Dancing on volcanoesPrefaceSpeaking of Calabresità, the specific properties of people from Calabria, may seem to be a somewhat pointless and predictable mental enterprise, but still intellectuals of all ages have tried to pinpoint the Calabrian identity. It can't be ignored that in general 'the Calabrian' doesn't have an all positive reputation. Journalism has always associated the extreme southern tip of the Italian boot with an ignorant subculture connected to mafia, so one could easily conclude that that anthropological identity somehow should be based on reality. That is proven by the fact, one could reason, by the insecure cultural mentality of Calabrian

emigrants that, once moved north, almost became more northerners than the northerners themselves. Calabria 'has never had or soughtdignity in a territory. That was hardly possible because any area refuses to deny the characteristics of it's population,' claims Fernanda Rossi in her interesting opus 'English journeys and travelers in Calabria in the 18th an 19th century'.'Europe ends at Naples,' wrote Creuze de Lesser, 'the rest is Africa.' Naples was seen as the last European outpost and Calabriawas, just like Sicily, completely ignored and forgotten land.

Calabrian writers and poets of all generations have philosophized about the spirit of their homeland. In his bitter answer to Marra,who had defined Calabria as the country of brute and lesser creatures, the greatest of them all, Tommaso Campanella (1568-1639), sought to glorify the Calabrian soul by placing it within Greek culture and by even considering it more ancient. 'Calabria, which literally means land of abundance,' wrote Campanella, is themost beautiful and the oldest region of them all. (…)The disciplines and sciences of the Calabrians are much more developed then of other human beings,' was the opinion of DomenicoGrimaldi (1735-1805), who defined the genius of the Calabrians as 'active and enterprising when he flourishes, but easily surrendering to emptiness and depression when he encounters obstacles. (…) The Calabrians have an enormous sense of honor, which makes them prone for vindictive feelings. (…) Most of them are clever, have a lively fantasy and are not privet of courage. (…) Apart from that they are very sensitive for rivalry, which often may lead to jealousy.'So according to Grimaldi the Calabrians are Greek in their negative properties, but don't have the creativity and drive for enterprise typical for the Hellens.

The most distinctive portrait of Calabria is maybe the one by Saverio Strati, for whom being Calabrian meant 'an accumulation ofstubbornness, loyalty, bitterness and a great sense of honor.' According to him 'people from Calabria always remember offenses and never forgive; will keep someone to his word, never take a distance and never turn their backs on someone.' In his stories set in Calabria Corrado Alvaro (1895-1956) mentions 'a preference for superior things.' Traditionally science was seen the most noble, elevated and honorable performance of men; the most valuable joy (…) was listening to conversations of educated people...' But according to Alvaro there was a lack of pride of popular, local things.'

Something that everybody has to agree on, is that the spiritual Calabrian identity, maybe because of it's problematical character,without a doubt always evokes interest and curiosity.

We don't know if it really has been curiosity that has led the author to this 'contemplation of the Calabrian spirit'. Remko Tekke draws a sensitive picture of the Calabrian soul, in all it'sdetails. From the subtlety with which he describes different situations becomes clear that Tekke loves Calabria in all it's nuances and that he notices the contradictions in it's facets. However, he's not an impersonal, objective observer at a distance.As a typical exponent of northern culture Tekke has submersed himself in the daily reality of Calabrian life. At first probably with some difficulties, which is understandable in a world based on parameters that are almost the opposite of those of the world where developed his cultural frame of reference in, but slowly (ashe claims himself as well) he has almost become Calabrian. After the 'grand' English travelers, that spoke of a country full of beauty, culture and magic, Tekke describes 'his' Calabria, maybe inspired, like Norman Douglas, by the irresistible temptation to find continuity in yesterdays Greek and the present day population, the immortals from the past and the shepherds that live there now. Just like those English travelers Remko Tekke observes simple things, describes them carefully and with respect and clearly recognizes their value. Just like them he explains the land and the people, and tries to read them 'with sober, but merciful eyes and love of truth in the faultless of the story.' (Fernanda Rossi)

Gisella MurgiaUniversità per Stranieri – Reggio Calabria

Once you have done me a favor, so now I'll do something for youOnce the director of a private school in Reggio Calabria didn't want to hire me because I refused to say in front of my classes that I were English. I have never felt the slightest nationalisticfeelings at all, but I thought this an unacceptable offense of theeducation I had had, of my country and therefore indirectly of myself. So during the week I replaced someone and taught

conversation classes at that school I discussed hardly anything but the Netherlands. When I am abroad, I find that strange polder a great country, that I can talk about with passion, but when I amin my home-country, the only thought I can concentrate myself on is: 'How do I get out of here as soon as possible?' Due to family circumstances I've been forced to stay in Holland for a year and a half and southern Italy, where I had lived the previous years, I have missed intensely every single day. It is hard to explain exactly why: in the Netherlands everything functions at least reasonably well, and in Calabria – the toe of the Italian boot- hardly anything. Strangely I've never felt more alive than in that peculiar land.

On the political level by now people have started realizing that perhaps the Dutch regulatory is a little exaggerated, but I expectthat it will still take some time before improvements will be made. It is too much a product of the Dutch mentality and society:to the Dutch setting rules comes more naturally than abolishing them. Without a doubt they are reasonably friendly, educated and tolerant till a certain point, but quite boring and have difficulties accepting that uncertainties that aren't controllablesimply do exist.

In the Netherlands emotions are seen as a quite pointless waste product of life; they are seen as real, but the essence simply lays elsewhere. Because I'm Dutch I do share that point of view atthe basis, but I have experienced that it it can be very pleasurable to submerse yourself for a while in a world that reasons in a completely different way. Afterward one doesn't feel completely Dutch anymore. I definitely haven't become a Calabrian,but a somewhat undefined cocktail that rather lives in Reggio thanthat he enjoys the Dutch securities. As soon as it were possible Ibooked a flight: finally back to southern Italy.

I had been yearning for Calabria for a long time; at night I dreamed often of girls with long, black hair and thick eyebrows above eyes with no make-up that slaughtered pigs alongside mountain-rivers and other surrealistic scenes. Because Calabria is a crossroads of many worlds and the overall atmosphere can difficultly be classified as 'European', this intense sentimentality got called 'Mal di Calafrica'. Calabrian emigrants of all ages had to cope with it. Broadway in New York, for example, is quite impressive and unique, but maybe because of that, simply incomparable to the Straights of Messina.

The remembrance of the scent of mimosa and fresh swordfish mixed with that of caper flower and a light odor of volcanic gas, can cause a desire for that part of Italy that goes much further than ordinary homesickness: longing for Calafrica is a disease that canbreak you down piece for piece.

Apart from the fascinating landscape, the wonderful climate and the honest, spicy cuisine, I had missed above all a certain chaotic type of logic, that makes you see the value of logic in general. One of the most outspoken and obvious products of that special way of reasoning is the Calabrian way of building. All over the province buildings are to be found that have not entirely, or entirely not, been finished. Not seldom above two inhabited stories hollow, red stones appear for the construction of a third.Those aren't project that necessarily have to be finished in no-time. The extra storey is being constructed for family members – sometimes still to be born- and work is only done when the financial possibilities are there, when they're lacking, labor 'pauses'. When at last the house becomes ready, it is completely debt free: the Calabrian equivalence of the Dutch mortgage. White money simply doesn't exist in abundance in southern Italy. Unfortunately mafia is also part of this unusual logic, but reasoning: 'Once I did you a favor, so now you MUST do something for me,' is in principle almost the basis of capitalism, so not too difficult to follow.

I phoned a guy that I know well and works at the secretary of the university to ask if he could arrange a room for me. That was no problem – after all it was his job- but he asked if I maybe could bring him some of those Dutch mushrooms.-'Of course, but I reckon Italian mushrooms are at least as good as the Dutch ones!'-'You poor misguided fool, I'm not talking about food here, but about magic mushrooms of course!'I pictured him having this conversation sitting in the little office he shared with two colleagues in their forties and two in their sixties...'No, Carmelo, I'm sorry, I'm coming by plane and it's way to riskyto export Dutch culture that way, but of course I could send you something. Give me an address...'

The next day in The Hague I went, for the first time in my life, to a smart-shop; where they don't trade cars or intelligence, but

mushrooms. I explained the situation to the man behind the counter, and veryprofessionally he provided me advise.'Do you already have experience with hallucinogenic mushrooms?''No, not at all, but it's not for me, but for that Italian friend of mine.''And does he have experience with hallucinogenic mushrooms?''I have no idea, but given his nationality legally seen at least he shouldn't have.''Alright, let's choose an easy going variety then...'Resolutely he took a little bag from an enormous rack with many different sorts of natural drugs. 'I'm supposed to send this to Italy by mail, I can imagine that'snot entirely legal in that country. How risky is that?''I send kilo's of these mushrooms all over the world every month and up till now nothing has ever gone wrong, but to be sure just don't mention the name or address of the sender. The risk is only for the consignee, but that's very limited. Dogs don't smell this for example. The only way it can get discovered is when customs open the envelope.'He added a manual in Italian and stressed that my friend should absolutely read it before consuming the magic mushrooms.-'Otherwise? How dangerous is the use of these things anyway?'-'In principle, not at all. But certainly the first time, he should use them in relaxing surroundings and not exaggerate the dose.'-'Otherwise?'-'The storm in his head may prevail quite viciously for a couple of hours...''Holland actually does have a couple of very positive sides', I thought and after having thanked the shopkeeper, I walked to a department-store to buy a wadded envelope and a postmark. Completely reassured I let the little bag with drugs slide into a mailbox.When I tried to phone Carmelo that afternoon to get some information on my address and the phone-number of the lent-lord, his colleges told me that he wasn't at work because he had become a father of his second kid. 'What a dream catholic it is!' I thought tenderly, but realized that this complication could cause me serious difficulties because the next morning I would be flyingto Naples already quite early. It was a Thursday and during the weekend the university is closed. I called a dear friend of mine that for my birthday even had come to visit me in Holland: Egidio.-'Ciao Remko! Come va? When will you finally be coming back?'

-'Mmm...With God's speed I should be in Reggio tomorrow around eight!'-'Porca mignotta! Tomorrow already! Great! I'll come to pick you up from the station, then we can go immediately to Philippo's to downa cheeky glass of wine or two! Of course you're staying at my place!'-'Actually that's what I wanted to ask you, I've had some difficulties organizing a room and...'-'Figurati! My grandma would be extremely offended if you'd spend your first night elsewhere!'-'You have no idea how much I appreciate that!'-'A Domani allora!'

There is an airport in Reggio, but outside of the season the only way to reach it is over Rome with Alitalia, and that flight costs a fortune. The closest airport where I could fly to with a prizefighter at that point was Naples; about five-hundred kilometers north of my destination. A train-ticket Naples-Reggio was around thirty-two euro's, comparable to a round-tour Amsterdam-The Hague (fifty-six kilometers); having a bit of patience is very useful -if not necessary- in southern Italy, so it all came quite painless to me.After a trip of about eleven hours the lights on the other side ofthe Straights of Messina appeared to me behind the window of my train-compartment: Sicily! Finally home...Ten minutes later I stepped on the platform at Reggio Centrale. I felt a vague urge to kiss the holy ground like the pope, but I didn't get the chance because Egigidio ran in my arms and kissed my cheeks:'Ciao bello! Finalmente sei tornato, ma quanto ci voleva!'Before I could never have imagined that the kisses of a man could make me that happy. He grabbed both my suitcases and rushed at a very non-Italian speed to his car.-'We should hurry a little, your train was a bit delayed and by now they've been waiting for us for over an hour at Filippo's...'-'They?'-'Insomma...I've phoned some friends of yours...'When Egidio opened the door of the packed winebar a lot of people started shouting: 'Ecco lo qua! Finalmente! Benvenuto!'I think I stood there kissing people for at least half an hour.

The next Monday I went to university, Egidio's grandma is lovely, but having your own room has important advantages. After having said hello to all my former teachers, I walked in to Carmelo's office.

'The Dutchman is back! Come va?'He got up from behind his desk and kissed me with enthusiasm. 'Molto bene, sono qua!'We had a lot to discuss: 'Congratulations! Is it a boy or a girl?''A girl: Maria!!''Apart from all the best wishes, have you may be received some other mail? A little something from Holland for example?''Si, stammattina! Grazie tanto, sei un grande! This afternoon I'll probably make myself a relaxing cup of thee out of that! Oh, by the way, I've arranged the same room for you where you used to live. Is that alright with you? The lent-lord should have been here alreadyto hand over the key, she'll be here soon.-'Excellent!'-'Oh, and wouldn't you like to do a course to brush off your Italian a little after all this time? I presume you haven't spokena word in our beautiful language for almost two years...'-'Well Egidio came to see me for my birthday last year... But I'm sure it would be very useful to look into some grammar again. The only diploma I don't have is that of level C2.'-'Si, ma il problema è...that unfortunately at the moment we don't have other students of that level...the best I can do for you is make you observer at level C1. Of course that's nothing new to you, butit would be very free!'-'That's a very interesting price!'-'That's what I thought!'The door opened and my old lent-lord walked in.'Ciao Remko!!' she burst out and kissed me on both cheeks, 'What on earth are you doing here?''I was suffering from mal di Calafrica, so I came back! I think I'll beenjoying living in your house again!''You are a nutcase but very welcome, good to see you again! Here are your old keys!'

Half an hour later I stack the key in the door of the room where Ihad lived for a year and a half before. The paintings I once had made with my former flatmates were still hanging on the wall. Finally home...

Calabrian logicBecause the weather in Calabria is almost always great, placing

proper heating in apartments is something that Calabrians often skip. From half December till the end of February a lot of people live in refrigerators. In Holland the climate is a lot less inviting, but I can't remember being as cold there as in southern Italy. A monstrous bronchitis had developed itself in my longs andmy lungs felt like a car wash. Out of good goodness my mother had sent me a couple of extra warm sweaters, but that was already overtwo weeks ago and I hadn’t received anything yet. When I saw a message in my mailbox that at the post-office a packaged had arrived for me, I immediately had visions of comfortable evenings in three jumpers. I was the first mail I received at that address, and I hadn't tried to open the mailbox yet. With my keys (one for the apartment, one for my room and one for the front door of my flat) I didn't succeed in accomplishing that. In a drawer in the kitchen I had seen a pile of keys, so I tried them as well (all twenty-five of them), but in vain. Longingfor warmth I rang my lent-lord; a beautiful Calabrese. Very friendlyshe filled me in on the fact that the key had be gone for quite some time now.'How can I get to my mail then?' I asked a bit startled.-'Ask your flat mates!'Strangely the connection suddenly fell. I stared at the glass window of my mailbox; sometimes things that seem to be close can be so far away. A neighbor passed by trough the hallway and could read the frustration from my face. He asked what the problem was, 'Give your lent-lord a ring!' he said after I had explained the situation to him. When I had told him that I already had done so, also he came to the conclusion that phoning back probably would berather pointless. Fortunately he had a mailbox just below mine anddid he succeed in pushing out the message from my mailbox with a key. 'About the mail to come I'll worry some other time' (that's how Calabrese I've become by now) I thought and after having thanked my neighbour and shaked his hand, I cheerfully hurried to the post-office: 'Jumpers, jumpers, jumpers!' There was a line of about 50 people. Some kind of mysterious tax had to be payed before the next day through the mail, and half thecity hoped to do so at the last moment possible. Normally at the post-office there is a separate counter for banking issues, but ofto dam the flood of people all manpower was struggling now behind the one window an there was a 'closed' sign hanging behind the others. I just had to get in line. After over an hour it was my turn. The guy on the other side of the glass gave my message a quick glance, and slid it back under the window: 'The truck still needs to arrive, try again later!' He looked me in the eyes for

the fraction of a second, then he started cleaning the paper mess around him on his desk, hoping that I would leave.It was a quarter to twelve, so I asked shrewdly: 'But I thought the post-office were closed in the afternoon?'-'It is. Domani altro giorno...''I'll probably survive an other night without my sweaters. Tomorrow another day' I thought, because my earlier stay in Italy already has made me very flexible in situations like that. I said the functionary good bye and returned to the refrigerator. Before going to university I tried again the next morning. A lineof thirty people. Although is was one day late for paying the mysterious tax, all these people were hoping to still manage to doit, in which they strangely succeeded. Only one day! What's the difference... After a good half an hour I slid the message under the window again.'No, sorry, the truck hasn't arrived yet, but if you wait for a quarter of an hour, it'll be here...probably.'I explained to him that I had to take an exam at university and that I had no time to wait.-'Allora, domani...' 'Altro giorno...' I finished his sentence and walked out.Also at the university heating was considered as a decadent luxury, so a visit to the pharmacy became necessary. Fortunately acquiring a fierce penicillin without a doctors prescription is noproblem at all in Italy. The next morning the Straights of Messina were bright blue and Mount Etna bright white; it was cold. Because of the extreme temperatures I had slept in my clothes, so I could use a shower. That idea changed immediately after I had entered my bathroom. Thewindow was open -probably there had been a need for fresh air after my flat mate had been there before- and the view on the snowcovered volcano was clear and absolutely impressive, but I realized that having a shower under those circumstances with a bronchitis would be close to suicide. I brushed my teeth, washed my face and decided that I would have to be satisfied with a luscious amount of deodorant. I hadn't been sweating a lot anyway. Obviously the mysterious taxes had been payed, because there was no-one standing in line at the post-office. Unfortunately my package hadn't arrived yet. I hadn't had breakfast yet and felt hungry, dirty and cold: the pinnacle of poverty. The limits of my Dutch tolerance had been reached. 'But what is the point sending me a message that my package is atthe post-office when it takes another week for it to actually get there?' Glassy look from the other side of the window.

'Maybe that you somehow misunderstand me...that package contains things that are extremely important to me. It at least has been inthis city at a certain point in time, so now it's your responsibility to find it! NOW!' Flabbergasted the man stared at me; that someone could become so agitated about something that futile! He made a photocopy of the message and made a note of my phone-number. 'We'll give you a ringwhen it appears somewhere.'The licentiousness of that errand worried me immediately, so I asked, very directly, very Dutch: 'It is eight O'clock now, at what time do you think I'll receive a phone-call?' That was impossible for him to say. 'But it will be today?'He hoped so. So did I.The next morning I was standing on the doorstep again at openings hours. The office opened a quarter of an hour late, but at least Iwas the first costumer that got served again.-'I had expected a phone-call yesterday, but didn't get it...'-'No, I have to talk to a college at the Posta Ferroviaria (train mail), but he only works the afternoons.'-'But I thought you only worked in the morning?'-'I do, that's the problem!'-'And how do you think to solve that problem?'Glassy look. Here Dutch and Calabrian logic clashed a bit too violently for me. If something isn't possible today, a Calabrian has to except that. The fact that it won't be possible the next day either, is aproblem that we'll encounter tomorrow: 'Domani altro giorno...'For the self-esteem of the Dutch person the work he accomplishes is crucial, he more or less lives to work. A Calabrian lives to sit in the sun by the sea to eat well and make love; in his sparetime he works every so often. When I exploded in a phillipic on responsabilities, mentality, duty and other Dutch kicks-haws, he slid a piece of paper with the address of the Poste Ferroviarie underneath the window. 'But this is your job, not mine!'Way too Dutch. He shrugged his shoulders and smiled; take it or leave it.I chose not to leave it -a bronchitis can be a a very motivating factor-, and went to the station that afternoon. It was a long in the tooth office, that doesn't have a dutch equal since the late fiveties. At fist I felt a bit awkward and didn't really know where to go, but then a friendly man walked up to me and asked if he could help me. I explained the situation to him. He sighed as if his heart sank and asked me to follow him. His about ten year

old son, that had be standing waiting for him came with us. From behind his desk he explained to me that in theory it should be possible to reconstruct the whole route my package had taken, but that in real life the Calabrian mailmen never took the notes they were supposed to.'So?' I asked a bit suspicious.'So we have a problem' The man started phoning have the province tot-tempered in dialect,while I chatted with his little son about soccer.He put the phone down, let his hand slide over his face and yawnedfor about ten seconds.'Excuse me, I've been up and running since three o'clock this morning, and I was about to go home.' The poor man had tried so much, and his son had been waiting for so long, that I suggested (integration is important): 'But I couldalso come back some other time?''Well, that wouldn't solve anything, would it? No we should try tolocate your package immediately! NOW!''Maybe Dutch ancestors somewhere? Probably Norwegian, from the vikings...' I thought, amazed. Much more people carrying piles ofdocuments were summoned to the little office, including the direttore, but in the end we had to come to the conclusion that bureaucracy had failed miserably. The only way to solve this enigma, was through the internet, but unfortunately they hadn't been able to get connected all day long. With well meant apologies about ten people shook my hand and saidgoodbye to me. All very helpful and friendly, but where my packagewas, was still a mystery, for everybody. The next morning I walked past the post office after I had been to the supermarket, and thought: 'Why don't I pop in for a moment?'The man behind the window saw me coming and from the look in his eyes I could tell that he wasn't amused: 'Bugger! The blond monster is back!''And? Have you found my package?''No, I think I told you so; my colleague at the train-mail only works in the afternoon and...''Yes, you have told me so, but the direttore knows about it and he's always there. I advise you to contact him.' On the piece of paper I slid underneath the window were the name, position (not unimportant) and the phone-number of the director. 'Buongiorno.' Without waiting for a response I turned around and walked out of the office with my groceries, I needed a caffè doppio.After another night of intense cold, I had a shower (the

penicillin stated having an effect) and went straight back to the post-office to continue my battle. From the street I could alreadysee the same bloke sitting inside behind his window. 'Good!' I thought, 'Beware, the blond monster is awake!' When I entered the building he didn't have that annoyed look in his eyes he hah had the last time he saw me walk in. He even smiled.'You poor misguided fool' I thougt. 'Aren't you studying at l'Università per Stranieri?' he asked before I could have said anything.'Yes..' I answered dumbfounded.'Then you know my wife! Francesca!'Francesca I did know. She had even been my teacher for a couple ofhours for the course she was doing.'Yes, in fact I do know her! What a small world after all...''Have you already been to the office of district sixteen?'Until that point in time no-one had suggested to me that that could be helpful to contact that district and I didn't have the slightest clue where it were.'No, where would that be?''Aspetta...'He grabbed his coat and came through the lock for personnel 'I'll give you a ride, if you like.'He had changed the polite form 'Lei' into 'tu'.In his car we talked about food, the weather the Calabrian outdoors, he smoked three cigarettes and after about ten minutes we stopped in front of another post-office. When we walked in he got kissed by all the people who worked there and they all shook my hand. My package was already waiting for me behind the counter.Sometimes life can be easy.

We drove back and when we got out of the car he kissed me, wishedme a Buon Natale and said that I should come over for pranzo some time, because he had a wonderful grove with Bergamot trees and Francesca was a great cook. I thanked him, gave my best regards Francesca and walked home with a smile on my face and a package under my arm.

Very content with the prospect of my comfortably warm jumpers I opened the box with a kitchen knife. Dismayed I found that it contained a teddy-bear and a book: Christmas present of a friend of mine...how thoughtful! For my mothers present I'll need some more patience...Domani altro giorno.

Egidio and EgidioOne of my best friends, Egidio, works at juvenile prison. Sometimes I pass by for a cup of coffee when the boys are at school. It's a decayed coop against the dyke along the river; a piece of resplendent fascist architecture that hasn't been renovated since Il Duce exchanged the temporarily for the eternal. As a former teacher I thought it would be interesting to meet thecriminal the peers of my students in Rotterdam but Egidio said that would be very difficult to organize. Piles of documents wouldhave to be summitted to a judge. The day before Christmas I was strawling around town to kill sometime, when my mobile rang: Egidio. 'Where are you? I'm stuck in prison here all by myself and bored to death. Why don't you stop by?'Juvinile prison wasn't far from where I was at about to sit down on a terrace to look at the people passing by and read a newspaper. 'Vabo...open the gate in about five minutes, I'm at the Corso. A fra poco...'As soon I reached the high iron fence it rolled open an Egidio came out of the building.'Ciao Compare!'After having kissed my stubble -which by now has become nothing out of the ordinary- he told me to be a bit depressed; all his 'students' were at home for Christmas and he would be in jail all by himself for three days.'But they will pay you hideous amounts of money for working duringChristmas, I hope..?''When they do so, I'll be okay, but when that will be, only the Lord knows.''But it's Christmas! To celebrate his son's birthday he'll performsome noble act, won't he? But you are the catholic here, you should now!''May be that is where the core of the problem lays, when I was young, I was a communist and because of that opium-for-the-people-attitude of Marx, I renounced the church. The last time I've been to church was two years ago; funeral of someone I vaguely knew. May be the Supreme Being is trying to settle some bills with me.''Of course I know little about it, but I thought He weren't that vindictive.''He has his very un pleasurable strict moments, so they say...''I wouldn't worry too much about it. Something else: it is time

for l'aperitivo. I take it that you have some bottles hidden here somewhere to help you through the lonely nights...''I've drunk all mine, but my superior has a nice wine rack from which we would love to 'lend' us a bottle...Vieni!''Wouldn't that be slightly out of order?''Oh, well, see it as an arrears payment...'He walked ahead of me down the stairs and turned the fluorescent lamps on in a grey office and opened a steal cupboard. Some folders apart it was all filled with grappa, whisky, Campari, gin and around twenty bottles of wine. Egidio grabbed a Brunello di Montalcino from the shelf and looked at the label: 'I hope this modest land-wine will help us through the evening,' he looked at his watch, 'or at least through the last bits of the afternoon.' From the drawer of his superiors' desk he took a corkscrew, and with visible enjoyment he open the bottle. 'I love my boss, he's agreat man, we should drink to him!' From another piece of office furniture he dug up two elegant wineglasses, held them up and smiled: 'We're all set! Let's go andfind some atmosphere!'We ended up in the kitchen of the boys, Egidio poured the glasses and we toasted: 'Buon Natale!' After the first sip all of a sudden the door opened with a blow and a dark heared tennager walked in. I was shocked, because I hadbeen convinced to be alone with Egidio.'Ciao Egidio! Grab a chair and join us', Egidio said.So he had shook my hand and introduced himself as 'Egiodio', he got a plastic cup from the coffee machine and filled it with Brunello: 'Alla salute!' We talked Berlusconi, women and soccer, and opened -after having been back to the office of the 'Capo di tutti Capi'- another bottle of wine. After about half an hour I asked the new Egidio: 'But why are youbeing forced to spend Christmas in this cave? What do you do?''The only thing he ever does here, is live!' the first Egidio laughed.'Ah, right...' I said while I was hoping to have a facial expression that read that that was completely normal in my point of view. My head was spinning...

To meet the detainees I had to fill out piles of form and ask an official permit of a judge? Weren't we consuming the second bottleof the prison directors' wine? Hadn't we just thoroughly discussed, with big grins on our faces, my friend Egidio's sex-life?

When the younger Egidio went to the loo and the older one used themoment to smoke a cigarette in the cortile, I asked for an explanation: 'Come mai?''It's Christmas, for fuck sake!' If I have to sit here alone for days, with this little child-abuser, who's our only client at the moment, I go nuts!'It was difficult to hide my amazement. I just had been cracking jokes about sex connected things with someone who was in jail for raping a child. And the one responsible for him treated him as if they had been in preschool together, the age difference made it very clear though that that couldn't be the case.-'But Egidio, isn't this against the law?'-'Technically seen, absolutely! But it's Christmas, isn't it?'-'Technically seen, it's not Christmas till tomorrow, I believe...'-'In Holland maybe, but here that's different. Oh, by the way, we have to be in church in ten minutes...mass.'-'I thought that you had turned your back on Catholicism?'-'I have, but the only excuse that enables Egidio to leave the premises here, is going to church. In just a little bit he'll start expressing his religious interests.'That hadn't been said or the person we were talking about walked in, already wearing his coat: 'Are you ready? Mass is about to start!''Va bo Egidio, andiamo, but the church is only twenty meters down the street, con calma!''Twenty meters! What do you mean? The dome is at least a quarter of an hour walk from here!''Yes, but that is where all the judges are going who know you -andme- very well, and I doubt it if you meeting them at this point intime would have a positive effect on your life as a whole. And apart from that I'm pretty sure that it would have a negative effect on mine.''Okay.'This way of reasoning was just a little too Mediterranean for me to be able to follow completely, but for both the Egidio's it was logical and chrystal clear, so I just didn't say anything for a while.

When got on the street, Egidio II whistled at anything feminine. That was corrected strictly by Egidio I. He grabbed him by the wrist looked him in the eyes and snapped at him: 'Listen! You onlytalk to us, and apart from that you don't have contact with

anyone! Not with men, and above all not with women! I think you know why...'Shortly afterward the child-abuser had disappeared in a Lady Chapel and I asked Egidio for explanation again: 'He was allowed to go to church, wasn't he? Why can't he run into judges then?'''Because for a little excursion like that an official request hasto have been made two weeks in advance. That hasn't been done; that's why...''Okay...'

After he had come out of the Lady Chapel, Egidio stopped to look at a confessional booth. With a disarming glance of wonder in his eyes he asked what it was and how it worked. The other Egidio laughed so loudly that it echoed in the church: 'Yes in fact, especially for you that could be very useful information!'Egidio obviously didn't understand the joke, and all of a sudden Ifelt so sorry for him. I opened the priests' door and explain to him how a confession works. He clearly had never had that information before...'But you're the catholic here, not me!' I joked.''What do you mean, you're not catholic? What are you then?''Convinced atheist.''What's that?''Another religion. We never confess to priests, just to good friends every so often. Have you seen the baptismal there near theentrance?'

Back in jail that night Egidio told me more about the precise reasons for Egidio II's detention. 'He has been accused of raping his six-year-old sister.''Who has accused him?''His sister; but she has done so in a vocabulary that for a five year old at least could be called 'remarkable'. Therefore it couldwell be that someone has whispered something in her ear.''Who would profit from that?''People are looking into that now, but all Egidio's family could be well described as 'remarkable'; his father has been in prison in Palmi since the mafia war at the end of the eighties, his brother has been behind bars for a long time by now in Catanzaro...''Ah, so there are many people who like to see Egidio in prison outof vindictive feelings?''Damaging the family's honor by getting him condemned for raping his little sister would even be better...otherwise it would have

been a lot easier to just have killed him!'

I had thought to have integrated very well in Calabria, but because Egidio obviously found these facts easily understandable, I felt like a stupid, naive cheese-head.

About a week later Egidio and I did the passegiata along the boulevard after having had lunch at his grandma's, when I asked him about the other Egidio.'He is innocent. Technical proof has shown so.''So he's free now!''No the judge thought it unwise to send him straight back to his family, so he's still staying with us.''And what's next then? You can't keep an innocent person in jail, can you?''Well, he should go to a host family somewhere in a different province, but at the moment the funding is lacking. The coming months I won't get payed un centesimo either.''Why are you still going to work then?''Otherwise I'll loose my job.''Okay. How does Egidio himself see the situation?''Of course he doesn't know! He thinks to be mainly in jail becausehe hit his little brother! So we still have some latitude...'

Magna GreciaI've known Francesco for years. In the summer he often comes to Amsterdam to spend some time in the apartment of friends of mine, when they are at their holiday house in France. Especially for people from Calabria, Francesco is big -both in the length and at large, which makes the Dutch climate in summer very appealing to him; in southern Italy it can easily hit 46 degrees Celsius then. Apart from that he warmly applauds Dutch soft-drug policies. He's a photographer and works for the theater and the bus-company, so everywhere in Reggio his work is to be seen.

'Next time I come to Holland...couldn't we organize an exhibition of my work somewhere?''That shouldn't be a problem. What kind of location were you thinking off, a bar or something?''Resume-technically that's not ideal; a theater would be better. I've just finished a beautiful series on ballet!'

'I should ask around if someone sees possibilities, I'm in Italy of course, so that doesn't help. But of course, if the Dutch are good at one ting, it's right up there with ice-skating, cheese making and tulip growing- it's ballet. I think there are plenty ofphotographers who do that subject and aren't exactly amateurs. Maybe you should take a different approach and choose a subject new to the Dutch.''Like...?''Che ne so...Calabria for example...' 'That would immediately make me 'that photographer from southern Italy' and I don't think that in the long run that would help me.''In Holland I don't think that would work against you. In general the Dutch adore Italy, but they hardly know Calabria, while a lot of see this province as the most beautiful of all of Italy!''Think so?''Yes, I do! A mythical landscape like around the Area Grecanica isspectacular for someone who has been brought up in the Dutch flatland.''Maybe we should plan a little excursion there then. Have you seenthe weather predictions for tomorrow?''Yes. Twenty-three degrees, not a cloud on the horizon.''Something to do tomorrow?''Now I do.'

The next morning Francesco stood at my doorstep quite early; we didn't have to travel that far, but in the morning the sunlight ismuch better for taking photo's. 'Buongiorno. Allora, you know the area better than I do; where are we going?' he yawned at me.'First let's make a pit-stop at the autogrill along the autostrada, my body is still hankering for some caffeine.''Okay, and then?''The whole area is beautiful, but Bova is considered to be more orless the capital, so I think that would be a good point to start from. Then personally I think that the Castello del Ruffo and Roghudi above the Amendolea fiumara are very impressive; traces of civilization where nature is ferocious. ''Never been there, but if you say so...'After a small caffeine injection from a machine at a petrol-station we drove south, the direction for the Area Grecanica.

Grecanico is a language that has been studied by the German linguist Rohfs. It has evolved from ancient Greek as it was spokenbij colonists around two-thousand years ago. The dialect spoken in

the rest of Calabria, is something entirely different.

In Bova-Marina we took a turn for Bova-Superiore, the signage was in three languages: Greek, Grecanico and Italian. Quickly the roadmeandered up the hill and around us an enchanting landscape was revealed. On our left-hand side the mainland seemed to kiss Sicilyand bight white Mount Etna stood guard in the fog above the Straights of Messina. On our right-hand side the Ionian coastline extended itself as far as we could see; we were in Magna Grecia...'

Just before Bova Francesco parked the car in the grassy shoulder abruptly. 'I think we have to stop here for a moment...' He grabbed his camera and got out of the car. The view was in fact surrealistically beautiful. We already had climbed a lot and the tip of the Italian boot was clearly visible; this was where Europaended and the rest of the world began. Back in the car, Francesco asked what else there was to see in Bova.'It's just a nice village at the top of a hill close to sea, at the highest point there are some ruines af a Norman castle and then there are a bunch of churches devoted to the patron saint SanLeo.''Va bo, let's just at least have another coffee there.' We walked into the populated area to look for a bar when Francesoexclaimed: 'Ma che cazzo è?!'And immediately started looking through his camera. Just next to the main square stood an enormouslocomotive. A surrealistic image on top of a hill, 915 meters high.'Oh, yeah, I forgot to tell that story. People say that once a mayor has tried to get Bova connected to the railroad. He fought like a lion and when he had to give up in the end he brought this monster up here to prove for eternity that technically it was possible!''People that stubborn only exist in Calabria! Tipico!'We walked into a bar where half the village was watching a soccer match with Reggina – the team from Reggio. A lady in her seventieswith a gray stubble on her chin got up from the television and came behind the counter.'Two coffees, perfavore.''Certo...May I ask where you are from? I don't think you are Italian, are you?' she asked while she placed the cups in front ofus. My blond hair had given it away again.'That's right, I'm from Holland, but I live in Reggio; I'm

studying there.''Then you must know the cousin of my next-door-neighbor!'That I thought highly improbable.'Professore Pasquino Crupi!'I knew him alright: the prorettore of my university, who lives in Bova-Marina. Immediately she grabbed my hand: 'Io sono Maria...'

After a little chat with Maria about the game – soccer is very important in Italy, also for ladies of a respectable age- I asked her if she maybe spoke Grecanico.'No that language is slowly dieing out, only the elderly still speak it.'The fact that that was said by someone I estimated to be around seventy-three, made it very clear that the language was going through a difficult period. 'Are you staying in Bova today, or do you have other plans?'We where thinking to go down to Roghudi Vecchia...''Che bello! But then I hope you know that you'll have to take the road over Condofuri at the moment.''No, I didn't know...why?''After all that rain we've had a little landslide and the other road fell into the fiumara.''That is useful information, thank you!'After having wished her and her team good luck for the game we slowly walked back to the car.'Tante belle cose and say hello to Pasquino for me!' she waved.

Near Condofori we reached a wide plain filled with rough stones: the mouth where the Fiumara streamed into sea. A fiumara is a typical ingredient of the Calabrian countryside; it is a river basin filled with sediment that brings down the water that falls in Aspromonte. It can seem to be a quiet stream but at some placesit's a two-hundred meters deep and can every so often swell into aferocious mass of water that destroys anything in it's path. The hillsides around the Amendolea are barren. When the ancient Greek still inhabited the zone, the landscape was completely different. There were no stones in the mountain river yet, and it was perfectly navigable. The hills were filled with forest. Al those woods have been cut by the Romans for the construction of ports and a fleet. This land is incredibly beautiful, but completely decayed, which gives a melancholic feel to it. The walls of the ruins of Castello del Ruffo, on a rock high above the stretched mountain-river plain have crumbled under the forces of

nature, the collapsed roof of what once had been a church and the sound of water rushing by in the depth completed that image.'Che cazzo di posto...' Francesco whispered, while he stared at the whimsical horizon and shot his film full. From the castle we drove a bit further up the mountain. The quality of the road didn't improve at all, deep holes and rugged stones were everywhere. Although there were yawning depths on bothsides of the road there was no guardrail ore fence. 'Safety is always relative...beautiful panorama though...let's stop here for a second.'He put a new film in his camera, got out of the car and peered over the edge of the abyss. I followed him to have a look myself. 'Salve, buongiorno!' I was startled to hear a voice. In over an hour wehadn't seen other human beings, and I had been convinced to be allalone with Francesco. A goat keeper followed by a herd of his animals came walking towards us over the bended road. 'Buongiorno!'His puppy ran, jumped up to my knees and started licking my hand when I caressed it's little head.'What's it's name?' I asked when the man had come closer. He looked at me as if he hadn't fully understood: 'Dog'.

Roghudi Nuova is, comparable to Africo Nuovo, on the coast about fifteen kilometers from the old Roghudi. This new location was determined in 1956, after part of the rock on which the old village stands had disappeared into the fiumara due to high water levels. Now only one old man still lives there, Nino, who couldn'tcope with leaving the place where he was born. The view on the broad mountain river meandering through the steep hills is simply irreplaceable, especially if you never have seen anything else. His son Leo provides him with some food and company every so oftenand apart from that, Nino is alone.

We walked into the empty village. On a balcony above the abyss, infront of what once had been a bar, a lonely bench that was carved from the rock stared at us; a plastic example of total abandonment. We stopped talking and walked into one of the houses in silence. There was a strange smell. At the end of the hallway it became clear where it came from. In a small space that once probably had been a bedroom, to judge from the old, rusty bed without a mattress that was standing in a corner, a slaughtered goat was hanging from a beam bleeding. Goat-blood stinks. Althoughthe view from the broken windows in the ravine was very peculiar, for the first time that day Francesco wasn't taking photo’s

anymore.

Slowly we walked in the direction of the little church opposite the house where 'Don Nino' lives and where I once had a coffee with him and Leo. Because by now this part of the ghost village should be considered to be his private property, I stopped and yelled: 'Salve! Nino! Permesso?'Nothing...

'Va bo, so he's not there. Vieni!' Francesco mumbled and walked on.'No. If he comes back and finds us here it'll be a terrible case of trespassing to him, we can't do that!'From Francesco's facial expression I could tell that he saw that as a terrible case of exagerated Dutch abstention, but he followedme back to the car anyway, while we let the bizarre surroundings have an effect on us.'It's such an eternal shame that this area is one of the most mafioso places in the world...it's so beautiful! Where do you findanything vaguely comparable?' Francesco pondered.'Insomma...'

We had just pulled away and were driving back to civilization, when we saw a car coming towards us.'Hey...people!'The road was very narrow and covered with rocks and stones, so we drove very slowly. When the other car was only a couple of meters away from us, it cut us off all of a sudden, and a very dark man stepped out and came towards us.'Jesus! What is this!'Francesco was clearly frightened.I opened the door and walked up to the man.'Ciao! L'Olandese! Come va?' Leo grabbed my hand and pushed his beard against my cheeks.

Most friendlyPeppe, a good friend of mine, is a representative for deep frozen food. For his work he has to travel through all the province. I often keep him company; a great opportunity to see the country from inside out. The weather had been horrible for a couple of days (also in Calabria that may happen a couple of times a year) and at

Filippo's Peppe suggested over a glass of Cirò: 'Tomorrow I have to go to the Ionian coast, why don't you join me, the weather is always better there. Closer to Africa...'The translation I was making for a prosecutor was almost finished and I could do with abit of sunshine and adventure. 'At what time?'

The next morning at eight he ran my doorbel. It was raining cats and dogs, or 'pijpenstelen' as the Dutch tend to say. As far as I know in Italian a comparable expression doesn't exsist; language only takes shape where there is a need for it.'Buongiorno!''Morning. The weather is shite again!''Don't worry, that will get better soon, the grass is always greener on the other side of the Aspromonte.'We took the autostrada in southern direction.'Comfortably warm inside here! Where are we going?''Siderno and Rocella Ionica, but first I should see someone in Africo.''Africo! I've always wanted to go there! I've read a book about that village, but have never been there!''You've read a book on Africo...what on earth is there to be said about Africo?''The story of Don Stilo, never heard of? But you're from Calabria and that is local culture at it's peak!''Who was he then, some ancient Greek or something?''No, more a mafioso priest...''Tell me more, but let's get some petrol first...'We drove on and soon reached Capo dell'Armi the borderline betweenthe Tyrannic and the Ionian sea; the rim of the nail on the Italian foot. The sun came through and immediately it was warm.'Didn't I say so: now we're in Africa!'In the shoulder along the road were Agaves everywhere, a decorative repoussoir in the view on the straight line of the horizonof the turquoise stained Ionian sea. Mount Etna would soon disappear around the corner, we were driving over the sole of the boot now.'So are you going to tell me about that Don Stilo? We're in his territory now!''Bene. Africo Nuovo is called like that because there once was an Africo Vecchio, that you know?''Yes, somewhere in Aspromonte, comparable to the history of Roghudi Vecchia.''Exactly.'

Literally translated from Italian 'Aspromonte' means 'harsh mountain'. Although etymologically the word comes from ancient Greek 'white mountain', it's an incredibly good name. Many villages that once stood on the mountain, have over time moved to the coastline. Because of landslides, poverty and floods life was simply too harsh up there.

'The village was founded in 1951, after a flood had wiped the old Africo out of existence. A certain Giovanni Stilo, an Africoto who had become a priest because he had the right friends in the fascist party, was the most important figure in the community. After the war he had got his hands on the money for the reconstruction of the village and after the flood he did exactly the same thing. This made him in Africo the only individual with cash in his pockets.''People would be lost without the Catholic church!''He strengthened his position by founding an agricultural cooperation for which he collected the contribution, but did very little else. With that money he bought two pieces of land, one he immediately sold with a big profit the other he divided 'amongst friends'. Of course nothing went back to the cooperation.''Obviously...''Based on the same formula he also founded a cooperation for shepherds and in 1956 he indirecty also got legal authority because he managed to get his brother, Salvatore, elected as mayor. If you know the right people... The only remarkable buildings in Africo, are constructed in his commission: the church, town hall and a very big school.' 'A school? So every so often Don Stilo did something good?''Si. That's where the sheep from his flock could buy a diploma for 200.000 Lire.''A very well certified flock, then!''Absolutely well certified, but unfortunately kept incredibly uneducated.'All of a sudden Peppe took a turn and parked in the shade on a messy parking next to the road: 'There are also beautiful things in Africo! Did you bring your swimming-trunks?' 'In Reggio I found it hard to imagine that the weather would be suited for a swim...''Peccato...you where wrong! Get out anyway!'From the boot he grabbed a bottle of prosecco and without looking back he walked into a small path under the eucalyptus trees. 'I don't have to work anyway today...' I thought, and followed him.

Peppe didn't wait for me and walked determinedly down between the rocks. When we had reached the beach, he stopped.'At the moment we're in Africa, in Africo and at the most beautiful beach in the world. We have to celebrate!'The cork popped from the bottle of prosecco.'Alla salute!' He took a sip and handed me over the bottle. 'Alla tua!' I took a sip as well and looked around me. Nice beach, absolutely, but the classification 'most beautiful beach in the world' seemed slightly exaggerated to me; after all Scheveningen has it's charm too...'Vieni...'Again without looking back over his shoulder he walked towards thesea. Since he had the bottle of prosecco, I followed. From a distance of a couple of meters I saw how Peppe placed the bottle on a rock and started undressing himself. 'What trace of ancient Greek culture exactly am I encountering here?' I asked myself a little worried.'Vieni!''Si, si...'When I reached Peppe, he was but naked by now, I noticed there wasno sand on the beach, but that little natural 'swimming-pools' hadtaken shape in the rock. Peppe dove into the bright greenish bluesea. I took another sip prosecco. After having made sure that we were all alone, I decided that swimming just was something that had to be done here and got undressed too. It was still winter, but the water was warm!'Africa!''Africo!'We sat down in a cavity in the rock and finished the bottle of prosecco. Ten o'clock in the morning, two naked men with drinks in alittle natural pool in sea...oh well, life was very simple and easy again.'Cazzo!' Peppe exclaimed after a look at his watch. 'I had an appointment with mister Nucera at eleven, it's ten past eleven now!''Have you got his number? Give him a ring.''Yep, I'll do so, but we really should go now!'We got dressed and back to the car and Peppe phoned mister Nucera with some lame excuses about the weather, the traffic and his mom.'I'll be with you in ten minutes!'In fact it didn't take us much longer to get to mister Nucera's little shop. 'Are you coming with me?' Peppe asked. 'Hm, I think Irather have a quick look at the church, town-hall and school of Don Stilo.'

'Okay, va benissimo, ci vediamo in half an hour!'On the streets there were people everywhere, leaning against the walls and sitting in front of their houses. After mafia, unemployment and dolce-far-niente are the most important ingredients ofthe southern Italian economy. Everyone greeted me when I passed by, mafiosi may be dangerous, but at least they are very sociable and polite people. There were bullet-holes in the clock in the facade of the town hall and Don Stilo's church was, just like the school, outspokenly ugly. After having had two ristretto's in the onlybar in Africo, I gave Peppe a ring to see how things were going.'No, I'm not all done yet, just come here, where we are amongst friends!'Mister Nucerea's shop was just around the corner, I could see him standing on the balcony.'Ciao! You must be Peppe's friend! Come upstairs!'His wife immediately opened the door for me and walked ahead of meup the stairs. The flower patterns of her skirt waved in front of my eyes. In a small kitchen mister Nucera and Peppe sat at the table. When I walked in he got up and shook my hand.'Why didn't you immediately come along with Peppe?''I had never been to Africo before and had to check the touristic sites first!''But what on earth is there to see in Africo?'I thought it would be more convenient to leave Don Stilo out of this.'The most beautiful beach in the world!''Without a doubt! But wouldn't you like something to eat?'Without waiting for an answer he shove a plate of ù sufrittù (see recipes) a piece of bread and a cake with fresh figgs in front of me. He smiled and filled a lemonade glass with wine that he planted with a bang on the tabletop. 'Buonapetito!'

'What a friendly man, mister Nucera!' I said when Peppe and I werewalking back to the car half an hour later, because we still had to go to Siderno and Rocella Ionica.'Si, molto gentile. He just got out. He's been in prison for twelve years because of having mafia contacts and his involvement in a double homicide.'

Good night, sleep well

Probably the most complicating factor of life in Calabria are the very limited possibilities to earn money. Finding a job at itself is already difficult, but if you eventually you succeed, through the right people and a lot of hassle, that doesn't guarantee thatyou actually will get payed. Apart from the fact that in southern Italy the salaries are very low, they often just don't get payed 'yet'. Although Egidio goes to work every day in juvenile prison -a sector with an above average importance in this part of the world, you'd say- he just got told that he shouldn't expect to receive any money till july -we are living in the second week of December now. Of course for Egidio that's a nuisance, but because he lives withhis grandmother, without a doubt he will be fed the coming months.If his married colleague with three children will make it to summer remains to be seen.

I've once translated documents for the anti-mafia police (a littleaffair concerning thirty kilograms of cocaine, a kidnapping and murder in Belgium) and got payed very decently: if I remember correctly around six-hundred euro's for three days of work. Therefore I was very happy when through university I was requestedto translate a whole file for the prosecutor from Flemish into Italian. The prosecutor has his office in the same building as theanti-mafia police do; this was financially very promising...

With shining shoes and a meticulously ironed shirt -in the end bellafigura always is important- I arrived two minuted early -strange Dutch punctual habit- in the office of dottor Bianco. It was at the top floor of the enormous, modern CEDIR building and had an majestic view over the Straights of Messina. In the strange light that cam down between the white clouds I saw a dusty figure at thedesk, hidden behind piles of files. The fluffy hair of my employer-to-be sparkled in the sun and Messina, on the other side of the straights seemed very close.'Buongiorno, dottor Bianchi?''Si, Buongiorno, piacere...'A hairy creature got up from behind his desk and stretched out hishand to me. He asked if it would be possible to make the translation within aweek and presented me the text: fifty-one pages full of bureaucratic details about a traffic accident. I already had several appointments that week, but still I assured him that that wouldn't be a problem at all -after all spending a night behind

the computer with dictionaries, Calabrian land-wine and Dutch cigars is not a punishment. Again he friendly shook my hand and said that I should discuss the details with his secretary, 'Ci vediamo in una settimana!'

When I entered the office of his secretary she exclaimed, happily surprised: 'Ciao Remko! Tutto bene?'Over the years I've spent quite some time in Reggio, but I really couldn't remember to have seen this lady ever before.'Everything okay with your mom?'The fact that my mother in all her life hasn't spent over three weeks in Reggio made my amazement grow even more. She knew me... 'Si, tutto bene. She's in Holland now, and the weather is horrible there, but that's normal...' I mumbled.'Then she should just have stayed here a bit longer!'She probably could read from my face that I didn't understand the connection between her and my mom because she stepped towards me to shake my hand: 'Io sono Maria, Roberta's cousins wife, piacere!'

Two weeks before, when my mother had been staying in a bed and breakfast in Reggio, I had chatted every morning to the lady that boiled my mother's eggs and pressed her orange-juice: RobertaA blond young man who lives in Reggio Calabria out of free will, of course needs to be discussed with all the family. Reggio Calabria is a small city, but functions socially like a tiny village, which, above all has serious disadvantages, but also important practical advantages.

Roberta's cousin-in-law explained to me that for paying my honorarium she needed my codice fiscale (the equivalent of a social security number). I told her that I was paying tax in Holland, because officially I was still living in The Hague. That couldn't work that way in this case, because for people who work for the state, the taxes are simply kept from their salaries and honorariums. That way at least someone pays taxes in Italy. One I had had such a number, but the card that said what it was was somewhere in a box in an attic, close to Scheveningen. She told me to go to an office on the boulevard.'Ma, domani, evidentemente...it closes in a quarter of an hour.'

After having pulled serial numbers from several computers and having stood in at least three lines, the next day a civil servantworked his magic and got my codice fiscale out of a computer in less then thirty seconds. In Calabria sometimes life may seem easy, but

it was there that Phyrrus lead his army's into victory. 'One more victory like this, and I'll be lost forever!' is what he Montenegrin is supposed to have exclaimed when one of his generalscongratulated him with his expensive victory at Heracles.

This firm wind in my back set me in an optimistic mood the next day on my way to the prosecutor. Maria (Roberta's cousin) greeted me with kisses as if I were the lost son: 'Ciao! Come stai?' A bit startled I mumbled: 'Bene...I took care of everything; here's my codice fiscale.' Of course it wasn't that simple.There is a reason why Italians adore opera; never deny the opportunity to make something more complicated than it actually is. I had to state officially that I was juridically responsible for the content of my translation, to write a letter in which I announced that, because I was doing this work only once, I shouldn't be charged IVA, and a gentile request for payment, with a price. When I was working for the anti-mafia police, none of this were ever asked to me and I just got nicely payed. I explained that I had no idea of the usual Italian tariffs, so that I had to do some research to determine the right price.'Vabo...domani allora.'While we chatted a bit about soccer, Roberta and the kids, I couldn't help but noticing a document on her desk with my name on it in bold letters. When I looked closer I saw that it was an 'intention of payment' of 177 euro's and 30 cents.'Is this my travel allowance?' I asked Maria.It wasn't. It was the sum dottor Bianchi was prepared to pay me for the translation -within a week- of fivety-one A4 pages full of facts stated in a jargon that is strictly only being used in offices. 'I hope I misunderstand this' I said at a very direct, Dutch tone.'No, but this document hasn't been signed, so it's not official yet.''I think I should have a word with dottor Bianchi, is he here?''No, domani...'

At university people sighed when I told them this story: 'This mentality distroys this country!'The director got the tariffs of an Italian translation agencie from the internet and stamped them for me. 'It should round up to about fifteen hundred euro's...' he said and wished me good luck.

'Personally I've told those teste di minchia to scrap me from there registers after I didn't get any payment at all for half a year's work. I'm sorry, but I'd be amazed if you would get payed decently.''But when I worked for the anti-mafia police I got payed maybe more then I would have asked for!' 'Yes, at the beginning of an investigation, when the budget is still extensive, that may happen sometime. But as soon as the money has been consumed during 'reflectional lunches' in the a bitfancier restaurants, the generous attitude generally tends to fadeand often some old law is dug up that exculpates them almost completely from payment. Before getting to work you should have asked for much more time and sent an official request to double the payment. They should have pointed that out to you before, now it's probably too late...'

I wasn't in a very optimistic mood when I came back in Maria's office the next morning with the tariffs and an official request to the prosecutor for a honorarium in accordance to the market prices.'Ciao Remko!''Buongiorno.'I took the document with the 'intention of payment' from the desk and walked with big steps into the prosecutors office. From behindthe paper pyramids he looked up disturbed to se who came bursting into his little universe without knocking on the door.'Buongiorno dottor Bianchi.'This time I extended my hand with a smile.'Buongiorno.'From his skittish looks around the room I could tell that dottor Bianchi could sense there was something evolving here that could complicate his life slightly, and therefore was not in his interest. 'Your secretary just showed me this document. It's not official yet because it hasn't been signed, I know, but to me it seems a surrealistic masterpiece that could make Salvador Dali envious. I wasn't informed on the tariffs of Italian translation agencies butuniversity has provided me with these prices...' I laid the price-list and the letter addressed to him in front of him on the desk. 'Ma, signor Tekke...of course it's not the case that you can determine your own prices! There is a law that says: 'For the first two hours seven Euro's an hour and for the rest four Euro's an hour.' He showed the law to me in a little book that already had been open at the right page. 'I don't know how many decennia

ago this law was made, but the cleaning lady who takes care of thestaircase in my apartment building earns a lot more. I've been working all night and day for half a week!''According to the law of course you can't work for more than eighthours a day...''But aren't the fifty-one pages in your archive the proof that I did work over eight hours a day?''If you don't like the rules you should write a letter to the minister of justice Castelli.''Ah, so we need the Lega Nord* to make things work here? I must say I find that a strange advise coming from a Calabrian prosecutor!'He frowned his forehead, pretended to be concentrated on other documents in front of him, and did his best to ignore me. To give a hint that I was suppose to leave now he only said: 'Buona sera, buona notte.'

Over a month after this had happened, I still hadn't received the documents I needed to cash my tip of hundred and seventy-seven Euro's. I was starting to hope dottor Bianchi was using this time totry to find a way to pay me decently, although in all honesty thatdidn't seem very probable to me.

After another week had passed I went back to the prosecutor's office to ask. There I was told: 'We thought you wanted to protestagainst the height of your honorarium, then we fist have to wait for ten days.''But I have delivered the translation over a month ago!''Ten days after the bureaucratic procedure began. First the necessary documents have to be prepared.''The alms that you are prepared to pay me of course is ridiculous,but last time you self have explained to me that I have to get a lawyer if I want to protest against the price and that working allnight long simply isn't possible according to the Italian law... So I have no reason to believe that filing a protest could be useful and I don't think to be able to afford a lawyer from those lousy hundred and seventy-seven Euro's. I have never asked for an official protest, you have thought of that yourself!''In the end of course it comes to hundred and thirty-one Euro's and fifty-five cents, taxes included,but you were so angry that I thought...''And I am getting more angry all the time! I want my money, NOW''Then you should sign this declaration that you agree with the amount we have offered.'

'This feels like signing my own death warrant, but fuck it, this way at least I'll get something...'Quickly, but with a lot of reluctance I signed the document.'And where can I go now to get my money?''We'll send you the necessary documents through the mail.''Yes, I am familiar with that procedure! When will that be?''As soon as possible...'

When I hadn't received anything after three weeks, I went back to the prosecutor's for a little social call. 'Buongiorno' dottor Bianchi's new secretary said in a slimy way when I entered the office, Roberta's cousin had been replaced. 'I'm still waiting for document that you were supposed to send to me, have you maybe lost my address?''I don't think that's the problem. It's just that a new college istaking care of postal matters, and he's still learning.''So it could well be that those documents still haven't been sent at all?''As I said before: my college is responsible for postal matters and...''He doesn't now what to do! Yes you have made that very clear to me!' I interrupted him.'Tomorrow I am supposed to pay the rent. What do I say to my lent-lady? Shall I just give her dottor Bianchi's phone-number and tell her to give him a ring if she wants money?''No, you really shouldn't do that! This is none of her business, and besides, it's not the dottore's fault!''I think that she'll say the fact I can't pay her is her business.I've been punished already for making the translation too quickly,but now I am becoming a victim of your no-work-religion for the second time.''This absolutely isn't against you, it's just how the bureaucraticsystem works. I'm sure it'll be the same in Holland.''I am very sure that things like this are unthinkable for the Dutch! Buongiorno.' seething I walked into the corridor.

The new college wasn't a very swift student, because how the bureaucratic system worked was clearly still an enigma to him. After three weeks I still hadn't found anything in my mailbox. Maybe I should pick up teaching again...

Dancing on volcanoes

Two classmates from Ukraine that I often had dinner with, Lenka and Anna, all of a sudden had a huge problem. The people who had arranged their exchange with the Italian university, had forgottento mention that their student-visa had to be renewed at the consulate half way their three months stay in Reggio. They found out five days before the expiry date. For a bureaucratic enterprise of the like a lot more time is needed, so it was a lot easier to leave the country as soon as possible. Otherwise their passports would get stamped, which would make it impossible for them to return to the European Union for ten years. That would make their degrees in English and Italian quite pointless. In panic they booked the first flight back to Kiev. They had come by car, so they had to think of a way to get it back to Ukraine somehow. Luckily a friend of theirs was on a holiday in Rome and prepared to drive the car back instead of taking the plane.

'But how can we ever get that car in Rome in time? We have an examtomorrow!' Anna asked herself desperately during the coffee break.'Hmm, of course I do have a drivers licence...' I mumbled looking casually at the ceiling. 'Oh, if you could take care of that it would be a ticket from the lottery for us! Of course we'd pay all your expenses!'I have often gone to Rome for less reason, so I could assure them immediately that it would be a pleasure. 'Figurati!''But you'll have to go tomorrow, otherwise Ludmilla doesn't have ahotel-room anymore...''Fine. Tomorrow at midnight is my birthday, but I think it's quitesuitable to celebrate the beginning of my thirstiest year of life in the eternal city.''Congratulations! But then you should bring someone! Facing the big three all by yourself is too lonesome and depressing! When youcome back the next day we'll invite you for a meal to celebrate properly!''I have to give it some thought who I could lure into Rome at suchshort notice, but it shouldn't be too difficult to persuade someone, I'd say. Come rimaniamo per domani?' At the secretary of the university I asked if they could suggest acheap place to spend the night in Rome. Giulia could: 'Just aroundthe corner from Campo de'Fiori there is a small, but tidy Bed and

Breakfast of which I can't remember the name at the moment. Comingfrom the Foro de'Gatti it's in the fist street on your right, halfway the Viale Vittorio Emmanuele; can't miss it! If you can't find it or if it's fully booked, just give me a ring. You have my phone-number don't you?

I strolled over the Via Marina for a bit and phoned Egidio to ask how he felt about a little day-trip to Rome.'I would love to go, but I have an exam tomorrow!'So I tried Peppe...'From nine o'clock in the morning till seven o'clock in the evening I have five appointments, can't we go next week?'Carmelo had to attend an evening with his family and also Francesco had things to do. For me it was no problem to reach the age of thirty all by my self, the next day I'd make up for it at agrand scale with Anna and Lenka anyway. In a moment of clarity it sprang to mind that it would be wise to make reservations for the train back to Calabria the next day, trains going south from the north often are extremely packed. 'Ciao biondo!' I heard when I was getting my tickets from a machine at the station. There aren't that many blond people in Calabria, so I immediately felt addressed and looked over my shoulder.Ivona, a nice Montenegrin girl I vaguely knew from university camewalking up to me and smiled.'Ciao bella!'After the usual greeting rituals she asked if I wouldn't like to have a little aperitivo at the terrace in front of the duomo. Sometimes I can be a very flexible person and that didn't seem a bad idea to me at all: 'Ma, sarebbe un piacere!'

L'aperitivo of course is meant to be a little drink before dinner withan appetizer, but in Calabria it's served with such a wide range of snacks that will make your appetite fade away completely; almost a proper meal. After our first glass of prosecco our little table was still full of crespelle, tramezzini and olive marinate. Ivona noticed: 'This abundance of food forces us to have an other glass of those bubbles, don't you think?'Being the pliable Dutchman again, I did see her point. The waiter got it wrong, intentionally or not, and instead of two glasses placed an entire bottle of prosecco on our table. With a smile we accepted our fate.When the consumption of the content of the bottle progressed, our conversation became more animated. We discussed books we had read,paintings, plays and films we had seen and the traveling we had

done. It became clear to me that apart from Sarajevo, Zagreb, Belgrado and Podgorica Ivona hadn't seen much of the world.'Five years ago I've been to Budapest, I think that must be the most beautiful city in the world. I can't think of a more fairytale-like view than that over the river Donau on the houses of parliament' she said.'Have you ever been to Rome?''No, never.''I've never been to Budapest, but I believe that Rome has a good chance to be even more beautiful...what are you doing tomorrow?''I'm going to university, why?'

§

After I had picked up the car at Lenka's and Anna's the next morning I stopped at half past five in front of Ivona's door, she already stood there waiting. I wanted to get out to help her with her little suitcase, but before I had managed to click my securitybelt open she already had chucked it on the back seat and sat nextto me with a smile: 'Buongiorno!'I stepped on the accelerator and we took the ss106 to Roma Eterna.

The sun rose from behind the Aspromonte and covered Messina on theother side of the straights in a golden flow. Under an enormous black cloud Mount Etna was glittering bright white in the morning light. We passed the mythical monsters Skylla and Charybdis, but they kept quiet; it was still early. Slowly Sicily disappeared in the distance. From above Palmi we saw a smoking Stromboli surrounded by the other Eolean islands pass on the horizon.'What a country...' Ivona whispered while she stared dreamy in thedistance.'What have you seen so far here?''Three weeks ago I have arrived in Bari...apart from that...Reggo Calabria.''You'll see that the atmosphere in Rome is completely different from in Reggio or Bari, it seems to be a different country.''It's the capital of course...''That too, yes...''What do you mean? What else?''Well, what do you actually imagine Rome to be like?'

'I know the Colosseum and that building with a hole in the roof, come si chiama?''The Pantheon?''Right! And then Saint Peters' cathedral of course, where the popelives. And what else, non so, can't wait!'

The autostrada Reggio-Roma has been under construction for years now, but it's simply not in the interest of the building companiesto conclude their activities. Their cash-flow would come to an immediate stop if they would, and that isn't seen as a very motivating factor by the local mafia, that is traditionally intertwined with the building industry. Although the freeway was blocked at several locations we could drive on quite swiftly. Around ten o'clock we passed the Amalfi coastline and saw Mount Vesuvius rise from the distance above the Gulf of Naples: a pregnant lady that lied down to take some rest.

After we had chatted for a while casually about the war in former Yugoslavia, soccer and mafia, Ivona pulled the corners of her mouth down, curled a wisp of her dark, straight hair behind her ear looked me straight in the eyes and asked:'Do you actually have a girlfriend?' 'No, and you?''No, me neither, I have a boyfriend.'That made me laugh, 'Ah! What's his name?''Marco.''And for how long can't you see each other now?'Three months?''Six''And that doesn't bother you? Montenegro is not that far from here? Can't you grab a boat for a long weekend Podgorica after three months?''I'm okay like this, thank you!''Don't you miss him?''Well, to be honest, no, not really.''Don't you love him then?''Yes I do, I think...but dunno.''How long have you been together then?''Nine years.''I know I shouldn't ask a lady, but how old are you Ivona?''Twenty-three' 'Sorry, as far as I remember correctly completely different things were keeping me occupied when I was fourteen; bad pop-music, homework, hockey, that kind of things...''Oh, is that right? At what age have you kissed for the first

time? - And of course I'm not talking about a sweet little kiss? It was a bit confronting that I had to think carefully to answer this very direct question, but after having carefully eliminated all sweet little kisses from my memory, the kiss remained that I had given a girl with beautiful curly blond hair when I was aroundfourteen. Ivona's resoluteness made my head spin. It was as if I neglected something crucial.'Well now that I think about it...maybe fourteen.''See! That isn't strange at all!''A kiss, va bene, but that is different from having a relationship and I think, I have to count back, that I haven't had a more or less serious relationship before I was eighteen.''So you stayed a virgin till you were eighteen?!' 'Having a relationship and sex are different things as well, but Ithink I lost my cherry before...But I have to admit that I am not sure.''How can you ever forget that?!' 'O, but I remember exactly where and with whom, but my exact age I don't know. And you?''I had turned sixteen exactly one hour before.''Marco, I presume?''I have never even kissed an other man!''Don't you think that is very special and see it as something precious?''Without a doubt it's very special, but special and healthy are very different things as well.''Well, if you love him...''What is love? We have grown so used to each other that the 'love'-if we can call it that way- doesn't add anything to at least my life. Don't get me wrong, I don't have anything against Marco, butwe treat each other as if we already had ten grandchildren! But, infatti, how old are you?' I had to look at my watch: 'In exactly thirteen hours, I'll be thirty!''Are you serious!?''Yes, at midnight I am supposed to become a boring, responsible adult.''Let's do everything we can then to postpone that a little! But where do you want to celebrate? Any concrete ideas how to start your new life?''I would love to eat at Pierluigi's, a great restaurant close to where we are staying, and apart from that I don't care, we'll see...'

Meanwhile we passed Cinecittà and entered the outskirts of Rome.'Congratulations, you have arrived in the eternal city!'Ivona stared out of the window and murmured: 'I still think I liked Budapest better...''We are in Italy! Here patience is even more valuable than elsewhere!' I phoned Ludmilla and arranged to meet her in half an hour in front of Stazione Termini to deliver the car to her. Traffic was, as usual, very chaotic, but the Romans at least do take each other inconsideration. Without a zebra of traffic light, you can easily cross the busiest streets; cars will stop controlled and patiently. It is just very unwise to try to do that in Naples or Catania.'Shouldn't we go to the hotel first, so that we don't have to walkthrough the city with our luggage?''Yes, but probably I can't park the car there and I know there is a good bus connection. Ludmilla wants to spend the night at her friends place in Budapest, so she has to hurry.''Ah Budapest! Che bello!''I felt that one coming...'

§

I didn't have the slightest idea what Ludmilla was supposed to look like or how old she was, but underneath the enormous, typical, protruding roof stood a lady of around forty with a Caucasian appearance looking attentively around her. I opened my window: 'Ludmilla!'Immediately she looked over her shoulder. I waved and parked the car. We got our luggage and walked towards her. 'Buongiorno! Tu devi essere Ludmilla, l'amica di Anna e Lenka!' I hadn't thought of the fact that in Ukraine not everybody speaksItalian.'Yes! Hello....hmmm, haben sie eine gute rese gehabt?''Ja, gar kein problem. Sie müssen heute noch nach Budapest fahren, nicht? Das ist eine lange reise!' 'Ja, ich habe das shon oft gemacht und es ist wirklich eine shöne fahrt.'Buon viaggio, have a good trip, gute reise!'We waved when she pulled up into the Roman traffic.'How many languages do you actually speak?' Ivona asked with an amazed look in her eyes.'Five, but my German and French are far from brilliant.'

'That was German that you just spoke to Ludmilla, wasn't it? That seemed quite fluent to me!''That's just because you don't speak German at all. LinguisticallyDutch is a German dialect, and because I master that language quite well I can improvise a little to make my self understood, but come! We still have a lot to do today, let's buy a train ticket for tomorrow and ditch our luggage at the hotel.O, by the way, you should know that the bus we have to take, 64, is famous for it's pickpockets. Don't put your wallet in your backpocket or something.''Lovely town...things like that never happen in Budapest!''Maybe not but here you don't have to eat goulash every day!''Goulash is lovely!''Hm hm.'

§

It was extremely crowded on the bus. We drove straight trough the center, but only over the heads of other people I could spot wherewe were; Italians aren't very tall. Ivona didn't see anything; Rome remained a surprise just a little bit more.'We're there!' I said when I saw that we past the Gesù -the most important church of the Jesuits, built by their founder Ignatius di Loyola. At the next stop we squeezed ourselves out. 'Still gotyour wallet?' I checked when we finally stood on the sidewalk of the Viale Vittorio Emmanuele. 'Everything under control.'

I had understood exactly witch alleyway Giulia had meant at the university in Reggio ant in no time we stood in the reception of Hotel Campo dei Fiori. 'Goedendag, heeft u voor vanavond nog een tweepersoons kamer vrij?' I asked in Dutch, because Giulia had said the proprietor were Dutch.'Che!?''Ah scusi, pensavo che Lei fosse Olandese. Ha forse ancora una camera doppia per stasera?''Ah, no hè! That's my sister in law. I don't speak a word of Dutch, except for 'Dankkewel'. For tonight we still have one double room available with a matrimoniale, is that okay?'I looked at Ivona.'For me that's okay, but if you are scared of me we can go somewhere else' she said with a big smile. We brought the suitcases to our room just brushed our teeth quickly and went backout straight away. 'Where shall we go?' Ivona asked.

'Well, let's start here just around the corner.'I walked to the right towards Campo de'Fiori: the flower field. The traders at the market yelled to recommend their goods and one of them grabbed my sleeve to make me feel how fresh his fruit was.Giordano Bruno looked quietly down from his pedestal, Ivona curiously looked around with big eyes.'The man from the statue was put on a pyre here in this square.' Isaid to interrupt her speechlessness. 'Why? Who is, was, he?''The Dominican monk Giordano Bruno. After having taught in Toulouse, Paris, Oxford and Frankfurt, his philosophy on existence had become slightly different from what the Catholic church would have liked to hear. For example he didn't see Copernicus' thesis that the earth spins around the earth instead of vice versa as unlikely. Popes hardly ever are very flexible, and those days even less than now. In 1600 he was executed here for heresy. 'What would we be without the catholic church!'Although it wasn't time to have a meal Ivona followed me into a closed pizzeria without asking questions. The lights were off and the chairs stood scattered over the restaurant chaotically. A caricature of a pizza baker -mustache and apron- appeared from thekitchen: 'Buonasera, how can I help you?' 'We would love to have a look at your basement, if that is okay with you...''Of course!' He smiled and opened a door to a little hallway for us. 'The light switch is downstairs on the right!' Obviously Ivona didn't understand why I could possibly be interested in the basement of a pizzeria but followed me docilely down the staircase anyway. We came in a dusty space that lit up when I had found the light switch. The walls of ancient Roman bricks -the marble with which they once had be covered probably had been recycled in a newer building- breathed history. It confronted me a little with the relativity and the arbitrariness of life. 'Where are we?' Ivona asked with a trembling voice.'This is where Julius Ceasar was killed. Once this was the entrance of the theater of Pompeus. On the 'iden' of march, the middle of the month, of the year 44 before Christ the senate assembled here, because the senate building at the forum had burned down. Here in this room the Greek scholar Artimodorus pressed a text-roll into his hands in which he warned him for the murder conspiracy, but the Pontifex Maximus handed it over to one of his servants, to read it later after the meeting.

'But Ceasar read the text, it contains very important information!' he is supposed to have yelled when Ceasar walked on,but in vain.At the door of the meeting room stood Spurinna, reader of intestines, who earlier had predicted Ceasar disaster for that day. 'It's the iden today, but so far nothing went wrong!' Ceasar ridiculed the medium when he passed by.'Well, the day isn't over yet...' he got as an answer. Shortly afterward he died at the feet of the statue of his former enemy Pompeus from the twenty-three stab wounds inflicted to him by conspiring senators. Where we are standing now he spoke amazed hislast words: 'Et tu Brute, tu quoque fili mi?' when he recognized Brutus amongst his waylayers. He had always been as a son to him and his brother had convinced him to go attend the senate meeting that day. Ceasar hadn't felt well and his wife, Calpurnia, had had an ominous dream and was begging him not do go.Some historians claim that when he understood he was about to die,after already having been stabbed in his neck and he found himselfsurrounded by men with daggers, he just covered his face with his robe and his legs with his toga, and stayed silent.For a long time no one dared to approach the body. It stayed here for hours till finally to slaves brought it back to his house at the forum. His arm is supposed to have dangled from the sedan.''You keep yourself informed about the details of other political murders as well?''Not really, but Julius was one of a kind...'We thanked the pizza baker and walked back into the daylight.'Come back for dinner tonight, I make the best pizza in all of Rome!''For tonight we have other plans, but we will be back! Grazie, arrivederci!' In the curve of the narrow street behind the pizzeria we recognized the shape of the old theater; Roma Eterna.

I realized that it could be quite useful to first make reservations for the restaurant for that evening while we were in the vicinity. Above the entrance gate of Palazzo Farnese waved an enormous French flag. 'What's that?''The French embassy.''But what a nice building for an office!''In Rome everything has a story. That's why the city is just a bitmore beautiful than the rest of the world. The man who had this

palace built, Alessandro Farnese, became Pope later and the centrecourt was designed by Michelangelo.'Through the Via Monserrato we arrived at what maybe is my favoriteterrace in the world, that of ristorante Pierluigi.I still often had dreamed of their ravioli ai frutti di mare. I absolutelydidn't recognize the waiter that helped me, but after having looked me straight in the eyes, he asked: 'Am I mistaking or have you been here before?''Yes I have. Once, a year and a half ago.'Blond hair...

§

Of course one day by far isn't enough to see all of Rome, but since it was all I had Ivona to offer, I tried to think of a walking tour that would give her an image in her brain the city worthy. The oldest big city in the world, caput mundi, in one afternoon. Even for Americans that would be a challenge. I decided that, given where we were, it would be the best idea tostart with something she would definitely recognize and which would be the pièce de résistance for a big part of the worlds inhabitants: the church that is ran by God's deputy on earth: Saint Peters cathedral.

After we had crossed river Tiber, we walked passed Castel Sant'Angelo up the Via della Concilliazione, the street named after the reconciliation of the fascists and the catholics that stretches out in front of Saint Peters, for the construction of which a whole working-class-quarter has been brought down. Totalitarian regimes like the catholic church and fascism have a quite twisted idea of the general good themselves, but when they start celebrating their friendship, things really go out of hand. The perspective effect without a doubt underlines the grandness of theVatican, which was completely in line with the esthetic taste of it's new friends and that made the fact that hundreds of families became homeless of secondary importance compared to all that splendor.

I could tell from Ivona's face that it is very difficult to find anything vaguely comparable in Budapest. She said nothing and

stared with her big blue eyes at Michelangelo's dome that towered high above the world. 'What a beauty' I thought, when I looked next to me. That church Ihad seen so often at that point that at that moment it couldn't grab my attention.

With her hands and the tip of her nose pressed against the glass she gazed at the Pietà. Mister Buonarotti's art can have unique effects on people, also on Ivona.'She's so young,' she stammered.Maria, who looks startled at her son on her lap, who just has comeof the cross, in fact looks much younger than Jesus himself.'These are the headquarters of the catholic church. Wonders are their core-business. At this location you shouldn't be too critical about minor improbabilities...'The view from the top of the dome over the Vatican museums, the gardens and the rest of Rome is absolutely one of the most impressive things I have ever seen, but I didn't mention that to Ivona because then our lack of time would become too pinching; we still had to go through a wide arrange of things 'not to miss'.We left the city-state and got on a bus to Piazza del Popolo, the mostnorthern point of the Roman center. We walked down the Via del Corso passed the house that Goethe once shared with his painting friend Tischbein, with whom he often drank immodest amounts and behaved as a stereotype tourist.'What shall we do now?''Given the fact that you are a lady I figured that you would like to have a look at the most expensive shopping street in Rome...''The last time I checked, about an hour ago, I still was a lady indeed, but I don't care about clothes and even less about expensive clothes; I'm a student! Can't we go to the Colosseum?''That's where we're heading, but it's more or less on the other side of the center so there are quite a few things that we shouldn't skip on our way. If it were only the shops, I wouldn't even have mentioned them, but I really think you shouldn't miss Piazza d'Espagna. At the end of the Via Condotti are the Spanish steps!''If you say so...' 'Apart from the English writers Keats and Shelly also the greatestwriter Calabria has ever brought forth, Corrado Alvaro, lived up there.'Underneath the enormous staircase we sat in the sun and let our bare feet dangle in the water around Bernini's boat.'Fountains can bring a city to life. The ancient Romans already

had understood that and therefore they constructed aqueducts toe let the water stream into the city from all directions, like an urban circulation of the blood.''Insomma...Calabria is beautiful, but it's not too difficult to imagine the poetic value of this place,' Ivona lisped while looking at the strolling Romans. She beckoned a tall black man whowas trying to sell bracelets to the tourists. He swiftly came towards us to show his merchandize.'Che belli, posso averne due?'After having payed for the two bracelets in the colors of the Italian flag with 'Roma ti amo' on them, she smiled at me: 'Present!Give me your hand! Souvenir to make sure you wont forget me!'She tied it around my wrist and I helped her with hers.'Grazie, I'll never forget you!''Prego.' She embraced me and pressed her lips against my cheek.

We walked passed the modern senate at Piazza Madama, the office of the prime-minister, Palazzo Chigi, and Parliament, Palazzo Montecitorio to'that building with a hole in the roof': the pantheon.

Once the banks of the river Tiber weren't reinforced and the center flooded regularly. The English romantic Shelly, in front ofwho's house we just had been sitting next to a boat with our feet in the water, once rowed through the pantheon while the moonlight fell through the oculus and mirrored in the flooded floor. I told Ivona this and added that according to a certain Dutch writer thisspace is the center of the universe, and visibly it took her little effort again to see the poetic value of those facts. Slowlyshe walked through the ancient bronze doors in the temple that originally was build by Agrippa. She looked up in the hole, placedher elegantly slim index-finger on her bottom-lip and said nothing. Slowly her mouth opened: 'We're there...'

§

We strolled over Piazza Navona passed Bernini's fountain of the fourrivers in which the Nile seems to hold his hand in front of his eyes in disgust to block his view on the Sant'Agnese-church, builtby Bernini's main competitor, Borromini, when my phone rang.'Ciao bello! Had a good trip? Ludmilla just called and she's well on her way to Budapest.' Lenka...'Good! Yes, everything went very smoothly.'`And now your spending the last moments of your youth in solitude

underneath a bridge with a bottle of wine like a barbone? Or what?''No yesterday at the last instance I succeeded in convincing Ivonato come with me. We are about to take a bus to the Roman Forum now.''Ivona...Isn't that that girl from Montenegro? Casanova! But at what time will you be back tomorrow? We would like to invite you to celebrate things on location. Of course you can bring your little project.''Project...project...We'll leave tomorrow morning quite early...around three we should be at Reggio centrale.' 'Perfetto! Call us as soon as you see Sicily and we'll come to pick you up at the station.''Okay, a domani!' §

'Beautiful' is not the right word to describe the 'Wedding cake' with, the showy monument for king Vittorio Emmanuele II, but stillPiazza Venezia absolutely does have something to it. It's a crossroads of centuries full of history. 'The Colosseum!' Ivona exclaimed satisfied when we got off the bus underneath the little balcony from which Benito Mussolini onceheld speeches for masses of hysterically cheering people. Along the forums of Trajan, August, Nerva and Caesar we slowly strolleddown the Via dei Fori Imperiali towards the enormous Flavian amphitheater.'How huge! Colosseum is definitely a well chosen name for this building!''It doesn't refer to the size of the theater though, but that of astatue that once stood next to it.''Of whom?' 'Originally it came from emperor Nero's wildly decadent 'Golden house' that lay here around a little lake, more or less where the Flavian amphitheater was built later. Up that hill there, the Colle Oppio, are still some remains to be seen of that playground for luscious orgies and banquets. With the aid of four-hundred-twenty emperor Hadrian then moved the statue to the pedestal next to the theater, to make room for that big temple there on the hill; the temple of Venus and Rome. But Nero's reputation had gone down the hill dramatically, so a twenty meters high bronze statue of the man would undoubtedly be seen by the Roman population as an unjust

honor. But the statue was so big, that it would have been a shame to just dispose it, so Hadrian made artists change Nero's characteristic nose a little and attach some rays to it's head, which changed the statue from a portrait of the emperor from hell into one of the God of the sun; Helios.' 'Strange that the Italians don't recycle glass anymore, the ancient Romans had already understood the principle completely...'We walked passed the remains of the pedestal the statue once stoodupon up the Via sacra, the holy road to the Roman Forum. Underneath the arch of triumph for the holy emperor Titus, that was created after his death to celebrate once more his destructionof the temple in Jerusalem, Ivona let the rubber top of her green All-Star slide over the stones in the ancient pavement. 'Of courseI have often seen pictures of these places, but actually being here is a strangely impressive. It is as if I suddenly realize to be part of the same history as those emperors, good or bad...'For example through the ages...how many people have walked over these stones?'With a nostalgic smile I remembered the first time I was in Rome myself and recognized Ivona's amazement. At the time my parents were slightly worried in advance 'how much fun can Rome be for an eight-year-old?', but there was no need for that at all. I wanted to know all about everything and thought it ridiculous that we where going to spend the next week in a hotel on the gulf of Sorrento; by far we hadn't seen everything!Impressed by the historical surroundings we didn't say a word while we walked to the curia, the senate, a piece of foundation ofour democratic thinking.'This was the home and office of Pontifex Maximus Julius Ceasar' Ipointed out when we passed the Regia, Ivona lingered in. Leaning against a brick wall she stared somewhat dispirited at a mosaic onthe floor. 'His bathroomfloor...so this is where he had his last shower on the idus of march in forty-four b.C., before going to that meeting of the senate in the theater of Pompeus...this is where his wife kept wining, trying to convince him not to go...''Yes, every so often it's wise to do as your wife tells you. A couple of hours later his body lay exposed here in front of his house and his companion Marc Antony held a fiery eulogy. He showed Ceasars wounds to the Roman people which made them infuriated in grief and anger. Unless the amnesty that he had offered them himself, he forced the murderers that way to flee from Rome. 'That seems a bit two-faced to me...men are strange.''He got exactly what he wanted, without giving up his majority

alliance in the senate...actually, I have always thought it to be a feminine prerogative to be that calculative.' 'Aaaah!' Ivona cried as if she were offended, 'I'm not calculativeat all! You're just a masculine male pig!' that last remark came accompanied with a feminine punch in my stomach.

'L'Ombelico del mondo...' she hummed a couple of minutes later the wellknown song by Jovanotti when we were standing next to the Umbelicus Urbis Romae; a greenish black plate of marble on top ofa vault that the ancient Romans considered to be the place where heaven and earth were connected; the bellybutton of the world. 'I have to admit that very few masculine male pigs so far have placed me in the center of the universe twice in one day!' she smiled at me while she grabbed my hand and pulled me up the steps towards the Capitoline hill; 'not even in Budapest!''Well, I'm just conscious of the fact that ladies appreciate beingthe center of attention, and if I can provide those circumstances,of course I'll always do so!'Another punch and a sparkling smile.'Yes, now that you mention it...you're almost turning thirty and for that event, being a lady, I should change into something a bitmore elegant and beautify myself a little. Maybe we should head back to the hotel soon...''Of course I have no idea of the extend of the metamorphosis you are planning to realize, but we've made reservations for half pasteight, and it's a quarter to six now. Apart from that, to me you don't seem smelly at all and I think you shouldn't be ashamed of the general esthetics of your appearance either.''That is most chivalrous and gallant of you to say, but when I find myself constantly the center of attention in the center of the universe, I prefer to be as clean and beautiful as I possibly can accomplish.''Okay, I believe that, being a macho pig, I'll just have to exceptthat...but let's just walk past the mouth of truth first while were here, it's just around the corner...''La bocca della verità? What's that?''A big old stone with a face on it that, I think, once was part ofa fountain, but it is said that when you put your hand in the mouth and tell a lie, it gets bitten off.''I don't see the point. Then you can just start talking about other things, or simply refuse to stick your hand in that mouth ifyou have something to hide!''You are so unreasonably matter-of-fact again! I've heard many people tell me about people loosing limbs in that mouth, how

truthful that is, I can't guarantee, but with legends it often is like with smoke and fire.'We walked passed the bronze equestrian statue of Marcus Aurelius over the slightly curved, star shaped pavement designed by Michelangelo into the alley next to the town hall. The Roman Forumstretched itself out in front of us once more before we arrived down the hill at a square with to little temples that once had been the cattle market. The church itself was closed, but fortunately the fence to the mouth of truth stood open. 'Oh, yes! My mother has a picture of this!' Ivona cried out surprised when she saw the severe expression on the face of the river-god. 'Could you take one of me?' She handed me her mobile phone. 'Sure, but of course then you should stick your hand in themouth.' So she did and with one foot in front of the other, she took a posing stance.'Do you love Marco?' I asked the moment I pushed the button. Punch and smile.

§

When we came to our room, I sat down on the edge of the bed and loosened my laces: 'Visiting cities is like skiing, the best part is to take your shoes of when you have finished.''How good that part will be for innocent bystanders, should be questioned though... I think this is the right moment to seek someprivacy.' Ivona said sniggering while she looked over her shoulder

and disappeared with her whole little suitcase into the bathroom. I stretched my legs and felt my calves tingle. After having read two pages in the bible that lay on the nightstand -when in Rome doas the Romans do- I felt myself slide away.

'Buongiorno! Wake up Bianca Neve! We have to celebrate the last remains of your youth now!' With 'Snowwhite' I never had felt addressed before, but the kiss on my cheek woke me up. I had slept very deeply. Ivona leaned overthe bed in a wavy shining, sky blue skirt till her knee. Her tanned shoulders rose from an elegant strapless top and a modern silver necklace rested on top of them, which accentuated the graceful line of her neck up to her put-up hair. 'Buongiorno principessa! I thought clothes didn't interest you!''Sometimes La Bella Figura can be very important. At our introduction to the Roman nightlife we can't be dressed like students on excursion!''Hm, so this is constricting me to...I think I left my prince-outfit in Reggio, but I'll have a quick shower and will see what Ican do to limit the contrast between us as much as I can.''Good! But hurry, because very soon I'll feel the need to be the center of attention again!'

When we left the hotel, she immediately grabbed my arm: 'I never wear high heels, so you have to hold me, otherwise it'll get pericoloso!' Little lights sparkled in her eyes with almost the same color as the spruce skirt that made a rustling noise against her legs. 'Don't worry. In the presence of ladies of this elegance that comes natural to most men, even for a down-to-earth Dutchman.''Apart from your DNA and blond hair there isn't that much Dutch about you I'd say...''Well, to ease the atmosphere I'll take that as a compliment.''I absolutely had no intention to hurt your nationalistic pride, I'm sorry. The restaurant is close, isn't it?''Yes, it's just a two-minute walk, don't worry.''Good, then we have the time to have a little aperitivo to wake you up properly!''That wouldn't be a misplaced chain of thoughts at all, it's early! If you see a tea-garden where it would please a princess toconsume a little something, tell me.''Yes, here!'Resolutely she pointed with her index-finger at a little coffee bar with fluorescent lighting on the ceiling where a barrista of a

respectable age was busy washing cups. 'If you say so...although I wouldn't say this tea-garden is frequented very often by princesses!''How often do I have to explain to you that in every-day-life I pretend to be a simple studentessa from Montenegro! Very useful for privacy reasons, all brilliant things are simple, try to get used to it!'

'Buona sera, can I get you anything?' the man looked up from behind the counter when we entered his bar. 'Good evening, I hope so' Ivona murmured hesitatingly, 'Do you have some aperitivo with a sparkling elan?''Scusi??''Due prosecco perfavore.' I short-cutted this possibly endless conversation between lofty nobility and a working class hero. Curiously the barman looked at us while he popped the cork of a new bottle. The a bit prinked up people who spoke Italian to each other but clearly came from elsewhere clearly intrigued him. 'Wouldyou like some contorni to go with that?''Insomma...we're about to have dinner, but if you have an olive or two...'We toasted with the flutes to the eternal city and eternal youth.'Do I understand it correctly that you know the secret of eternal youth,' the barman asked, 'I've been looking for it for years and I don't have that much time to spare anymore! May I ask how old you are? Are you passed 75 yet?''No, seventy-five is still out of his league but at midnight we will discover how well this guy knows the secret. He turns thirty.' Ivona reacted swiftly. 'Maybe that's mainly up to you! Love keeps him young! That's why Ihave such and old, troubled face! Beautiful women never fall for me!'Ivona pretended to stare at the ceiling:'I'm not sure if I am the right person for the job, but we'll see!' 'May I ask where you're from?' Ivona explained that she was from Montenegro and I from Holland and that we knew each other from university in Reggio Calabria. 'Reggio! Madonna! Why there? That's a place for mafiosi!' A bit disappointed he started rinsing cups again. When we had finished our prosecco and got up to go to the trattoria, he wished a happy birthday for later and good luck with eternal youth. Ivona walked out of the door in front of me which gave the barman time to grab my elbow and to hiss in my ear, with an 'old-boys-network look' inhis eyes: 'Maybe women are the opposite of the secret of eternal

youth, but at least they sometimes make life bearable. Don't forget that when you turn thirty.' All of a sudden he had changed his polite 'Lei' for a 'tu'. Masculine fraternity.

'What were you smooching about?' Ivona asked with an expression onher face that made clear that she had quite a good idea of the general direction our little conversation had gone in. 'Oh, niente, he said that at Pierluigi's we should eat fish, he could especially recommend the Orata dalla griglia.'From my facial expression it probably became clear that that wasn't entirely conform the truth. Ivona's eyes sparkled when she put her arm through mine.

§

'Buona sera! Accomodatevi!'We were welcomed enthusiastically between the Renaissance palaces at the small and intimate Piazza de'Ricci by the same waiter with whom we had made the reservations earlier that day. He directed ustowards a small table for two under a big, square parasol. Cutlerymade a tinkling noise on the plates and a tuneful buzz rose from the terrace. 'If you like we could ask them if they can do a good goulash...in Budapest of course they are not very acquainted with the phenomenon 'sea'' I asked while we looked at the menu that was richly dominated by seafood.'No then they probably chuck in maccheroni or something! No, I don'tthink Italian gulash valga la pena...let's have those oysters!''That seems a very good idea to me! And as Reggitani, out of respect for terra nostra we should have the spaghetti alle sarde as a primo.''Never had them before, but yes, sounds good.''And what are your ideas of the main course?''When I have had oysters and pasta a main course will have become superfluous, I think. I'm not that big a princess, you know...''But the main course isn't called 'main' course because it's the most nutritious, but because it's the most important taste

sensation. Just don't finish all the pasta, you shouldn't miss outon the secondo!''Va bene, I see your point, but it was also a practical problem; my knowledge of the Italian languageis not sufficient to make a distinction between all those swim-animals on the menu, your friend the barrista recommended the Orata, right? What does it look like?''Flat, but round and not that big, something like this...' I held my hands about twenty centimeters apart, 'It's Mediterranean, It doesn't swim in the North-Sea along the Dutch coastline...''O, ora capisco which fish you meant!! You can describe things so strikingly! Swim-animal, Round, but still flat, in a strange Northern European little country it's not sold at the fishmongers.Va bene, sounds good enough to me!'

A big plate full of oysters was shoved in between us on the table.I expected it for Ivona to be a first in a lifetime experience to eat oysters, but she let them slide down her with an aphoristic air of nobility.'But aren't you supposed to eat oysters just raw from the shell? What's that reddish sauce about?''Raw onion in vinegar...a classic...'With a slurping noise she emptied another shell.

The spaghetti alle sarde and the bream had been just as grand, with her mouth full of panna cotta Ivona mumbled: 'I was thinking to go back to Budapest in springtime, but maybe I should reconsider, I actually wouldn't mind going back to Rome either...''Just do both! Oh, there is a place where we haven't been yet thatcould guarantee your return.'

§

The water that spattered from the Trevi fountain produced a blanket of sound that smothered most other noises. 'To make sure that you'll be back in Rome, you should close your eyes and throw a coin with your right hand over your left shoulder; if you want to run in to your true love here, two coins,and if you want to get married to a Roman, three coins.''When we do it together, would it guarantee that we would get backhere together?'

'I should read up on that, but it doesn't seem improbable to me.'With both her hands Ivona padded her sparkling skirt: 'Could you lend me four centesimi? I don't have them on me at the moment...'

§

Sunken in a deep sleep Ivona lay against me – we hadn't slept muchthe night before- when I saw the black smoke from Mount Etna appear on the horizon. I didn't want to wake her up, but I had promised to phone as soon as I saw Sicily, and I thought it most practical to be picked up from the station; in a good forty-five minutes we would stand on the platform of Reggio Centrale with our suitcases. 'Ciao bello! Happy birthday! Where are you now?''Grazie, we've just passed Scilla.' I whispered.'Great! Egidio has borrowed his fathers car. Will go to the station right away, you lovebirds just wait there for us! Are you planning the wedding already?''Well, there is still the size of the cake, and we haven't decidedon the witnesses yet, but maybe we'll get there! A fra poco!'Fortunately Ivona had slept through this entire conversation, or at least pretended so convincingly enough. A soft bubbling sound came from her that suggested feminine snoring, but that also made me think of volcanoes.

Egidio, Lenka and Anna stood already waiting for us at the platform with a bottle of spumante and a tray full of plastic cups,when our train stopped with hissing noises. 'Ivona...principessa! Buongiorno! Open your eyes, look! You are supposed to consume alcohol again! You can immediately be the center of attention again, but you should wake up!'Her eyelids trembled when she looked into the light: 'Where are we?''Back in Enotria! Look, the glasses of wine are being filled for you!' I pointed at the little group of people busy with a bottle at the platform.''Oh! People! That's horrible, I must look like shit!''Maybe you appearance is a bit less princess-like than yesterday, but I still think you get away with it easily. And you still don'tsmell!'

'That's what you say! Maybe you just smell so badly yourself that you don't notice it anymore! Ma, va be, andiamo! She got up quickly, got her suitcase and ruched out of the cabin. 'The power of youth...' I thought with melancholy.'Auguri, alla salute!' was toasted with cups high in the air when the doors of the train opened.'This is typically going to be such a day that I should have become too old for now', I felt coming with a well-pleased gut feeling.

'Allora, where are we going?' I asked Egidio after I had been kissedby everyone. 'Well, since you are an old man now, we thought it would be useful to fire-up your life a bit. In Sicily they do firethese days...I know this place on Mount Etna...'

Not much later we got on the ferry in Villa San Giovanni that would bring us across the Straights of Messina. When we stood on the balcony above the parking space of the ship a warm Scirocco-wind blew Ivona's hair in her face. With a grateful look in her eyes she accepted the little cup I put in her hands. 'Ah, coffee, that's also nice for breakfast!''Breakfast? Breakfast? I hope you are conscious of the fact that we are on our way to have dinner for my birthday?! Would you maybelike a little grappa in your coffee?''If you think it would be amusing to see me chunder down this railing, then you should do that, but personally I'm okay like this...'The European mainland slowly disappeared behind us. Trough the black ash cloud a strange light fell on the deeply blue African sea, above which the bright white volcano shined brightly.'How's it going with the secret of eternal youth, do you feel thirty yet? Personally at the moment I feel more like an eighty-year old!' Ivona looked at me from under her eyebrows while she blew in her coffee, but just for a instance her eyes still sparkled. 'What can I say...it's difficult to judge how it's supposed to feel, but life definitely hasn't become more boring. And we are onour way to an erupting volcano, so I can't be too worried about the continuation of that development.' Ivona chucked her cup in the bin rolled her fingers around my index-finger and grabbed the collar of my shirt with her other hand: 'You reckon?'

With bang that made the whole ship shake the ferry landed in

Sicily and Egidio speeded through Messina traffic to the autostrada in the direction of Catania and volcano. Along the road, the whimsical coastline meandered south and without the windshield wipers Egidio wouldn't have seen anything because of the ash-cloudthat continuously rained down. 'How dangerous is a volcano like this actually?' Lenka asked Egidio with a slightly worried tone in her voice. 'Compared to for example Vesuvius, the Etna isn't that dangerous at all. Generally it's well predictable, but for me personally anyactive volcanoes always will stay naturally frightening. It must have something to do with the fact that you just can't have any control at all over things that much bigger than you. But then I have to admit that I'm also the type that signs a cross before entering an airplane...once a God-fearing Catholic, always a God-fearing Catholic.''Good, but then I see it as your mission to cover us as well and to strike some deals with Him to keep us safe and sound today. 'I can't fix it myself, to me He'll never listen!''You'd be surprised! God is known to act very unexpectedly and inexplicably every now and then. But if you address Him with your prayers in Russian, with that strong Ukrainian accent you have, I don't think it's strange that very few wonders are performed. But you shouldn't see that as unwillingness, in the end He's only human!''Yes and taken in consideration his linguistic skills, probably anItalian!'

§

When we came higher and higher on the stately mountain the snow piled up, but apart from the dark ash-cloud, that rose from acrater a bit higher, little volcanic activity was actually visible. We reached the remains of what once had been a cable-way,but which was reduced to some green metal bars sticking from solidified lava. There were some small souvenir-shops and we decided to go try to get some useful information from the shopkeepers. The mountain continuously made a noise comparable to

a distant thunderstorm and the surface trembled under our feet, a squall of sulfuric gas that reeked of rotten eggs blew over us. 'Can I maybe offer you a glass of fire of the Etna?' a shopkeeper approached me with a bottle of red liqueur in his hand.'Well, that is very friendly of yours, but given my empty stomach I think it would be very unwise of me to have a drink from hell like that right now. I actually am here to see the real fire of the Eta. Do you maybe have an idea how I could organize that?''In the wooden cabin right to the cable-way the guides hold office, in the one on the left you can have something to eat. I'llsee you in a little bit then for a drink!'

We found a guide in the wooden cabin and he could bring us to the edge of the crater, but that would have been a hundred-fifty Euro's each, and we would have needed to sign a document declaringthat all risks taken were for our own account. 'Well of course youcan all do as you please, but personally I physically don't reallyfeel capable of climbing volcanoes at the moment. I could quite easily eat something tough...couldn't we just have dinner early?' Ivona probed the atmosphere.

Back in the car, Egidio ignored all signs indicating Catania. 'Of course we could just see how high we get...' He said and took a turn to a small road leading steeply up the mountain toward the black cloud.'But will they sell food up there?' Ivona asked a little uneasily.'Over there people have to eat just as well as anywhere else, don't they?''How come you are so sure that there are people there?''I'm not, but in life every so often risks must be taken...'''...he spoke his last words when he confidently drove up the volcano...' that sounds to me like the finishing line of a very bad story. You are still aware of the fact there are other people sitting in this car?''Vedi! This is going to get sorted! You just have too little faith!'Egidio pointed at an arrow-shaped wooden sign stuck in the lava onwhich the word 'Trattoria' was improvised with a marker. After havingdriven along for a couple of kilometers passed black rocks, ash-desserts and roofs of houses that had been swallowed by the lava, the road ended. There were a few cars around the last building that had resisted the forces of nature, but that didn't look like a restaurant at all. 'In the end it's maybe better to drive to Catania, I'm afraid the mountain has consumed all the Trattoria,' Egidio established

disappointed. He hadn't finished the sentence or a door opened anda beautiful woman with black curly hair and piercing green eyes came walking in our direction.'Or would this Medusa, apart from mythological monster, also be a kitchen princess?''Scusi, signora!' Anna shouted from the window, 'We are looking for a trattoria, do you maybe know if it still exists?'That made Medusa laugh out laud, 'Yes, we're still here! Trovato! I'm the cook! Come in, it's too cold out!' Her glance didn't petrify us at all, the warm Sicilian hospitality was dripping fromher disarming face. She held the door open for us with her hand planted in her side. The limited space, that probably often just was a living-room, was full of people sitting at a long table. Themoment we walked in the company just toasted on an elderly lady, and immediately afterward we were welcomed passionately. Medusa quickly set a small table for us, which bought the opportunity to someone on the long table to start a conversation with Ivona. He wanted to know where we were from and what on earth we were doing so high up a volcano. He spoke with a very strong Sicilian accent.Ivona explained again that we were students of the Università per Stranieri in Reggio and that we were celebrating my thirstiest birthday, because that would turn me boring and unapproachable soon. 'Da vero? Auguri!' he enthusiastically shook my hand, 'We are here forthe birthday of my eldest sister, Maria!'By now he had everybody's attention: 'This Dutch boy has turned thirty today!'Pushed by loud cheering Maria was pushed in my direction. She smiled wide, which made me notice quite a few missing molars in her mouth. We wished each other happy birthday and everybody rose to sing the Italian version of 'Happy birthday': 'Tanti auguri a te.'Medusa didn't take orders -she probably didn't have a printed menuanyway- and just put a pitcher of wine and a large platter of starters on our little table. 'Buon apetito!'

In between the Pasta con le sarde and the main course one of Maria's brothers tipped me on the shoulder and whispered in my ear:'My brothers are about to make some music and I think it could make mysister very happy if you'd ask her to dance.'Although I had sworn off dancing lessons at the age of thirteen because a complete lack of talent had become evident, and I never had made a modest walz since, I assured him that that would be an honor to me. 'I'm not a very good dancer though, I hope she doesn't mind.'

He shove my glass of wine towards me put his hand on my shoulder encouragingly: 'Dancing is nothing but dreaming with your feet. Have another sip, and I'm sure you'll be fine!'The furniture was pushed around to make some room and from the cases that had stood behind their chairs an accordion, a guitar and a zampogna appeared (little bagpipes made out of goat-leather).Rhythmic, melodious music filled the space and after having overcome a healthy initial tension, I stack out my hand to Maria with an asking smile, which was was responded to by the whole company with thunders of applause: 'Vai Maria, forza!!'

Fortunately my dancing partner had a much better sense of rhythm and timing than myself and despite her age the Mediterranean fire sputtered from her legs. 'If she had been my dancing teacher, may something would have become on me on this front,' I thought when Iaccompanied her back to her seat and thanked her for the dance. 'For a Dutchman you have very unexpected qualities!' Ivona laughedwhen I got back to the table, 'After desert we should have a go aswell!'When evening had fallen, Maria's family also gave away rousing canto's and when an older man, possibly Maria's husband, set off 'O sole mio', Ivona decidedly got up and presented her arm to me: 'Now...come on!'

When the last high C died away in an enthusiastic applause, Medusawalked over the dance-floor towards us.'Have you actually seen the volcano yet?'From the surprised way we looked at each other Medusa could probably conclude that we didn't fully understand the question, because she grabbed our hands and pulled us with her to the tiny kitchen at the back of the building. She opened the window and with a blow she pushed the shutters against the outside wall: 'This is Etna!'At a couple of hundreds of meters above the trattoria an enormous column of liquid fire spouted from the mountain, that slowly streamed downhill in an orange river.'We're there' was all Ivona could say.

In the weekend that followed these surreal days, I've tried to phone Ivona several times, but always got connected to her voice-mail. When I was close to where she lived I passed and rang her doorbell -her phone was probably broken-, but never got a reaction. I could hardly imagine to have fallen out of grace, so Iwas looking forward to seeing her again the next Monday morning at

university. During the break she wasn't in the cortile, nor in the bar and in theafternoon she didn't show up in the sala-internet to use the computers. When I didn't spot her anywhere the next day either I asked the secretary if she maybe were ill. 'No, Ivona isn't ill. She set off for Montenegro yesterday and shewon't be back.'

I never succeeded in tracing her phone-number, or even her surname. At university no-one could get to her data anymore out of'security considerations'. In the corridors around the cortile I've heard people whisper that she had left all of a sudden because hermother had been threatened by the Montenegrin mafia. Principessa Ivona I've never seen since.

Won't you come and play?

Something new in Reggio is that there are the gypsies begging everywhere; they seem to have sprouted out of the ground like mushrooms. The 'ghetto', an encampment of sheds, old Volkswagen vansand caravans at the edge of the center, has existed as long as I possibly can know. (If your car disappears and you want it back, that's where you go to pay a moderate ransom.) Before, however the gypsies were never a determining factor in the streetscape. I have no idea what has been the cause of this change, but it's remarkable. When I arrive at university a little to nine in the morning, most of the time I already have been askedfor alms for about ten times. They're everywhere: at traffic-lights, underneath the bridge over the fiumara next to my house, in front of all supermarkets and churches and along the entire main street. It's always difficult for me to imagine a life in which asking or stealing money of others is the only calling, but maybe that can be blamed on my Dutch foundation.

Just around the corner from where I live, often a girl of about nine walks up to me. She is always dressed in lively clothes, is very friendly and smiles with dimples in her cheeks. The first time we've met I asked her if she weren't late for school and she answered: 'Yes, normally I do go to school but I'm

on holiday now!'I immediately presumed that was not entirely according the truth, but I wasn't well informed about the Italian vacation periods. By now, however, it's march and I've seen her almost every day. Her name is Luminiza and she knows very well that I'll never give her a single centesimo, but she always crosses the bridge with me for a chat. 'Ciao Renko! Come va?''Tutto a posto, grazie! And you?''I'm okay too...''And at school?'At the time it was ten past nine and I know that Italian schools, the latest, start at eight thirty. Her somewhat amazed look, didn't amaze me.'Goes well...''What are you learning at the moment?''Maths, geography and many foreign languages.''I really like languages myself, which ones are you studying?'For a second she had a bit of desperation in her expression again,but then she retook herself relieved: 'Rumanian and Italian, but above all Chinese. That's my main subject.''I've always studied languages, but in Chinese and Rumanian I don't know a single word. Could you maybe teach me a little Chinese?''Of course! What would you like to know?''Hmm...What could be useful? 'Won't you come and play?'''That's easy! Tsin tsji cji ca cala muoen?''That will be difficult for me to remember at once...I really haveto hurry, or I'll be late at university. Can we maybe practice again when we see each other tomorrow?''Everything okay at university?''Yes, tutto a posto. A domani!'

Things actually didn't go that well at university. That morning itwas quite difficult to me to concentrate on Italian grammar; Luminiza kept going through my head. The only thing I had written down on my notebook was: 'Tsin tsji cji ca cala muoen.''Where does this girl get up in the morning? What does she do all day? What language does she speak at home? What does she eat? Willshe loose her virginity at they age of fourteen to an uncle?

At university during the break I walked into the secretaries office, Giulia is a good friend and mother of two children. I toldher about my Chinese teacher. 'How can this be in an European

country in the twenty-first century, Giulia?' 'This is Calabria! The gypsies have always had a special status here. The ghetto is a little state within the state.''And that is generally excepted?''Well, of course the concept of a state within the state is not completely extraneous to us...''Who do you think I should talk to to get Luminiza to school?''You could try mayor Scoppelliti. He is so right wing that he doesn't have equals in Holland and maybe he sees how this could bepolitically profitable for him.''We'll see, I'll write him a letter!''If you want to, you can use a computer in the sala internet. Can I read it before you send it?'Half an hour later I laid the letter in front of her. She made my choice of words a bit more official and got the exact address fromtown hall from a folder in her drawer.'You should send it by registered mail to the Municipio and we'll immediately send a copy to the local press. Maybe that will help to get the mayor moving, there will be elections quite soon.'

The next day, when I turned the first pages of the Gazzetta del Sud, Iwas surprised when my eyes fell on my own name. On the front page of the local news, they had changed my letter into a small article:

Compulsory education for everybody

I've been as fortunateto be able to study atReggio Calabria for two years. I am a Dutchman and after having taught in Holland for a while, I've come back becauseI was homesick for Calabria. In Holland I've taken the nickname 'The Italian'because I have translated 'Gente in Aspromonte' by CorradoAlvaro into Dutch and I just talk too often

about my love for thisfantastic country. I'mvery happy to have come back, I really feel at home here, butthere's one thing thatbothers me and I hope that the mayor could change it.At the traffic-light close to where I live every morning there are gypsies asking foralms. At it self I don't have a problem with that, but the fact that they always

bring their small children is disturbingto me. I believe that also inItaly there is something like 'compulsory education', and the law counts for all, I thought. As a teacher it bothers me enormously when I see a nine-year-old beg at ten o'clock in the morning.Children should play,

and learn, e basta! Maybe the most beautiful thing about children is their innocence and their spontaneity, and

asking alms to people they don't know for mejust doen't fit into that image.

I think and hope that

the mayor will share this point of view andthat he'll be able to change this medieval situation.

Gazzetta del sud 15/02/2006

Although I've send the letter about two months ago now by registermail and I have received a receipt, signed by the mayor, I didn't get an answer. I do see Luminiza every day at the bridge. My Chinese is improving slowly.

Divine valley of hell

Almost every week the university organizes an excursion to make the students more familiar with the region; if I possibly can, I always go along. Therefore by now I know Sicily and Calabria better than the average Sicilian or Calabrese. Enzo, the caretaker, drives the van in which twelve students can be fitted. It often occurs that we set off with twelve different nationalities, but the binding factor always is that we all study Italian; at different levels, but communication never is a very big problem. Apart from to cultural destinations we often just go into impressive nature, follow the flow of a fiumara, climb rocks orhave a shower under a waterfall. Calabria has an incredibly wide arrange of possibilities to offer on that front.

Spring had begun, the mountain rivers had calmed down, so the moment had arrived for a trip to 'the valley of hell' (la valle infernale). I had visited the fiumara the Butramo, close to San Luca already several times, but the mountain-river that higher up streams through a narrow chasm (the actual valley of hell) is so enchanting that I can't get enough of it. Besides, it has a very positive effect on your social skills to hang on a rope from a rock with wet feet. I made me understand whysurvival-like activities are so popular for team-building projectsin corporate life. Thanks to excursions like that, by now I have aa circle of friends that extends from Kazakhstan to South-Africa,

from Sao Paolo to Gdansk, from Tripoli to San Francisco and they have made me aware of the fact that people from all over the world have more in common than that they differ from each other. And if there are differences, in nine out of ten cases it's a richness of versatility.

At nine o'clock we met up in front of university. We were a most variegated company again. As usual I was the only Dutchman and therest of the group consisted of some Iraqi’s, Montenegrins, Hungarians, Slovaks, Brazilians and an American girl. Only a few minutes late the van stopped in front of us. Over the years I've grown very attached to that little coach. With so many people fromall over the world I went on so many fantastic adventures in it, that every armrest, edge or mat to me is a souvenir of many peopleand places. It's a bit a decrepit barrel though. Somewhere in the last century it was donated to university by a sponsor, but I highly doubt it if a savings project has been set up to replace itwhen it'll come to it's end. Maybe the rector has some friend, whoknows someone that has a connection who is in the position to provide Enzo with a new pulmino when it brakes down. I hope so. In Reggio I really feel at home, but every so often I feel a strong need to leave the city though. Public transport in Calabria only offers very limited possibilities.

Along the Ionian coastline the sometimes meters high, pointed grayleaves of agave’s contrast with the straight line of the horizon and the green sea. 'Do you see those high poles sprout from those succulent plants?' Enzo asked over his shoulder. 'They are named after the Greek Goddess Agave, the daughter of Harmonia and Kadmos, sister of Semele and mother of the wine-god Dionysus and of Pentheus. In theMetamorphosis is described by Ovid how Pentheus had a problem withthe orgiastic habits of his brother. He tried to prevent his riteswith the uninhibited Mainades, but lost it himself and accidentally attacked a bull instead. Under the command of Agave and in a complete wine-delirium the Mainades then roamed through the Aspromonte tearing apart veal. When Pentheus tried to calm down these wild women, his mother tore his head off.''Alcohol is a dangerous thing...' someone mumbled in the back of the van.'Religion just destroys more than you can believe, or than booze can ever restore' Enzo claimed. 'But it's a beautiful plant don't you think? It blooms only once in it's life, then it's all over. All these meters-high flowers therefore in a way are omens of

death. The agave dies at it's climax, with human beings that hardly ever is the case... A writer who was born close to here in the village of San Luca, Corrado Alvaro, saw his life as a residue of, or merely as a logical consequence of the first ten years of his life that he hadspend there. Although his brother Massimo for a long time still was a priest in the nearby village of Bianco, Corrado never went back to San Luca until the funeral of his father. The village, that he always called 'Potamia' -the name of the settlement that was destroyed by the forces of nature and where the founders of San Luca originally had lived- would differ too much from the one in his memory. When visiting his brother, he would climb the hill on the other side of the fiumara to look at it from a distance. He was convinced that childhood and youth created a mental reserve for later, when fantasy becomes less vivid and when the time to come impossibly can enrich the experiences already lived. The existence of an agave is much less melancholic: it has a brilliantapotheosis of over six meters high.'

Where the mountain-river the Buonamico flows into the sea like an easy stream, we crossed the vast plain full of sediment that confines the fiumara. On our right hand side we passed San Luca and Enzo parked the van at the branch of the flow that's called the 'Butramo'. We walked passed vegetable-gardens where people were atwork. 'Salve!' a dark man with thick eyebrows and a mustache gesturedus to come closer. Enzo and I did so straight away while the otherstudents first kept their distance. 'Ciao compare!' Enzo and the man kissed each other on the cheeks and he shook my hand and introduced himself to me: 'Nucera.' 'Oh! What a coincidence! Last week I have met another mister Nucera, not far from here, in Africo! (see 'very friendly') Maybe a relative of yours?''No, I don't know anyone from Africo. Have you seen this fig-tree?Originally it's a wild one, but we have grafted it with a domesticated one to be able to enjoy the fruits. We make a great marmalade out of them; come I'll give you some for on your bread when you are on your way.'After having seen a few jars disappear into my rucksack and havingthanked mister Nucera wholeheartedly, we walked on to the valley of hell. 'On your way back you know where to find me for a glass of wine!''Simpatico...questo signor Nucera!' I said to Enzo.'Yes, most friendly. It's not long ago that he got out of jail; local culture...'

'That was just a bit too much déja-vù for me. I had found it a bit strange that two Nucera's that live, as the crow flies, about ten kilometers apart, didn't know each other; but now all of a sudden that became crystal clear to me. They probably knew each other very well or were even very close relatives, but it was just much more convenient not to be associated with each other. Understandable... When I heard of the criminal past of the other Nucera, I was justtoo shocked to ask further questions, but by now I had grown a bitmore used to this form of expressing local culture and asked Enzo immediately what mister Nucera had on his record. 'Once the core-business of the 'ndrangheta (the maffia in Calabria) was kidnapping for ransom. A very easy way to make money. The onlything you need for it, is a large inhospitable terrain where no-one will ever find you...that was present in abundance here.' Enzoexplained. In fact, around us there was no path, building, or whatever sign of civilization to be seen. Fiumara, stones, some trees, mountain, basta. 'In 1983 someone from San Luca picked up a certain engineer De Feofrom his office in Naples, because he, or his family were believedto have a penny or two to spare. He was made cordially welcome in a cave somewhere above the Butramo here and stayed for over a year. After these people from San Luca had received the ransom of four billion Lire, they let him go. Half the village took turns tobring him food, and the other half at least knew about it, but of course the authorities couldn't arrest a whole village. Without complaining mister Nucera paid the price, with a handful others, for all the rest; omertà, code of silence .'At first the mountain-river was well passable. On a hill we saw the ruins of from what once had been Potamia. The inhabitants thatleft their village in 1592 had been overcome by a landslide and decided to found a new one at a less inhospitable location. They did so on the 18th of October, the day of Saint Lucas. The fiumara quickly became narrower and narrower, every now and thenwe already had to use a rope to keep our feet dry. Everywhere little waterfalls clattered from the crevices in the rocks and on the hillsides between the trees we saw some wolves keeping an eye on us. Dreamy Enzo looked around us: 'Calabria is a magical country that's full of myths and legends. In a distant past, for example, in this valley stood the castle of a great prophetess, the Sibyl, who was apart from extremely beautiful above all very wise; when it came to science or magic, she had no equals. She wrote books,

but kept herself above all busy with a school in which she transmitted her knowledge too girls only. At a certain point she concluded from old writings that the Messiah would be born. Because she didn't suffer from a inferiority complex at all, she was convinced to get chosen by the Supreme being as His mother. The meaning of dreams was very important to her and when she heardthat a girl who frequented her school, Maria, had dreamed that a sunbeam had fallen in her right eye, and had come out from her left one, the Sibyl understood immediately that the peasant girl was predestined instead of herself. That filled her with jealous drift, and made her see all her wisdom as pointless. In rage she burned all her books and ordered her students to do the same. Maria didn't obey and hid a small book underneath her clothes. When the Sibyl heard that Christ had been born, she was overcome by a hysterical crying-fit. Her brother, being a good Calabrian, wanted to revenge her. He tracked the Messiah down and slapped thebaby in the face. As a punishment he was locked up in the castle for eternity, where he kept pounding the walls with the hand he had hit Christ with. His sister the Sibyl was convicted to eternalrage.When the years passed, the castle got all engulfed by shrubbery and bramble bush and the sun changed it's orbit to always keep it in the shade. Deeper down the valley arose the sanctuary devoted to the Madonna della Montagna. When her statue is carried in procession, the bearers -always fishermen from Bagnara- make sure never to let her look in the direction of the castle to prevent her to get in contact with the raging pagan Sibyl.'When we had worked our way around a protruding rock, we stood eye in eye with a very big cow, that was cooling down with it's paws in the river. 'Mucca sacra, non dangerous!' Enzo calmed us down whenhe saw our alarmed facial expressions. 'Because the owners of these holy cows want to avoid the costs to feed and house them, they let these gigantic creature free in nature, where they can take care of themselves. Everybody knows exactly which cow belongs to whom though. If you'd slaughter one for a nice barbeque in the open, you'll get slaughtered yourself.'Shame...Oh, well, it wouldn't have been Halal for the Muslims anyway...And we have brought enough other food, haven't we?''Of course I have no idea what the others brought, but I have a cake that my aunt baked yesterday. I can assure you you have neverhad anything like it before. My aunt does have, apart from some evidently unpleasant characteristics, also some great qualities. But I think we should wait with lunch till we reach the valley of hell, otherwise we'll never get there. A full stomach is never a

good motivation to walk on.'

The riverbed had become very narrow and the torrent streamed faster and faster. High above our heads the sky had become a deep blue band, that was incised by agaves in bloom and trees on the rough masses of rock. After we had clambered along a rocky ledge for quite some time, our passage was blocked and Enzo had to get his ropes from his rucksack. The rest of the group thankfully used this moment of pause to sit down on the boulders. Twenty-four shoes from all overthe world dangled in rushing, clattering, clear mountain water; they had been wet already anyway. The still available dry cigarettes were divided and while our caretaker jumped from rock to rock like a young chamois, hardly a word was spoken, the sound of quickly streaming water would have drowned any conversation. 'Look! Rome's mother!' Busy attaching a ring in the rock to let the ropes slide through, Enzo looked over his shoulder in the behind us and pointed. About twenty meters from us a wolf decided that we were not the ideal prey, after he had stared at us for a while, evaluating the situation. He resigned to this disappointment, turned around and disappeared, gray and unsettlingly big, between the trees up high.For us all it was a sensational impression of almost virgin nature. A wolf that is taking it in consideration to have you for lunch is a amazing new experience if you have grown up in a modern, moreor less civilized city. Something like that can work metaphysically fraternizing; if your roots lay in Sao Paulo, Bagdad, San Francisco, Podgorica then all of a sudden becomes a futile detail. The ropes were anchored in the mountain and Enzo beckoned us to follow him, while he jumped from one side to the other above the waterfall. One at the time we helped eachother over the water that fell down the opening between the rocks. For people with short legs it was hard to get a grip on the right unevenness in the rock to be able to pull themselves up. Hoessein helpfully got down into the water to provide an extra point of support with his hands. In the turning motion of pushing fellow students up the rock, the waterfall clattered on the back of it's head. It could well be that there are many waterfalls in Iraq, but up till then I always had associated the country with other things, like sand. When Hoessein supported Francis' (the American girl) upper leg and helped her up with an elegant swirl, he got completely soaked with quick flowing Calabrian mountain-water. I was overcome by a surrealistic feel; I seemed to find myself in a

wondrous reality, where all nuances differed from the habitual standards in every-day civilization in the twenty-first century.Only a very steep hill still separated us from the valley of hell.We pulled ourselves up on ridges on the rock and tree-trucks. Hell. The idea what that really means is probably different for every human being, but when I saw the inferno I was surprised; I had never expected it to be so lovely.Deep below us the fiumara rushed through a very narrow ravine now, which made a tuneful sound, but at a much lower volume than before. Up till then I always had associated hell with the element fire than with water, and also the little bright yellow flowers that grew around the edge of the ravine made it feel morelikely that we would run into Maria or the Sibyl than into the devil. 'Ci simmu. Ora si mangia!' Enzo announced with visible pleasure and lethis rucksack slide from his shoulders. Before he got the cake out that his aunt baked for us, he picked a little flower from the wealth of flowers and sucked the juice from it's peduncle. 'Aaaah...the taste of spring!!' he called out delighted. 'When you see these flowers, you can be sure winter is over. In dialect it's called succhia miele, which is also the vulgar indication of someone who sucks on other things than little flowers.'We all followed his example and hell was filled with a peaceful rustle.

We sat down on the grass and got the food that we had brought fromour rucksacks. I had thought that this wouldn't have been the right occasion to introduce the grand Dutch cuisine to this international company -kale can be good, but when in the valley ofhell, you should just forget about it- and had made a pasta salad with dried tomato's and rocket. Everybody had put some effort in it. The Brazilians had brought Bolinos de Arroz -rice-balls with onion-, the Slovaks a meat-salad with mushrooms and peppers, the Montenegrins chicken with pear and cilantro, the Hungarians (stereotypes exist for a reason) cold Goulash, Francis coleslaw and the Iraqi's a carrot-cake with walnuts and banana. Almost allnon-Muslim had gone through the trouble to carry a bottle of Calabrian land-wine up the mountain. In the valley of hell the blood of Christ was consumed with appreciation, and after having downed his second plastic cup of wine our caretaker got up and letPuccini resound from the narrow ravine.

That we still have to go all the way back, was something we tried not to think about, hours went by while we relaxed in the bed of

succhia miele. When I went to look for a suited place to empty my blather, I ran into Hoessein and Francis behind a rock; the didn'tsee me. She leaned with her back against a wall of rock and lookedhim airy-fairly in the eyes from under her eyebrows, while he handed her a little bouquet of the yellow flowers. 'Peace?''Se accepted and smelled them, smiled and then handed them back tohim.'Peace.'With a resolute gesture Francis laid her hand in his neck, pulled him a bit closer and kissed him, very slowly, on his mouth.

Semplice come l'amore

In Italy it's the usage to lounge over the main street, well dressed, before you have dinner; the passegiata. This role-play of 'see and be seen' is played in all the country, but in Reggio, at the wrong hour, it is very difficult to get through. Most annoyingwhen you're in a hurry. When the Dutch go for a walk, they do thatin order to get from A to B and therefore at a quick pace. Italians reason reason that they don't have that much to contribute in B than in A, so there's no point in hurrying. They don't necessarily strive to accomplish anything during the passegiata; they just are.

In winter the main street, Corso Garibaldi, is the stage where this scene is set, but in spring a moment arrives that everybody all ofa sudden walks over the boulevard instead, as if agreed upon in advance. When I came to Calabria for the first time, I thought allthis a strange and an a bit inconvenient local habit, but by now around seven I am to be found at the Corso Garibaldi every night. If every day the same people smile at you, you shake the same hands and have little chats with the same people, the passegiata grows to be a sort of micro-cosmos, with its own customs and laws.As a man, don't even think of wearing shorts for example, even if it's hot like an oven and the choking Scirocco blows; deadly for your image.

Old ladies shamble with their canes ahead of a group of giggling girls in puberty; the passegiata is a custom that unites the ages.When a group of girls with quite a lot of make up and very low

trousers walk by, their conversation mutes and eight pair of eyes look at me; hormones spit out and their lips come a little apart. Being blond does have certain advantages in Italy. After we had exchanged smiles and had walked on a little, their giggling broke loose again on a volume a bit higher.When I ran into them again a quarter of an hour later, they first looked at each other and then at me: 'Ciao!''Ciao!'Roaring laugh...

The playful exchange of genetic material is worldwide seen as an important hobby, but in Italy seems to be much more part of the whole society and culture than elsewhere. I have no idea if Italians actually do it more often than others, but at least they do exhibit their sexuality more blatantly. From early in the morning till late at night. Maybe it therefore is no more than logical that jealousy is more common and has wider reaching consequences in the Mediterranean world than with us, up north. The temptation for infidelity is simply much more present.

When I stroll down the Corso I do enjoy it; young, dark, languorouseyes are just good to look at, but it does have some downsides as well. When my mother went to Italy for the first time, she was just as blond as I am now -it has turned into a light, silvery gray by now. When she came home she is supposed to have stated firmly: 'Wonderful country, Italy, but I'm never going back!' Italian men don't only exhibit their sexuality in a passive way, but can also like vultures force themselves on their prey very actively. For example it's not unusual at all to declare to girl that you have never seen before that she's the most beautiful in the world and to beg her to have a coffee with you. To me, this approach always seems to lead to very little,but when I think about how many girls from my Dutch circle of friends have lost their virginity out of free will to an Italian (without speaking asingle word of Italian), it's statistical proof that, after patient persistence, it should be profitable quite often. In the end all women want to be the little princess and to hear all day that they are the most beautiful in the world and Italian men are just willing to provide that service. It's just a simple case of: 'I'll rub your back if you'll rub mine.' (or a body-part of choice). I could also come to the conclusion: 'All women are whores except for my mom.' (After all she didn't want to go back to Italy at the age of twenty-one) But that would be so politically incorrect that it'd be a bit tiring to keep up in

every-day-life.

Italian men can dress-up so elegantly, that in Northern countries it'd be considered 'unmanly.' Waisted blazers and long, pointed shoes are easily combined with pink linen trousers. I think that even my most queery Dutch gay friends would think an outfit like that a bit over the top. But now that I think about it, I can't guarantee that.One would maybe expect a society that's tolerant towards pointed shoes and pink linen trousers would be open-minded towards homosexuality as well, but I have the impression that's not the case. I Reggio I have two gay friends, that I have known for quite sometime now. Not long ago I have discovered to my amazement that one of them has been married to a woman twice and even has a son! The good man is not a case of doubt. If you see him stroll down the street, at a distance of two-hundred meters you can already clearly make out from the grace in his step: 'Oh, that's a poof!'He's around fifty years of age and I can imagine that when he was young your homosexuality wasn't something you could discuss with the family. It probably just didn't exist: 'Gross! Just become a priest!' So one faux pas, I can maybe imagine...but two?!

But things like that do stimulate my fantasy strongly. I try to imagine what it would be like to be forced by my family to get married to a man. What to do during that long wedding-night? Play goose? It must be comparable if you force a wife on a gay, right? Poor fellow...But of course the existence of the son could be seen as a proof that things are a bit more differentiated. Homosexuality after alloccurs in a wide arrange of shades of pink.

At university I often am in class with a nice girl from Belarus; Tatiana. She's twenty-one, has blond curly hair and commutes everyday by bus from Locri. There she lives next to her in-laws, who since she got married to her son (about a year and a half ago), haven't spoken a single word to her. When Tatiana first arrived from Minsk, apart from 'grazie' and 'prego' her Italian was very limited, but by now she is capable of expressing herself very well. Possibly the way this relationship came into existence is the cause of the disapproving attitude of his parents. Of course it is quite remarkable that two people who don't speak the same language fall in love head over heals at first sight, when the southern Italian man goes -for unknown reasons- to the Belorussian

capital to spend a long weekend there. Love hardly ever is simple, but in Southern it even seems stranger than elsewhere...

Don't you ever miss Holland?'You actually are a strange type. It's a very old tradition to leave this province as soon as possible -that's why for example inlittle Italy in New York often the Calabrian dialect is spoken- but you were born in one of the most civilized countries in the world, but keep coming back! What strange addiction is bothering you?'Peppe looked at me over the rim of his glass of wine. This wasn't just a joke that had sprung from the enthusiastic consumption of alcohol, but he really wanted to know.'Precisely I couldn't say, it's a whole accumulation of factors. To me it's completely logical, but I can imagine that to others itmust be incomprehensible.''But don't you ever miss Holland?''Well, to be honest...no, I don't. Of course I have lots of close friends and a mother that I wouldn't mind to see a bit more often,but they can also come to visit me here; better for them and better for me! Apart from them I just miss Indonesian food, raw herring and wintery walks along the beach when it storms.''But in Holland everybody has the opportunity to make a decent living and if not the state pays well, doesn't it?''Yes, that's an other reason why they should come here: I live in Calabria!''But what's so appealing to you about this paese di merda?' 'Apart from the great climate and cuisine, life is much more social here. If I want to meet-up with someone in the Netherlands I have to phone him with my agenda at hand in advance and then we can agree to see each other snugly at his or my place. When I do the passegiata through the main street here before dinner, I run into at least ten people I know...due chiacchiere here, cup of coffee there... That is completely different. An Italians main goals in life are to have good food, spend some time by the see and to makelove. In his spare time he has to work every-so-often to be able to afford all that. A Dutchman lives for is work and makes love sometimes when he's off.''Si, si, it's not the first time that you express this philosophy, butI am Italian and I have had ridiculously little sex recently.' 'That could easily be your own fault though, maybe you just hang

out with a certain Dutchman too often, can be fatal for a sex-life!''Well, after drugs and tulips sex is the first thing I associate Holland with!''Yes, but that's payed sex. Professionally the Dutch are very efficient and reliable, but that's something entirely different!''How often does the average Dutchman actually go to a prostitute?''I wouldn't know, at least they don't talk about it very often. I myself am thirty but have never seen the inside of a brothel. I know from one friend of mine that he has undertaken a business transaction in order to cure himself from that horrible disease called virginity, apart from him no one has ever told me about hispayed for sexual exploits.''And how often do they go to the coffee-shop?''I think not to have a friend my age that has never smoked a joint, but I don't know anyone either who frequents coffee-shops on daily bases. When something is tolerated, it looses some of it's appeal I guess.''For Peppe that clearly didn't apply on the wine and he let Filippo fill our glasses once more: 'But don't you love your country?''When I am in Italy, I do! Dutch liberty, wealth and art are grandthings: a shining example for a large part of the rest of the world. But after having spend an afternoon in one of the great museums, and having had two herrings, an Indonesian meal and a couple of beers with my friends, I always get a restless feeling: 'That was nice, but now the time to go has come again!' 'And you get on a plane to the country where a certain Silvio Berlusconi keeps getting reelected as the head of government.''Or a certain Mussolini, Andreotti or Craxi for that matter...Si, esatto!' Although on the political front I still feel quite Dutch. Up till very recent a government consisting of populists, separatists and neo-fascists would have been out of the question in the Netherlands. In Holland I have never voted for a party that reallycould be considered 'left-wing', but here in Italy I have the ideathat the left is less harmful than the right.''So here you'd vote for Prodi?''...Or Fassini, or Rutelli; I'd have to get into that.''Or Bertinotti?''No. I think for most Dutchmen it's equally stupid to claim to be a communist as it is to be a neo-fascist. For us in the past those systems have proved on a large enough scale to have seriousdisadvantages.'

'Just get married to an Italian girl, then you could vote for the next elections!''Buona idea! Don't you have some cute, available cousin or something?''I'll phone around...I'm quite sure my grandma wouldn't mind having some blond offspring at all. Oh, by the way, you make me think of it...she asked me to invite you over for lunch tomorrow, my cousins from Rome will be there as well; then you can have a look around first yourself!''There we have another big difference with Dutch customs! In Holland Grandmas are put away in homes for the elderly and are kept quiet with lotteries and bowling-alleys, here they still manage the procreation of their flock!' In Italy I almost know all the grandparents of my friends, in Holland that absolutely isn't the case. For birthdays and occasions like Christmas often and aged family-member gets pulled from the reserve, but that's all. Egidio lives at his grandma's and all the family has lunch there every day. His mother helps herpreparing, but the fact that she peels onions and boils pasta for her grandchildren and great grandchildren every day makes her a very useful spindle of the family for everybody.''But don't the elderly in Holland then feel lost and useless?''Strange enough, in general that isn't the case at all. In a magazine my mother has sent me I've just read an article on the ambition to found a 'city for the elderly' after an American example. Because of the current obsolescence, a logical consequence of the excess of births just after the second World War, over a quarter of the Dutch population is over sixty-five. This City for the Elderly should become a territory guarded by barriers that you only can enter after having showed your documents to some authority; a land of wine and roses for senior citizens. Apart from the membership of the golf-club there are no obligations for the inhabitants; individualization at it's peak!''That sounds very decadent to me...age-fascism almost.''I believe that inter-human responsibilities should come a bit more from all sides myself, the elderly need their children just as well as kids need grown-ups. I think Egidio is more proud of his grandma after she has peeled an onion, than a Dutch grandson who has just witnessed a Broadway-style performance of his granny in panties. Maybe the Dutch elderly find it difficult to determinea useful position in society and they just prefer to place themselves outside of it to pretend in their own bubble that they are still young.''My grandmother always says: 'I really enjoyed being sixteen, but

I am very happy to have reached the age of eighty-six by now.''Her Catholicism and her connected conviction that in not too muchtime she'll have a little chat to Saint Peter makes that a lot more evident, but it is exemplary Mediterranean wisdom in a way.'

The second bottle was empty. The time to go, here as well, had come. We said goodbye to Filippo and the other usual suspects and roamed back to Peppe's car.'ehm, do you reckon it's a good idea to drive now?' I asked with arhetorical undertone. 'Are we being the responsible Dutchman now, or you just don't havethe guts?''Now and then a little Dutch sense of responsibility doesn't hurt.You have had over a bottle of wine. If you'd drive now you wouldn't only risk your own life, but also that of others! Let's first just stroll up and down Via Marina for a bit; some fresh air!' From his facial expression I could clearly make out that he thought that to be utter northern nonsense, but he followed me to the sea anyway. Over the water Sicily sparkled very closely and wemingled into the parade of loungers on the packed boulevard. Afterwe had walked up and down il kilometro piu bello dell Italia twice at an easy pace, Peppe asked: 'Would it maybe suit the protestant moralizer to have a little amaro at Danilo's bar?''This atheist moralizer doesn't have to drive back home over the autostrada, so he'd be very happy to! But tht can never be the idea of the Catholic Supreme One to cause bloodshed as a result of the consumption of his own blood.''Is this Dutch, or are it just your personal windmills of your mind?''These windmills are, apart from Dutch, just a product of common sense. Especially Dutch people our age will never drive after having drank too much. They wouldn't even let someone they know drive if they knew he had had too many!''Most annoying, if your friends just don't let you go home...''It does have an advantage that in the long run is profitable...'

You are Calabrian!The bottom of the pit with my funding resources was within close

reach. All schools had enough English teachers and the only job I could get, was as a waiter. At it self I wouldn't have minded to have become a waiter for a while to prolong my stay in Calabria a bit, but for this job I would have had to work six days a week from five in the afternoon till three at night, for the modest salary of four-hundred-eighty Euro's a month. Even for me that wasjust a bridge or two too far. I had little choice and had to face the facts: I booked a flight back to the land of the wooden shoes.On short notice, however, there were no seats available on flightsfrom Naples, so I had to go to Rome, 'Oh well, good memories...'

If I would have packed all the books I had acquired in Italy in mysuitcase, the excess weight would have cost me a fortune. In general material things aren't all that important to me, but especially books can make me a bit greedy. At the post-office I bought a yellow box from Francesca's husband to send my collectionof Calabrian books to Holland in. At home I assembled the box, filled it with books and closed it with adhesive tape. On the lid I had to complete the addresses of the sender and the consignee. Two days later I wouldn't be living in Reggio Calabria anymore, but in The Hague. In all probability it would take the box a little longer to get there than me, which made the box for the address of the sender quite pointless. I drewan arrow pointing from the sender-box to the consignee-box and added in big letters: 'TRASFERITO'; moved. Back at the post-office Francesca's husband looked up flabbergasted and displeased when he read it: 'You are moving back to Holland! When? That's not right! You haven't been over forlunch in our Bergamot-grove yet!''I'll be leaving tomorrow morning, but I'm sure I'll be back soon!And I can't wait to enjoy Francesca's culinary talents, next time!'He came through the lock chamber for the personnel to say good byeand kiss me, also in name of Francesca.It would cost sixty-four Euro's to get my books to the Netherlands. I had heard of a possibility to send a package of up to five kilo's anywhere in the European Union for five Euro's if you weren't in a hurry. Unfortunately at the post-office no-one had heard of such an arrangement.'La vita è dura...But can I then pay with my debit-card? I don't have enough cash on me.''Certo...niente problema.' After he had slid the little computer in which I was supposed to input my PIN-code underneath the window of the post-office-counter

three times, he had to come to the conclusion that it all wasn't that easy.'Morca miseria...non c'`e linea!' The connection was down. 'Then I'll walk to the cash-machine to get some money out. Can I leave the box here, that I don't have to carry it along?''Certo,' he put my package on the floor behind his desk, 'a fra poco!' Along the main street I tried three different cash-dispensers, but with no avail, although I still had enough money in my account, none came out of the wall, because the collegamento internationale was down. In Calabria sometimes the simplest things canbecome very complicated. I rushed back to the post-office to discuss the situation. The rolled-down shutters made me look at mywatch with fear: two minutes to one. Closed. 'Well, that saves me sixty-four euro's at least...' I tried to compensate and except the loss of my books spasmodically.

My flight left late in the afternoon from Ciampino-airport, but at eleven o'clock in the morning I was already standing in front of Stazione Termini in Rome. I reasoned that it never had been a problem to me to spend a couple of hours in the eternal city, so I put my luggage in the lockers and wandered into town; the weather was beautiful. At Piazza Repubblica I walked into the Roman baths of Diocletianus, that Michelangelo has transformed into a church and then slowly strolled down the Via Nazionale to Piazza Venezia. Theidea I would be on a plain to Amsterdam in a couple of hours, seemed unreal to me. I knew it would go that way but that felt so unlogical to me, and therefore just wrong. Passed the forum of Trajan I walked the Via Imperiale to the Colosseum. Domus Aurea, emperor Nero's residence was closed again, for restoration this time. Shame. By now I know Rome better than Rotterdam or Utrecht, but I still had never been there. 'Oh, well...good reason to come back soon...'Over the Via Sacra I crossed the Roman Forum and passed the prisonwhere the apostle Peters spend his last hours, I climbed the Capitol. Marcus Aurelius on his horse seemed to ignore me completely as if I only still were in Rome in my thoughts and physically already not anymore. The curved pavement made me look up melancholic. Behind the large statues of Castor and Pollux I saw the little tower on the roof of the house where both Frank Sinatra and Sophia Loren have lived. 'If the lack of money played a less determining role in my life, I wouldn't mind moving in there myself.' I thought. Conscious of the banality of that thought I strolled down the long stretched out staircase down the hill passed the Sacra Coeli-church and the theater of Marcellus.

What now? Bocca della Veritá, the Pantheon or the market at Campode' Fiori? I decided that I had no-ones honesty to test at that point and that I had spent enough attention to the old rivergod recently anyway. I walked up the Via delle Botteghe Oscure; the street of the obscure shops. At the 'Forum of the Cats' (Largo Argentina) I resisted the temptation to walk into the shelter between the excavations. I had to go back to Holland and wasn't inthe position to be hospitable to an urban panther at all. I crossed the Via Arenula to the market. Giordano Bruno still stood at his pedestal where I had seen him before and the market-vendors shouted in Romanesco; just like I remembered them to. I looked up to the window of hotel 'Campo de' Fiori where I had stayed on my thirtieth birthday with my Montenegrin principessa and smiled nostalgically; she had disappeared just as quickly from my life as she had appeared. 'Where on earth would Ivona be right now?' I whispered almost out laud and walked on quickly to the Viale Vittorio Emmanuele. 'At close distance the Pantheon is something one can't, or shouldn't ignore,' I thought and turned right to the oldest ancient Roman building still in tact. I was all alone in a deathly silence, it was winter and time for the siesta. All great, dead Italians around me didn't approach me,but the light that fell down through the oculus touched me; for aninstance I had that feeling again: 'I'm alive! Here and now, in the center of the universe, in Rome.'When I walked out of the temple on Piazza della Rotonda I realizedagain that the next morning I would wake up in a different world: The Hague, below sea level and heavy gray skies. Actually I felt like having a big glass of Campari-gin at that point, but figured that that probably wouldn't be a brilliant ideafor I still had to travel half of Europe that day. I settled for alast cup of Italian coffee instead. Postponing that moment as longas I could, I lingered down all the Viale. When I reached the river Tiber, the dome of Saint Peters had come way to close. 'Basta!' I decided and entered the closest coffee-bar. The barman stood with his back towards me when I asked mechanically, absorbed in thought, for a coffee: 'Un caffè perfavore.'I still have no idea why -blond hair, blue eyes-, but he turned around resolutely and stack out his hand: 'Tu sei Calabrese...me too!'He refused to let me pay for the coffee, and probably that is one of greatest compliments I have ever had.

After I had spent about three days below sea-level, it was still difficult for me to get used again to the lead-gray skies and the clattering rain. I missed the view from my balcony on the island of the sun, with on the horizon that fire-spitting mountain. With a cup of watery, almost translucent coffee in my hands I sat staring gloomily from the window, when I saw someone walk up the path in front of the front-door with a big yellow box in his hands: the postman.

I went to open the door.'Mister Tekke? A package for you from Italy! Sign here please...'My books! After only four days! An all time record! The fact that I hadn't payed a single centesimo postal charges obviously had been completely of minor importance to the fact that Francesca andher husband had considered me as one of them...

Mountaintop in seaCulinairy appendix

Southern Calabria isn't much more than the almost tow-thousand meters-high Aspromonte that divides the Ionian from the Thyrenean sea. In winter it's often possible to go skiing in Gambarie in themorning and then have lunch at a terrace by the sea in the sun. This strong contrast is reflected in local cuisine. In Calabria there isn't so much a discrepancy between the poor and the rich cuisine, like in Naples but more between the culinary traditions connected to the mountain and to the sea. The Greeks, Arabs, Normans, Spaniards and French have all wieldedthe septre over this spit of land and have all left their culinarytraces. This has made Calabrian cuisine to an intense cocktail of tastes in which for example often the flaming hot pepperoncino is used; fresh red pepper.

Slaughtering the pig, is in Calabria traditionally a liberating and reconciling ritual; almost a ceremony to celebrate the forces of nature. Once the pig was called il nero – the black one-; a nickname that didn't only refer to it's color (in Calabria pigs often have a very dark hair of fleece), but also to it's wild existence in the forests, comparable to that of a wild boar. An old Calabrian

saying is: 'Ru pòrcu non si jètta nènti,' :from the pig you don't waste anything. The most traditional Calabrian dish therefore maybe is Frittole. When you slaughter your pig you can conserve parts of it by making ham or salami from it, the rest of it shouldbe consumed quickly, not to let it go off. The whole pig then getsboiled in it's own fat a large pan, and all family and friends areinvited over; compari...To break down the fat a little, traditionally a salad of citrusfruits is being served. Apart from very hospitable this custom is also a very practical form of mutually compensating trade; if you have invited the neighbor, he is very likely to ask your family over when he'll slaughter his pig.Frittole in fact isn't just one dish, but many different ones together; each part of the pig after all has a different taste to it. If you get granted the soft nose, or a crispy ear, you probably have done your host a favor recently and is he trying to pay off his debt; those parts are considered to be sheer delicacies.

Another way not to waste the less tasty parts of an the pig, is the preparation of 'nduja. A red, very spicy sausage of organic meat. Offal is grounded with enough fat and dried red pepper to loose the original taste of it and then smoked for a couple of days in intestines.With the selection of the following recipes from these two dreamworlds 'mountain' and 'sea', I have taken in consideration how available the ingredients would be in your average supermarketup north which made for example 'nduja, frittole or fresh spatola a no-go area. Calabrian cuisine is honest, simple and tasteful, but that makes the quality of the ingredients of crucial importance.

Il Mare

Alici marinate

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Pasta con le sarde

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Pesce spada o staccafissocon un contorno di cipolle in insalato

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Torrone

La Montagna

Antipasto mistoAlàci e braciole

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Macceroni con la capra

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U'Suffrittùcon un contorno di parmigiana

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Sanguinaccio

Alici marinateMarinated anchovy

Ingredients

(all recipes are based on four people)Fresh anchovy 1 poundRocketChives, parsleyLemons 4Fresh red pepper 1Good olive oilBread

Rinse the rocket and let it dry. Press the juice from three and a half lemons and add the olive oil, cut-up red pepper, chives and parsley to it. Cut the half lemon that remained in thin slices andkeep them for decoration later.Clean the anchovy; remove the heads, intestines and bones, and putthem in the mixture of oil, lemon-juice and herbs and spices in the fridge to marinate for at least half an hour. Serve on a bed of rocket with bread and decorate with the slices of lemon.

Pasta con le SardePasta with sardines

Just like the dialect (the dialetto dello stretto), the southern Calabriancuisine has a lot in common with the eastern Sicilian one. This pasta-dish is mainly seen as a Sicilian specialty, but the sardines come from the Straights of Messina that separates the island of the sun from the mainland, and are consumed with equal amounts of pleasure on the other shore. In Calabria saffron is often left out, but that is just because of it's price; it does enrich the color and scent of the dish.

IngredientsBucatini, or an other type of pasta 1 poundFresh sardines 1 poundFennel 2Onion 1Raisins 1 handfulOlive oil 1/2 glassBreadcrumb 1 handfulPine nuts 1

handfulSaffron 1 bagPepper

Clean the sardines and remove the heads, tails and intestines. Bring salted water to a boil and add the sliced-up fennel. Let them boil for a couple of minutes, then drain them, but save the water to cook the pasta in. Take a large frying-pan and let the onions simmer with the sardines for a couple of minutes. Add the raisins, the pine nuts, pieces of fennel, pepper and saffron and let stew at a low heat for a quarter of an hour.Cook the pasta in the meantime 'al dente' (make sure it stays firm),drain it and add it to the concoction with the sardines. Put it ina baking tray, spread the breadcrumbs over it and put it in a preheated oven for about ten more minutes.

Stoccafisso con le oliveStockfish with olives

The Normans can be held responsible for introducing stockfish to the Italian cuisine. The consumption of which for a long time officially was seen as a mafioso enterprise; a good excuse for arresting people they didn't have a solid case against. IngredientsAlready soaked stockfish 20 OncePotatoes 1 PoundBlack olives ½ PoundCapers 1 HandfulPassata, tomato-saus Fresh red pepperOlive oilSea salt

Rinse the stockfish, and cut it in pieces; peel the potato and cutit in thick slices. Put a layer of potato in a frying pan, cover it with the pieces of stockfish, pour a glass of water (if not available a glass of white wine could do too) over it. Cover the

pan and let simmer at an easy temperature for about twenty minutes. Make the liquid vaporize with the lid of the pan and add the olives, the capers, the cut-up red peppers, with three good spoonfuls of tomato-sauce and let stew for a about a quarter of anhour. Serve from the hot frying-pan.

Involtini di pesce spadaswordfish-rolls

Unfortunately swordfish is non-existent in the North Sea and in the Mediterranean only about half the year (in springtime and early summer). The whole year through of course there is deep frozen swordfish, but that just ain't the same thing.

It is said that after the Mirmidones had sworn to revenge Achill'sdeath in the war on Troy, they attacked all who fled. Angry and frustrated because they had little success, they didn't see a goalin life anymore and jumped from their ships and drowned. Touched by this dramatic gesture Tetide (the Goddess of the sea that happened to be around because her son was the leader of the Mirmidones) transformed all the warriors into fish. Because one should never take the weapon from a warrior, she let them keep their swords.The economy at the Calabrian side of the straights still benefits thankfully from this mythology.The methods of hunting for stockfish have changed very little since the Greek colonization. Little boats with high crow's nests– from which the captain can follow the fish- and long bowsprits -the passarella- that is part of the deck and from which the crew can throw spears at the fish that flash by. For both parties a strenuous and everlasting struggle between fish and man.

IngredientsSwordfishMozzarellaPecorino (grated sheep-cheese)Dry white wineGarlic, parsley, olive oil, sea salt

Cut the swordfish and mozzarella in thin slices. Mix in a cup a clove of garlic from the press with the grated cheese and the parsley.Season the fish, put the mozzarella and the grated cheese on top, make rolls of it and fix them with cocktail sticks. Fry the rolls in a frying pan in some olive oil and when they start changing color, pour the glass of white wine over them, then let simmer easily for about ten minutes.

Cipolle in insalataonion-salad

For this side-dish onions from Tropea are ideal; a fresh, sweetishonion, with not a too pronounced taste, somewhere in between a spring-onion and a chalotte. Because this type of onion is only common in Calabria, elsewhere one is forced to experiment with (a mixture of) other sorts.

IngredientsOnions 1 poundRed wine vinegarOlive oilBlack olivesPepper, salt Peel the onions, cut them in thick slices and boil them just for alittle bit in water with vinegar. Let them cool down in the fridgeand serve with the other ingredients.

TorroneNougat

IngredientsPowdered sugar 1 poundSweet almonds 3 1/2 ounces Chocolate 3 1/2 ounces Candied peels of oranges,

mandarins and cedar-apples 3 1/2 ounces

Cut the candied peels in little cubes, roast the almonds in the oven and peel them. Mix the sugar with a couple of spoonfuls of water in a small pan and let concentrate on moderate heat. Pour the sirup on a marble plate and work it with a wooden spatula until it turns white. Mix the candied peels and the almonds through the sugar, make bars from it, roll them in baking-paper and let rest for twelve hours. Melt the chocolate 'Au-bain-marie' and pour it over the torrone.

Antipasto mistoMixed starters

As a starter in Calabria often the antipasto misto is served; a dish with mixed appetizers. The braciole and alàci should just be seen as a mere basis; on the theme antipasto misto one can vary endlessly. The limitations of ones fantasy and content of the fridge are the only restrictions. Ham, spicy salami, olives or mushrooms marinated in red pepper and fennel seeds are common supplements.

Braciole di melanzane

Aubergine-balls

IngredientsDark aubergine 2 poundsGrated cheese (pecorino or parmesan) 4 spoonfulsParsley Eggs 3A couple of cloves of garlicBreadcrumbsOlive oil, pepper, salt

This recipe is used to make the worst, a bit thready aubergines still eatable; la cucina povera, the poor mans cuisine.

Cut the aubergine in cubes and boil them until you can stick a fork through the peel. Let them cool down in a colander, press as much liquid from them as you can mix them in a food processor withfour spoonfuls of whatever grated cheese you can get your hands on. Add the garlic whipped eggs and parsley. Be careful the concoction doesn't become too 'slushy', because then it gets very difficult to roll balls of it, but on the other side; if you add too little egg, the balls will fall apart.The quantities of the ingredients in this recipe are not necessarily exact; some commonsense is needed; balance is everything. Don't be needlessly cheap with the breadcrumbs, they'll form the cement that will hold the braciole together. Don't forget the salt (the taste of aubergine is quite bland) and give the bread some time to absorb the liquid. Roll balls of the substance and cover them in breadcrumbs, otherwise they'll be so sticky that it's hard to handle them, and besides it gives them a crispy crust when you fry them in a little oil. The left-over braciole are still good the next day, heated in some tomato-sauce in the oven or frying-pan. The poor-mans-cuisine, is not always simple, but very rich of taste at all times.

AlàciDeep fried dough

IgredientsFlower 1 poundYeast 3 ½ ounces White wine 1/8 literOlive oil, salt

Mix all the ingredients into a thick dough that doesn't crumble. Stretch it out in a long, thick thread and cut it (before it rises) in pieces of about an inch and a half. Press the pieces flat on a fine rasp or colander. Traditionally a so-called cernigghja(a cane basket) is used, but in a modern kitchen that piece of equipment is unlikely to be found. Let the alàci rise on kitchen roll and deep fry them until they float. Dry them with kitchen roll. The alàci also can be eaten cold.

Maccheroni con il sugo di capra

Pasta with goat sauce Your average northern butcher doesn't sell goat, but it is to be found in our colorful multi-cultural modern societies. Muslims traditionally eat goat on Fridays, which makes Thursday the best day in the week to talk to an Islamic butcher.

IngredientsMacaroniGoat meatWhite wineOnion BasilBay leafSalted ricottaOlive oil, salt possibly some fresh red pepper Let the goat meat soak for twenty minutes in the white wine, keep removing the foam from the surface. Prepare the sauce in a wide pan with oil, bay leaf, basil, and (if you like) some fresh red pepper. Add the meat to the sauce and let simmer for about two hours. Boil the pasta 'al dente' and serve with the sauce and grated, dried, salty old ricotta. (If not to be found, another grated cheese will have to do, sheep-cheese for example)

U' suffrittuTripe

This poem in Calabrian dialect shows how popular u'suffrittu is in Calabria. Also from a cow you try to waste as little as possible, and this recipe is a great way to make it's stomachs (and possiblylongs) eatable. In Holland tripe is mainly seen as dog food, but the French can testify that that's uncalled for. The Calabrian version of this dish, typical for the 'poor' peasant cuisine is (because of the abundant use of onion, garlic, wine, fresh red pepper and basil) generally much tastier than the French one.

‘A rigetta du suffrittu Therecipe of Soffritto

O suffrittu, o suffritteddu, O soffritto, o my soffritto,Sempri tocu e sempri beddu. Always benevolent and beautiful.Cu la trippa e lu prumuni With tripe and lungs,Lu suffrittu è ‘nu baruni. The soffritto is a baron.Ca cipudda e pipirasta There is never too muchu’suffrittu mai no’ basta. Onion and fresh pepper.Ca cunserba ‘i pumaroru With it's tomato purée,u’suffrittu è un piatto d’oru. It's a golden dish.Pani i ranu e vinu russu Bread and wine makelu suffrittu esti ‘nu lussu. The soffritto a luxery.Cu lu cantu e cu lu sonu With music and singing,Lu suffrittu è sempri bonu. It always tastes great.Cu ‘na bella cumpagnia In good company,Lu suffrittu è n’allegria. Soffritto is sheerhappiness.

IngredientsTripe (possibly lungs)

1 poundCloves of garlic 4Onion 2Bay leaf 3BasilCeleryOlive oilRed wine 10 clPeeled tomatoes (from can) 1 poundFresh red pepperGrated sheep-cheesePepper, salt

Rinse the tripe thoroughly, boil it for a long time (it should become firm, otherwise it stays tough as chewing-gum); refresh thewater at least four times. Cut it in garlands and fry them at low heat in some oil with garlic (make sure the garlic doesn't turn brown, then it's taste will change and turn bitter). Bring the tomato-sauce to a boil with all herbs, spices, minced onions and wine with the lid on the pan. If necessary, add some water every now and then. Add the tripe to the sauce and serve it with grated sheep-cheese; it will look like a pasta-dish.

ParmigianaOven-dish with aubergine

A lot of people presume that the name of this dish suggests that this dish is from Parma or contains Parmesan-cheese, but that's incorrect. The dish is typical for the Calabrian and Sicilian cuisine and up till lately the costly Parmesan-cheese was unknown in these area's. The name underlines that the dish looks a bit like a parminciàna; a peculiar type of window with four shutters that close over each other, just like the layers of fried aubergine do.

Ingredients

Aubergine 1 ½ poundMozzarella 7 ouncesMinced beef 5 ouncesGrated sheep-cheese 1 ounceEggs 4Breadcrumbs Parsley, basil, garlicFresh red pepperTomato-sauceFlower, onion, salt, pepper

Rinse the aubergine, cut it in slices, coat those with breadcrumbsand fry them in oil until golden brown. Mix the minced meat with cheese, two cloves of garlic, some breadcrumbs, pepper and salt and an egg. Make little balls out ofthis substance and fry them in the hot oil.Boil the eggs solid and cut them in slices, do the same with the mozzarella. Put some oil in an oven tray, sprinkle it with breadcrumbs and make layers from the aubergine. Cover each layer with some tomato-sauce, red pepper, mozzarella, slices of egg, meatballs and basil. Put the parmigiana in a preheated oven for half an hour before serving.

Sanguinaccio

Blood cake

Blood cake doesn't have anything to do with mafia, but from the pig just nothing is wasted. Your average supermarket maybe doesn'tsell pig blood in one-and-a-half liter bottles, but it should be available at the better butchers; after all there isn't a shortageof pigs in northern countries at all.

IngredientsFlower 1.8 ouncesPig blood 1 pintMilk 1 pintSugar 5 ouncesCocoa-powder 3 ½ ounces

Sweet almonds 1.8 ouncesPine nuts 1 ounceRaisins 1 ounceCinnamon (powder)

Roast the almonds a bit in the oven, peel them and chop them up inthe food-processor. Soak the raisins in luke-warm water, pour the blood through a sieve in a oven-tray and add the milk, sugar, cacao-powder and the cinnamon. Add the flower slowly and stir to avoid coagulation. Put the pan on low heat until the liquid has vaporized. Add the mixture of almonds, pine nuts and raisins and put the substance in the oven in little desert trays. As soon as they have cooled down, they can be served.

EnotriaLand of wine

In mythical ancient time Calabria was called 'Enotria'; land of wine. Strange enough in your average northern licensed victualler's shop there isn't much to be found originating from the most southern region of the Italian main-land. The Calabrian D.O.C wines (Dominazione Originata e Controlata, the Italian equivalent ofthe French Appelation controllée) maybe aren't very numerous (Bivongi, Cirò, Donnici, Greco di Bianco, Lamezia, Melissa, Pollino, Sant'Anna di Isola Caporizzuto, San Vito di Luzzi, Savunto, Scavigna and Verbicaro), but apart from these 'recognized' wines, in the whole province an enormous pool of honest land-wine is produced, that very often vale la pena. Because of the surplus of sunlight the grapes bathe in, the alcohol level often rises till around sixteen percent. Although itmakes it a very 'corposo' wine, commercially that's not ideal. The strong, sweetisch desert-wine that one was called Greco di Gerace, nowadays is mainly produced in the village of Bianco (Greco di Bianco), not far from Gerace at the most southern pont of the province. The production process dates from the age of the Greek colonization, about two-and-a-half thousand years ago; the grapes are dried in the sun, which gives the wine it's characteristic bouquet and makes it amber-colored. Over the ages the wine was often mentioned in diaries of travelers who passed through Calabria. When Casanova had to leave Cosenza in 1743, he

refused to do so without bringing a 'barilotto di ottimo Gerace' with him. Probably he realized that the potion could be of very useful help with his favorite hobby: the breaking of hearts.