10 family members started shouting, che faccia bella, (Italian for what a beautiful face), immediately followed by hugging, squeezing and kissing my cheeks. I forgot to mention one important thing: I just walked into a room where only one relative knew English. My American family does not speak Italian. Yet in the moment, it didn’t seem to matter. My tiny great aunts, no taller than 4’9,” instantly warmed to us and embraced us. Noting my height of 5’2,” my husband Scott joked, “Well, we know where you get your height from.” Short or tall, American or Italian, we were able to communicate via one language and that was love.