Winning over Italy

“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!

Not long ago I was invited by the local primary schools, where I’d been doing some teaching, to attend an end-of-term show by the pupils.  It was a large affair with professional sound crews and lighting engineers, guest stars and journalists buzzed around a huge stage before show-time.    As the crowd packed in to the rows I shrunk to the back trying to look as inconspicuous as possible, I would show my face and slip off quietly later.   I didn’t shrink enough however, as the school principal – well-practiced in beady observation techniques- soon spotted me and took my hand.  “You’re one of the guests of honour.”  She said, pulling me to the front.  “You sit in the reserved seats in the first row.”   I was plonked down right in the middle of the red-cushioned row….totally alone with my back to an enormous crowd of local dignatries and anxious parents.   All during the build-up I scanned the entrances looking for some possible company, some face I might know that would be allocated one of the thirty seats that lay empty beside me.  None appeared and the final uno-due-testings by the sound team signalled the concert was about to commence.   The auditorium went quiet as I sat looking up at the stage, not daring to look behind and trying to look as casual as possible.  The overture started, stirring orchestra music and what sounded like a large choir.  I sat as low in my chair as I could and waited for it to finish.  After a few moments something made me look round.  To my absolute horror I was faced with three hundred people all standing to attention with their hands on their hearts, singing loudly……the national anthem. 

Oh nooo!  I cringed.  I struggled to my feet ashamed, put the wrong hand on my chest and tried to mouth words I didn’t know.  I was fooling no-one.  I felt the eyes bore into my back and knew that my chances of ever escaping unnoticed had just evaporated into thin air.  I was here for the duration. 

Rule 1, If you ever decide to settle abroad, learn the national anthem.

It’s quite astonishing to realise that Italy is only 150 years young, today!  17^th March, the day Italy was unified by the march of Garibaldi, despite attempts on his life by the French and others who wished to hang onto their foreign investments.  Today also provides the answers to a couple of questions that have intrigued me about the country on my travels round its towns and cities.  I’ve been struck during conversations with bar owners and farmers, professionals and students and by watching TV journals just how diverse the country is…and how modest it is about its achievements.

“But you had the first world-class empire.”  I argue. “The genius of Da Vinci and Michelangelo, the power of Medici, the vision of Columbus and the adventures of Marco Polo.  What’s not to boast about?  I mean,  look at your cities.  Is Venice not a wonder of the world?  Is Florence not the finest? And is Rome not packed with century after century of romance, intrigue and glory?”

The reply is always the same.  “But the empire was the Romans, not Italians.  Da Vinci was from Tuscany and the Venetians built Venice.  As Italians, what have we done?”

Their self depreciation is tempered only by their more modern-day  (and to them the more relevant) successes.  Versace the empire, Ferrari the engineer, Marconi the inventor and Fellini the artist, oh and four world cups.  Get them on the subject of food however and the real pride and passion of the Italian suddenly burns in their eyes.

This is the other benefit of its youth.  Italy is still too young to have seen its cultural palate homogenised and blended, assimilated into a mish-mash of bland uniformity….fish and chips, the burger.  It protects its regional differences fiercely.  Amalfi for Limoncella, Naples for pizza, Milan for Milanese, Parma for proscutto crudo (Parma ham) and parmigiano (parmesan cheese), and Reggio for Frittole (sweet pork trotters, ears and other bits).  The TV journals are supplied with an endless series of different regions and customs to visit and explore, the people an endless itinerary of places to holiday in and visit..all rich, all wonderful.  Even the language still varies from region to region, town to town, village to village.  You can still tell the difference between a Neapolitan song and a Sicilian, a Venetian building and a Florentine. 

“We are Calabrese first and Italian second.” I was informed by a good doctor last week.  “We feel proud of our Greek heritage here in the South, the first democracy and the blood of the great philosophers still runs in our veins.  The amphitheatres still exist and are still used, the plays that fill them are the same.” 

To me Italy is a land of contradictions and opposites that co-habit happily together because of them, not in spite of them.  Modern technology is embraced with the same enthusiasm as its ancient traditions, it’s engineers and physicists are sought-after all over the world while the ‘new world’ seeks the path home to see the ‘Old Country’

There’s an independence of spirit and a self-reliance that volunteers people to the idea of a nation without feeling subjugated by it.  They will criticise themselves endlessly and argue the toss about nothing…until lunchtime.  They will worry about Japan and know the tragedy that unfolds there, the seismic repercussions all-too-familiar in the faults that lie beneath the sea beside us, but they are young and they are survivors.

I’m proud to feel part of today, even a little choked, but that’s just a measure of how welcome these people have made me feel.  Today might see a strange New York….Irish and Italians celebrating different things together, here we’ll enjoy the warm weather, drink a little red wine, hum along to Verdi and toast Garibaldi

Auguri Italia!  Happy Birthday and thanks for inviting me to the party!  I’ll just go now and brush-up on the national anthem.

In the foothills of Calabria, even in the high mountains when the weather warms, there is still the wandering shepherd.  His pasture is not fenced or walled, his charges are unmarked.  They graze on verges and banks, slopes and precipices, if there’s no crop in the field then it’s open for lunch.  The man with the crook is a philosopher, a loner – though I know of one who puts on a heavy gold chain in the evening to go looking for a wife.  Where his search takes him I know not.  Marino Mountain is where the edges of the centuries blur, where modern city life meets the old ways, still strong.. still valued.  

It was Sunday and I’d planned a long lie then to write a little for the blog and inject some energy into another project which needs a little care and attention.   There I was however, shivering under a naked sky and ringing the doorbell at Zio (uncle) Nino’s.  It was my own fault.  I’d been badgering him to let me help out at ‘l’uccisione del maiale’ for months.  “Don’t forget to let me know now, promise.”  Sure enough, he was true to his word and had phoned late on Saturday night.  “It’s tomorrow, be early.”   I was told.  I don’t have a blood lust or anything, far from it, but I was keen to witness this aspect of life that has survived the onslaught of white-goods convenience.  Indeed, has been the essence of survival for so many in meagre times…..The killing of the pig.  During the 19^th century and the first part of  the 20^th, it defined how a family would live for the following year, whether they would stay together or whether the young men would be forced to pack their Panini and join the exodus to Northern Europe or the New World to look for work.  Today it still has its place and it’s appropriate that it should be as much a celebration as a harvest thanksgiving.  There was no answer to the bell, so I ventured round to the rear of the house.  I could hear the excited voices at the back of the long garden, across the rows of vegetables and through olive grove to the outhouses where the animals were kept, my shoes getting damp on the dewy grass.   “Hey Carlo.  Just in time!  Zia (aunt) is getting some refreshments so we can start.”  They were all there, about fourteen in all,  Nino’s offspring with their spouses.  A space had been cleared between the storerooms, the pig pens and chicken runs and a sturdy table was being scrubbed down with boiling water which came from a huge steaming vat that hung over an open fire beside the bread kiln.  Diego urged me to look inside the nearest storeroom to the fire where I was happily warming myself.  “This is where we become butchers and prepare the meat for the Salumi, pancetta, sausages and hams.  Nothing goes to waste, everything is preserved.”  A shaft of sunlight suddenly penetrated the gloom, picked out in the smoke that drifted in from the fire.  Above me were rows and rows of last year’s harvest.  Salumi preserved with seasoning, garlic, chilli and rosemary, large hams peppered with, well, peppercorns and rubbed in rough salt.  As I snapped with the camera there was a chorus of cheers outside as Zia brought our ‘starters’.  We were given glasses with clear grappa and slices of homemade bread smothered in chilli and olive oil.  The instant heat from the grappa followed by the smouldering burn of the chilli seemed to relax our muscles for the task ahead.   Amazing as it may sound, just as the pig was being led to its fate that morning, we were distracted by a sound in the neighbouring pens.  A new lamb was born!  This was a good sign, The day would go well….the year even better.

I won’t describe the bloody details, the sounds and emotions, the heaving of 200 kilos for a morning shave, nor the day of intense work that lasted into the dark hours.  That is for another place and time.  All through the process we were supplied with rich red wine and small cuts of pork that were thrown on the fire to cook to keep us going.   Rich, delicate meat that melted in the mouth.   The women seemed to work harder than the men, cleaning intestines for the salumi skin, slow-boiling the ears, tongue, trotters and neck for a lunch of sweet-tasting “Frittole.”   A delicacy that you can feel cling to your heart as you eat.  This is mid-winter and the time for food that insulates you against the wind and snows of the high mountains.   As lunch approached the younger members of the family began to appear until the massive kitchen was packed with sounds and laughter…all anticipating the feast.  There must have been over 30 people bustling around laying tables and playing games, doing homework and watching football.   Nino, Pepe, Angelo, Ciccio, Umberto and I sat close to the log fire with our glasses of grappa, gazing into the embers while Nino dropped a few pieces of liver onto a wire tray, an appetiser for the men.   After lunch, again round the fire, we talked of hunting and fishing and dreamed of a big trip to Scotland for the grouse.   “You know they burn the earth in their fires in Scotland.” Said Angelo to Nino.  “No way!”  “Si, and they call it Pietro.”  Zio looked at me for confirmation.  “It’s called peat.”  I explained.  “It’s a compressed vegetation that makes a good fire….and good whisky.”  “Mmmm.” Said Nino getting up.  “Think it’s time we taste some Scotland.” 

After another fire-warmed whisky, Angelo and I went outside to get some air.  The afternoon was tired and the sun was low, a soft haze had turned the colour of the valley to muted olive and purple shadows, the sky was streaked yellow and pink against the powder blue.  The peal of a bell carried across the rarefied air from a hidden church further up the gorge while a spiral of thin smoke hung against the mountain, adding to the dreamlike quality of the vista.   I must have done something good in my life to deserve this moment, nothing could make this better.   As if on cue, the clink clang of another bell caught my attention.  “This is not really happening.”  I thought.   From round the corner of the lane further down, from between the giant cactus plants emerged a tall thin figure, wading slowly forward in the midst of a flock of about twenty sheep.  The sun and the shadows cast an unearthly aura around the group as they approached, floating through the mist.  He barked at the two busy border collies that were keeping the procession in line.  As he got near I tried to guess the age of this mystical shepherd, it was well-nigh impossible.  He could have been anywhere between thirty-five and eighty-five.  His clothes were tough corduroy and tweed, he wore strong boots that had managed to shape to his feet over impossible miles and a small woolly ski-hat that hid all but the long twisting ends of  his reddish-grey hair.   He stopped to talk to Angelo, instructing the dogs to hold his flock.   His long face was chiselled from mahogany, deep carved lines spread like a dried delta from his sun-narrowed eyes, so you would never tell what he was really thinking.  A ragged roll-up followed the movement of his lower lip as he spoke.   He and Angelo exchanged greetings, chattering in thick dialect that bore no resemblance to any Italian I could understand.  The tall man looked over at me at one point in the conversation and let out a short throaty laugh, showing a sparse line of random teeth.  He shook my hand and bade goodbye, barking once again at his faithful team.  If his face bore the lines of age his stride was that of a vigorous young man as caught up with the flock.   “He asked me where you were from.”  Said Angelo.  “When I told him you were Scottish  he said you must know all about sheep then.”

I watched him whistle his way on up the hill, keeping the sheep clear of a car on the corner.  The centuries brushing lightly against each other on the slopes of Marino Mountain. 

The one main event I miss most about being away from Scotland is Hogmanay, our often happy-abandoned way of seeing in the new year.  (or maybe that should read seeing to the new year).  In Italy the celebrations are a little muted in comparison (bar the traditional gunfire in the air), to the extent that in recent years we’ve chosen to stay in rather than search for an ad hoc party or two.  If I was missing it before then I’m missing it more now.  Regular readers will know that I sometimes meet a few unexpected characters along the way but none more so than today (30^th December).   Today I turned the corner at Lungomare and bumped into, you guessed it, The Mid South Highland Pipes and Drums.   A warm-up gig for their annual trip to Sicily, I discovered from Pipe Major John MacDonald later, once he’d picked up his pipes and dusted them down.  “We usually come and play in Sicily between Boxing Day and the 2^nd of January.”  He told me, surrounded by his band who it seems gather from all over the British Isles to make the trip, including a native Sicilian who’s apparently no mean piper himself.  We swapped numbers.  You never know when you’ll need a piper, especially down here where they don’t exactly stand around on street corners….except today.  

“Why Italy?”  I asked.   “Oh we go all over the place, depending on where the agent in Sicily finds us to perform.  Once we were here playing when an excited Italian came over and, via interpreter, expressed a desire to book the whole band for a week in Milan.  Sure enough, eighteen months later we were being flown out to take part in a theatre event in Milan, all expenses paid.”  Volunteered the drum major, whose only complaint about the annual trip was Alitalia’s treatment of his mace.  “I don’t think it’s ever arrived in one piece.” 

“Have you ever been to the Orange Throwing Festival in Ivrea?”  John MacDonald asked me.  “Can’t say I have, why?”  “Oh that’s well worth going to.  If you can imagine a huge crowd of people throwing hundreds of thousands of blood-oranges at horse-drawn carriages full of mad Italians, with the horses managing to evacuate-through-fear on the citrus pulp and sticky juice as they trot past….all to celebrate the 1194 Battle of Oranges.  Well, you can imagine the condition our dress shoes get into when we have to march down the road after them!  Still the food’s good and the wine’s great, so we can’t complain.  The reception we get’s also well worth the visit,  they can be an excitable lot down here, don’t you think?” 

The snare ticked time with the pound of the bass drum as they began to march, solid and focussed, down the high street.  The other drums picked up the beat before the skirl of the pipes shivered across my skin as they took up the tune and scattered all before them.  My feet tapped, possessed, to ‘Mari’s Wedding’.  My eyes moistened to ‘Wild Mountain Thyme’ filling the evening air, hanging for a moment before drifting away across the water.   The sheer romance of the pipes.  When I found out that the Pipe Major hails from the Sma’ Glen in Perthshire (where you’ll find the best little fire-warmed pub in Scotland and where I’ve spent many Christmases over the years)  my homesickness was beginning to catch in my throat and sting my eyes.   “So what’ll you all be doing on New Year’s Eve?”  I asked innocently.  “What do you think?”   John grinned as the rest of the band laughed.  “Another red wine please.”  They cried in unison.  

I just managed to resist the impulse to join them and follow them round the rest of their trip as they hopped on the tour coach and bade farewell.  I watched them drive away  “Happy New Year.”  They called.  “Mind how you go.”  I replied quietly, waving as they headed off into the Calabrian night.  “Mind how you go.”   Now that would have been some new year to write home about, getting in the ‘spirit’ of Hogmanay with a pipe band, so far from home!   I wandered back up into the town, the sound of distant pipes ringing in my ears as I wiped another tear.  Well, if you can’t get sentimental at New Year, when can you?

If you ever get a chance to see this fine band, buy them a wee drink and say hello from me.

Happy Hogmanay!