Winning over Italy

As a (past) amateur sailor of the lochs and islands that abound in the gulf stream that sweeps round the Scottish west coast, I can only gaze at the Med and wonder. With this climate of endless blue skies and friendly warm winds, surrounded by matchless scenery, why do I not see far more white sails tack and beat their way round Sicily, heading for the clear sandy lagoons and bays to anchor overnight before exploring the Aeolian Islands? Why no smell of bacon and eggs wafting across the flat-calm of the early morning to the shore?

“I have my own theory,” a keen local dingy sailor tells me. “Ever since the Tsunami of 1908 the people of Reggio and Messina have a deep mistrust of the sea. They’re more comfortable as fearless landlubbers and prefer something a little higher…generally about a thousand meters higher.”

When I think about it he’s probably right, the mountains, even the very high ones, are not at all like the vast soulful wilderness of the western Cairngorms. No, they are pretty well smattered with towns and villages, all within a goat’s scramble of each other, even along ridges three times higher than Ben Nevis.

There is, however one group for whom the sea brings no fear, only fun. You know they’re active long before you actually get sight of the water, their multi-coloured stripes and emblems snake through the air against the clear sky telling you that you’ve arrived…in KiteSurf paradise. Amazingly it turns out that my home town, Pellaro, happens to be its epicentre.

“Pellaro Point probably has the best kite surfing conditions in Europe, and certainly one of the best in the world,” says Agostino Martino, proprietor of the NewKiteZone surf club. “The wind is always to land so it’s got the best and safest conditions for learning the sport and having good strong winds makes it exciting for the more experienced surfers.”

He explains, as we watch some of his instructors help three or four young female students get to grips with their boards and lines. Agostino has invited me down for a free lesson after having helped him translate a press release for the 4th annual Continent-Island Kite and Wind-Surf race between the mainland and Sicily. I already knew that five years ago there had been nothing along this wide stretch of sand apart from a few die-hard (and possibly extreme) sportsmen, yet now here was a thriving school and club.

“So how did it turn from a hobby into all this?” I asked.

“It’s an odd story really,” he mused. “I was working in Rome as a computer consultant and doing quite well, to be honest. Well, one day after work I decided to go kite-surfing and headed down to the sea with my girlfriend and, after getting all the kit out and ready, I discovered I’d left my control bar (for the kite) at home. So I asked Stefania to stay and look after the equipment while I nipped back home to get it. Two and a half hours later I got back through the Rome traffic to find a very stormy looking girlfriend and no wind. That was it for me! I took a year’s sabbatical and tried to work out what I wanted to do while I did as much kite-surfing as I could on the way…..It wasn’t long before the penny dropped.”

Agostino takes a few minutes to go and help some surfers land their kites while I watch the action on the water. There’s no doubt that it’s a fascinating sight. There were kiters weaving in and out of the wind surfers, some of them taking off and doing acrobatics in the air while the beginners were just concentrating on making steady progress up and down the shore line. The sky was full of colour and against the backdrop of Etna in mid-eruption it was easy to see how you might become addicted to this kind of buzz.

“We set up a hut on the beach here at Pellaro and took from there really,” continues Agostino after a few minutes. “ We got our IKO teaching accreditation and didn’t have to look far for our first students since the area already had a reputation in Italy for its naturally ideal conditions. We had people coming from Florence to Milan with a few from northern Europe at that point.”

“So how did the school develop so quickly then?”

“Well, the water’s a good couple of degrees warmer than most places ten months of the year which means there’s virtually all-year-round surfing so we also started getting more and more people coming wanting to train to be instructors, from as far away as Mexico. In fact,” he added modestly, “We’ve trained more than 120 instructors in the last four years. We’re also the only club I know of in Europe using a new technique developed by an Argentine surfer where we use short lines to make it much easier for beginners. It means we can get more students learning at the same time without worrying about the wind carrying them off anywhere.”

“Is it mostly guys you get coming?” I asked spying Gino, the barrista from Piper cafe, try a couple of mid-air spins a few meters above the waves.

“No, not at all! In fact this year until spring we had practically all girls, even when it was quite chilly out there. There’s me wrapped up in hoods and fleeces on the shore while they’re out on the sea in shorts and tee shirts…don’t know how they do it, tougher than me that’s for sure.”

He shudders at the memory.

We withdraw to the Pizza Lido next to the club for a cooling beer and some shade to continue our chat.

“We often have parties or BBQ’s after lessons here,” Agostino tells me, “Always a good crowd.”

“So what do you need if you want to come here and learn?”

“Just some sun-cream and a pair of sunglasses, it’s that simple,” he laughs. “Mainly the sun-cream! We have it all here, Kites, boards, wet-suits and we even have our own apartments for people to stay. If you want something a little more private then we have special arrangements with the local B&B’s, all of which are very good. You can be a beginner who wants to have a course of lessons or a tourist hitching round Italy and fancy a bit of surfing for a day, no problem, we can sort you out.”

“So, tell me, how did the race go this year? Do you organise it all?”

“Yes, with help from sponsors and the club guys of course. We didn’t have as much wind as we’d have liked on a couple of the days but it was a great battle and amazing to watch…..and we had live GPS coverage of it all this year, we were recording speeds of over 35 knots across to Sicily and back, which is fantastic fun.”

He finishes off his beer and gets up.

“So…ready for your lesson then?”

“35 knots?……on a three-foot plank of wood?…..across the sea with a big kite and some string? Maybe tomorrow Agostino, got a wee problem with my knee at the moment… I’ll call you.”

For more about Kite Surfing in Calabria go to: www.NewKiteZone.it

Dance man, Dance!

A few days ago I asked a young lad of about 8 years old whether he played an instrument.  Proudly he told me that he had been learning one for the last two years.  “Piano?, guitar?  or maybe violin?” I enquired.  “No!” he said beaming. “Tambourine!”  If you smile, as I would have done a few years ago, then you underestimate its place in the order of things in Calabria.  For the humble tambourine is the key to Calabrese music.  It is the conductor for the accordion, singer and (sometimes) guitarist and the subtle step-caller for the dancers and it’s very encouraging to know that the young take it as seriously as their great, great grandparents.  Tarantella is uniquely Calabrese (a sort of cross between delta Cajun and free-form highland fling) and when you visit you will hear and see it performed in village squares and forest clearings, by the sea and in the mountains, usually impromptu.  If you do, then don’t stand too close…you will undoubtedly be pressed into dancing.  I warn you, it will lure you into its web like a tractor beam until you’re unable to escape its trance-like effect.   This is an apt analogy as Tarantella means “Dance of the Tarantula.” The dance is meant to mimic what happens to victims when they’re bitten.  Basically you hop around a bit!  Before dying of embarrassment!

My own attitude to old music with a young heart changed some years ago, the first time I came to Italy.  I was staying with a Scottish friend in a village near Florence and it was during a rare World Cup venture by our homeland.  We had found a little out-of-the-way bar used only by three old men who played dominoes all night round three empty coffee cups and a glass of Grappa.  The owner was happy to let us watch whatever game we saw fit over the fortnight as we were disturbing no one and spending more money in a week than he had probably taken all winter.  At the end of the last match we were about to leave when the owner beckoned us over.  “Follow me.” He said conspiratorially.  He took us over to his white BMW and signalled to us to get in.  My friend and I looked at each other doubtfully, there was a distinct language barrier and even as a couple of adults outnumbering him 2-1, we didn’t think getting into a stranger’s car was a terribly clever idea, especially when we couldn’t understand a word he was saying.  However he smiled and reassured us with the words.  “Me thank you for good business.”

This was in the days before mobile phones, so after we had driven up into the mountains in the middle of the night for about an hour, the lights of civilisation having long-since disappeared below us, we began to fret a little.  Eventually we turned through some imposing iron gates and arrived in the courtyard of a large villa which had been built into the rock-face of the mountain.  We got out and followed our host to the top of the wide stone steps and a huge solid-looking wooden door.  He pulled on the bell rope and smiled at us as we waited. “You like” he said.  “You like many.”  A little hatch in the door slid open to reveal the dark eyes of a diminutive woman in her mid-forties.  “It’s a flamin’ brothel.” Hissed my friend.  “How the hell to we get out of this one?”  We started to panic, looking around vainly for some means of escape.  The woman and our driver exchanged a few words before the hatch slammed shut again.   He turned and went back down the steps indicating we should follow.  Relief flooded through our veins.  “They’re shut, thank God.”  As we headed straight back to the car.  “Where you go?” said the driver.  “Go here.”  He had turned round a corner of the building and was standing in front of a very wide garage door that looked as if it could accommodate a small fleet of cars.  He opened a little side door and indeed we found ourselves in the company of three vehicles covered in canvas under one of which was the unmistakable shape of a Ferrari.  Before we could think further however, a door slid open to reveal a spacious anti-room with a large cavern disappearing into the rock beyond.  The woman whose eyes had greeted us at the hatch called us into the room.   There was a great square wooden table in the middle with eight chairs, two on each side.  From the ceiling hung rows of salumi and rounds of netted cheese whilst on the table there were a few plates, a chopping board and some hunting knives.  “I don’t think it’s a brothel.” I whispered to my friend.  “Maybe we should relax a bit.”

Our guide took us into the long cavern and switched on the single bulb that dangled from a cable in the roof.  Down each side of the long room stood man-sized Chianti bottles half-wrapped in straw while down the middle, from floor to ceiling, were row upon row of packed wine-racks.  The woman came over and explained.  “This is where all the local producers bring their wine for blending with others.  The best is bottled and the rest is in the flagons.  Come, let’s sit down.”  Another four people had joined us and, as we all shook hands and exchanged names, we sat down round the table and accepted the wine and food that was now being poured and served. 

After a few drinks and trying to answer what we thought we were being asked about ourselves, we began to relax and enjoy the evening and the company.  Without warning one of the women at the table started to sing.  This quite beautiful soprano voice treated us to a complete aria from a faintly familiar opera, so when she finished everyone clapped enthusiastically.  This was wonderful.  After some more wine had been sampled the man next to our soprano began to sing.  “It’s a Neapolitan love song.” Whispered the woman next to me.  “ It sound so sad.” I whispered back.  “All Neapolitan songs are sad, that’s how you know they’re Neapolitan.”  She grinned.  My friend and I were really enjoying ourselves now, rich wine, strong cheese and fabulous singing.  It was only when a third quality performer got up and started singing what we were told was a Sicilian folk song that the ‘Lire’ dropped.   My friend and I looked at each other in absolute horror.“This is going round the table.”  He groaned.

“What are we going to do?  I don’t know anything remotely cultural. We can hardly sing Stuck in the Middle with You, can we.?

“I don’t even know the firsts verse to that!”   We started to panic even more as we realised, shamefully, that as a nation we’d left our cultural heritage in the hands of pipe band competitions and Arran sweaters to keep dimly alive in petrol station CD racks.  We’ve been careless with our traditions!

“Okay, I’ve got it!” Said my friend triumphantly.  “What have we been listening to on TV for the past fortnight?  Quick, write down the words to Flower of Scotland!  I’ll do that.”

“And what do I sing then?  No way mate, I know the words, you don’t.”

“You can recite a little Robbie Burns, they’ll like that.”

“But I can’t remember anything more than a couple of lines of Tam O’Shanter.”

“Just put on a Scottish accent and say ‘Wee Drunken Timorous Willie’ a lot, they’ll never know the difference.”

“Sounds more like an Ode to Brewers Droop!  It’s not even Burns.”

“Exactly, but it sounds as if it is.”

In the end we settled for a duet of Flower of Scotland which sounded sadly more like a football chant than a stirring ballad about rediscovering past glories.  We were clapped politely as we sat down, humbled by the sheer variety and talent of our hosts.  They sang on, operas and regional folk songs, comic duets in dialect and tales of broken hearts while we hid our shame in the wine and eventually persuaded our driver to take us home before our ‘turn’ came round again.

Cultural identity in music remains thankfully strong in Italy thanks to the willingness of the youth to learn from parent, whether it be the mandolin or the tambourine, the accordion or just to know the dance.  We look forward to August when little Pellaro will play host to an annual folk festival, where Poles and Slovaks join Cubans and Greeks to challenge the techno onslaught of P.Diddy and Beyoncé.   Meanwhile, I try to download and learn the Mingulay Boat Song and the Brae’s Of Killiecrankie…..just in case.  

When you come to Calabria, don’t stand too close to the music and never accept lifts from strangers….unless you can sing and dance.

In the last week I’ve had a couple of gentle wake-up calls.  Sort out your Italian!  There is only so much you can blog about sun-drying tomatoes and the arrival of Latte di Mandorla (almond milk) in the cafe’s and, after nearly two years here, I need to be doing more than simple surface scratching.  I need to read and understand more about the other parts of life that make the southern Italians who they are, after all I’m not just a visitor anymore, I’m a registered voter.  Today and tomorrow are election days for the local councils and city mayors, elections that can have a powerful impact on national government.   Milan, in particular, may prove to be a defining moment for Berlusconi.   These elections are followed later this week by a referendum on nuclear power (think we know which way that’s going to go) – this is earthquake country folks!  Doing some research before casting my own vote, I was surprised to learn that Italy boasts one of the world’s highest turnout percentages (often over 90%), it may not lead to one-party domination but you can’t argue that it’s not a true reflection of the people’s will.  

All week there has been a fascinating battle going on in the streets, the poster wars.   When you retire for the night your house will bear the image of one politician, only for it to have been redecorated by the morning with one of his opponent’s.  Coming home well after midnight last Thursday after having been out for pizza with some friends, I was amazed by the sight of a small army of men, running around out of breath, up and down streets, chasing each other with step ladders.  No sooner had one climbed down from plastering a poster on the side of anything that doesn’t move and gone to the next street, than another would sneak out from the shadows and overlay it with two more.  As there seems to be at least a dozen different parties and fifty or so candidates for each district you can understand that the step-ladder business is doing quite well.  I wanted to hang around until the inevitable moment when two or more poster-boys turned the same corner from different streets and came face to face.  Would they whistle to themselves as they, nonchalantly, passed each other pretending they always took their ladder for a walk at 1.00am or would they draw glue-brushes and charge at each other, ladders poised like lances?   However, Maria was tired so I couldn’t stay to watch. 

I’m not sure what all the local issues are but I’m pretty sure that Pellaro must be a key marginal.  In the last week not only has the rubbish vanished, we’ve had an entire road resurfaced for the first time (apparently) in living memory.  An event which brought everyone out to drive up and down just to enjoy the smooth pot-hole-free experience.  I shouldn’t be flippant though, the national issues are serious and immediate.  From Libya and the waves of North African refugees that land on our shores daily (unwanted by the French and English who have done so much to encourage them – thanks guys) to the economy and another promise to crack down on the Mafia (always a vote winner).  Controlling most of the media as he does, no doubt our Prime Minister will convince enough of the masses that there’s a communist plot to take over the judiciary and the “slightly-left-of-centre-left-liberals” are really Taliban insurgents bent on ousting him from power – for no good reason other than his penchant for paying young prostitutes not to have sex with him.

 This brings me to the other wake-up call.  I was introduced to a very interesting Italian journalist at a party last week and we were talking about the forthcoming election and Calabria in general when he was told by another guest that I did a bit of blogging.  “Really?” he said.  “What do you write about?”  “Well mostly it’s meant to be gentle view of life in the South of Italy, for the folks back home.  They know a lot about Tuscany but not much seems to be written about Calabria.” I explained.  “What do you say about the Mafia?” He asked.  “Well, nothing to be honest.”  He turned and stared at me for a moment then shook his head.  “How can you possibly write about life in Calabria and NOT talk about them!”   Its true I know and I’ve been doing my best to avoid the subject, but whether I ever write about them or not, I have begun to realise that, unfortunately, life’s not all sun-dried tomatoes and Latte di Mandorla.  It’s close, but not all.  Guess I’ll have to work harder on my Italian and find out who won the poster wars.

“She canna handle it captain!  The bridge won’t respond to any more pressure from this warp factor!”  Said my chief engineer.  “She won’t take the turbulence.”  He shook his head, his mouth grim with this synopsis as he looked down at my old guitar on the work bench.  “Ah well, I guess I’ll just have to go without for a while when I move to Italy.”  I replied.  “Perhaps it’s a sign to give up.” 

I arrived in Calabria trying to get used to the idea of not having something to strum, just when the lazy weather lent itself to sitting on the porch and humming tunelessly to the butterflies.  Maria knew the sadness in my heart.  “When you’ve been working for a while you could get a new one.”  She said sweetly, when she got fed up with my droopy face.  So for the next few months I contented myself with the unhappy trail that so many amateur musicians have taken through their lives…..wandering from shop to shop trying out another dream purchase for ten minutes while the salesman hovers over them, only to sigh and place it back on the wall.  “Maybe next month.”  We smile weakly as we leave the shop, promising never to return until the cash is in the pocket.  Each time working out new ways to reduce the months of torture. 

There aren’t a lot of instrument shops in Reggio but in one I found the guitar that I wanted, the one that fitted like a glove and suited my guileless style but as you can guess, it was way beyond my budget.  I gave up and gradually forgot.  Until our first Christmas.  We were at a friend’s house over the holiday (see Price of Dignity post, Feb 2010) when I was introduced to Demetrio.  Demetrio was a musician and talked about his mouth-watering collection of guitars.  “We should marmalade sometime.” He cried enthusiastically when Maria told him I used to dabble.  (jam is marmellata in Italian).  I told him my story as a way of getting out of the possibility of embarrassing myself in front of a good player.  “Which shop did you see this guitar in.”  He enquired.  When I told him he smiled and said .  “But of course, the owner is my best friend.  Why don’t we meet there on Saturday, I’m sure I can help.”  

Certain that it would make little difference ,we met outside as arranged.  “Marco, this my friend I was telling you about, do you think you can look after him?”  Of course Demetrio, for him everything is half price!”  I gawped.  A small discount perhaps but 50%?  “Are you sure?”  He was.  Suddenly half the shop came within my reserve, guitars more exotic than the one I’d had my eye on were placed in my eager hands to try.  In the end I chose the one I’d wanted all along and walked away…. with a large chunk of my budget still in my pocket.

This was my introduction to the way that the Calabrian economy works   You never think about spending until you’ve met at least a cousin or a friend of the man who sells the item you want, be it a car or an evening meal.  Drop the name and see the price drop along with it.   It’s a wonderful arrangement all round, cementing old friendships, building new ones and all the while it keeps business turning.   Of course it also means that your own services may be called upon one day, to look after a friend of a friend, but it’s such a small price to pay for survival in hard times as well as prosperity in good.  Here, our shopping habits have changed as result.  We scatter our custom round the local community, buying our bread from Francesco one day and Roberto the next,  our meat from Franco at Remo’s our chicken from Mario.  It’s a triumph for the independent trader and customer alike.  Astonishingly, in these days of multi-nationals and global economics,  the nearest equivalent of Sainsbury’s is shutting down while the butchers and greengrocers flourish.  Whilst I’m sorry for the check-out girls who will lose their jobs, I’m happy for the local farmers and shopkeepers who will keep theirs.  The tomatoes shall be fresh and have flavour, the local goat shall have cheese to sell.  The conglomerate has had a taste of his own chickens, undercut and driven out.   From clothes to diesel almost every euro we spend goes to someone we know and now, as we brace ourselves for the 2^nd stage of the house, our costs have shrunk as our friendships have grown.  Viva Calabria, where you know the price of nothing and the value of everything!

Perhaps I should have called this “Starship Enterprise”

Amo: A term of endearment, short form of Amore, love.

The early evening music of Reggio Calabria begins to fade.  The tired orchestra makes its way home on the tail-end of the rush hour concert.  The horns and percussion of the cars and scooters blare and slam Varese-like in their impatience.   I, on the other hand, stroll down to Via Marina in the first balmy air of Spring.  My work is over for the day and so I go to Bar Sotto Zero for a glass of Sicilian white and wait for Maria to finish her work then meet me there.  As always I have a book to keep me occupied, my little treat while I nibble on some green olives and sip my wine.

“Amo!”  a voice purrs behind me.   I turn quickly, smiling widely as always when I hear this sweet word.  My arms are open wide ready to embrace.  “Amore!”  I answer.  “You’re early.”

The words stop in my mouth.  The attractive girl I’m about to hold and kiss steps back in shock, a look of horror and panic large across her face.  A look complimented by the frown that glowers down at me from her very tall husband.  First he looks at me and then to his partner, accusation forming in his eyes.  “Oh I’m so sorry, scusa.”  I gush.  “I thought you were someone else, really.  This is where I usually meet my wife and when you said Amo I thought it was her.”  I’m talking too much, providing too much information.   Suspiciously he accepts my apology and they order their ice creams to take away while I return embarrassed to my book.  As they leave a few moments later, the husband is whispering to the girl harshly while glancing over his shoulder in my direction.  I’ve landed this poor, innocent woman in trouble, I can tell. 

You see, in London no-one else was referred to as ‘Amo’ but me.  Having an Italian partner was not usual in our area and this was always the way Maria called me.  In a crowded shop, from the end of the street or in a busy bar I always reacted to this  word in the same way because I knew it was aimed solely at me.  I haven’t quite got used to the fact that in Italy it’s probably not, I’m not so unique after all.  I use the endearment myself now (when talking to Maria of course) adopting it over darling or sweetheart or, heaven forbid, baby. 

There’s something about the Italian language that just lends itself to amore, to passion and love.  Love is a three syllable word, the stress point making it more emotional, more expressive.  Try adding some emphasis to ‘daarling’ and it becomes a sort of greeting between two thespians who can’t really stand each other.  Even the use of bello or bella between two friends signifies that the recipient may not even be good looking but simply a beautiful person.  The same passion applies to food as much as love, recipes are just as jealously protected.  The heart is open and dares speak its name.  It almost puts a lie to the concept of the horoscope, either that or everyone’s a Scorpio in Italy.  Watching a history of Italian cinema recently, underlined the lack of fear that Italians have in expressing an opinion about say, a beautiful woman walking down the street.  It doesn’t seem offensive and is indeed appreciated when an approving comment is overheard.   If we can talk about the view in terms unrestrained by fear of offence why not its occupants?  If a woman does take offence and dishes out a sharp slap to the face, then so what!  It’s all part of the fun of life…. just make sure there’s no  husband around!

 Profondo: Deep, profound.

 One of the ways I’ve picked up a little Italian is listening to football commentaries and it has thrown up a number of interesting lessons.  It was fairly simple to grasp the ideas of an auto-goal (own goal), angolo (corner kick) and even the more obvious arbitro (referee) but there’s one that really makes me chuckle.  The concept of a Partick Thistle centre half making a profound pass has me in stitches.  Not so bizarre possibly for his Italian counterpart who probably studied Greek philosophy at primary school, but surely beyond the cells of your average home-grown player, well unless he’s on the home grown.

(TV Anchorman)  “Let’s go over to Firhill for the first-round replay between Partick Thistle and Celtic, Malky.”

“Welcome to a soggy Glasgow.  Well Tam, it seems to me that the Thistle defence is playing a little too profoundly.  And only after ten minutes play!.”

“Aye Malky, I couldn’ea agree more.  That Partick legend, McAristotle, will be turning in his grave!  But that might be mere speculation.  Who knows”

“For half-time analysis, we’ll be going over to Jimmy Freud.

Passion isn’t just a game of two hearts!