I wish I knew more about my father's side of the family. A lot of drunk, crazy Irish from what I know. And Lord knows I've pestered him about more info for years. But here in Taxco family signifies something altogether different. Here history is staring me in the face. And his name is Charles, or Carlos J. Nibbi, and just about everyone with whom I have spoken expressed surprise and awe that I was here and deep pleasure to know one of his descendants. As one former employee of the hotel, a gorgeous Taxco native named Fabiola, "it's such a pleasure to know someone from the family. We've all grown up on such stories."

Needless to say this is an unusual feeling for me.

Shortly after the 1870 abandonment of Rome by the French Italy unified. The Nibbis--my mother's Italian family--were ordered to leave the country. Dr. Orembello G. Nibbi and his English wife, Henrietta Parker-Nibbi (daughter of minor Midlands nobility) fled their Tuscan home for Mexico City. I don't know much about their son except that he had a son who built a hotel here in Taxco-in the meantime the Nibbi family became entangled somehow with the Buckley family. Yes, that self-same Buckley family which derived a great deal of its wealth from oil interests in Mexico. Until the Mexicans took it back from them--for good reason if you ask me.

But back to my story. At some point in the early part of the twentieth century Carlos--the family knew him as "Gran Charlie"--built a hotel in Taxco--the family also had some extensive land holdings in the area and in Cuernavaca. In 1983 the only parcel of land still in the family was a pig farm outside of Taxco owned by Dario Nibbi's wife (Dario died a few years before) and her children Carlos and Laura. No, I don't know her name, neither does my mother for some strange reason--I wish I did.

There are lots and lots of gaps in this 'history.' And probably some of it is wrong. The fun thing is that for the next few years I get to fill in the gaps and correct the mistakes--learning about my family and myself in the process.

Taxco feels odd, like being at home, it's that comfortable. It's the feeling I expected when I visited Ireland or Italy without the mawkish sentimentality of the immigrant or exile. What's more, I've spent the better part of the last ten years exploring Asia. My feelings for Mexico remained uninformed and simple: it's too close to home, not exotic enough and not intellectually appealing in the least.

Was I wrong? Certainly so. But that's only the half of it. Do any of us really know what home is anymore? Is it about who we are or where we are from? Is it about the past? Or is it about the future?

And what happens when, like me the last few days, you keep meeting ghosts?

How does that factor into home?