THE ROAD FROM LAMEZIA cut through the mountains.“Marco,” Giuseppe said, “I’ll take you to your aunt Angela’s first; then tomorrow we’ll plan our trip.”
“Are you sure you can take the time?” I asked.
“I’ve got clients everywhere. It’s no problem.”
The narrow roads folded on top of one another, each curve cut closely to the edge, leaving only a few inches of shoulder. The side that hugged the mountain was overgrown with scrub brush and prickly pear. I rolled down the car window and tried to find the horizon so as to stave off motion sickness. This road, I realized, was the one that my grandfather had taken when he left here—and probably on a mule.
We cut through the main street of Tiriolo, Gimigliano’s wealthier sister village, on the local road that connects the Tyrrhenian Sea with the Ionian. The village is known for its handwoven silk shawls and table settings, distinguished by a triangular weave; each of the surrounding villages has its own distinct pattern.
Tiriolo was bustling. Villagers strolled the sidewalks, and a few
shopkeepers locked their doors and pulled down their gates. The noon “rush hour” would soon begin. While the big cities of northern Italy have adopted a nine-to-five workday in the desire for prosperity, Calabria has preserved the familial afternoon meal and siesta, which last from noon until three or four.
We left the village and circled the mountain. Directly across the valley to the right, a gap in between chestnut trees framed the village of Gimigliano. I could see the streets of red-roofed yellow houses perfectly and could almost make out the square adjacent to my aunt’s house.
By the time we got to Gimigliano, the streets were deserted. Giuseppe parked in the tiny, quiet piazza in Gimigliano Inferiore and helped me carry my bags down the stepped alley of Via delle Grazie. Halfway down, just as the alley curved to the right, I saw my cousin Sabrina waving to me from Zia Angela’s window. Her four-year-old daughter, Marisa, stood on her tiptoes to see who was coming. Down below, the door opened up, and Luisa, Angela, and Tommaso walked up the stairs, waving.
Finally, after several years of my visiting my grandmother’s hometown, it almost felt like my own. Seeing my aunts, uncles, and cousins every other year, I felt that I was getting to know them.
Just then I knew how the month would play out. I would take a couple of days to explore Gimigliano—to acclimate myself to Calabria—and to spend time with my relatives. Soon after, I would set out on the road with Giuseppe. I remembered asking Angela whether a month was too long to stay. Of course, I assured her, I would be traveling for most of that time. I looked forward to an Italian welcoming.
Uncle Domenico—Mimmo—picked up the bags with his dark, thick hands and brought them in and left them by the doorway. His face radiated with his customary bright smile.
Angela brought out a plate of cheese and soppressata. Mimmo poured us all an overflowing glass of a light red wine.
“The grapes this year were very good,” Mimmo said.
Disappointed that my father couldn’t come, Mimmo asked me about my family Angela then set down on the table a plate of fried turkey breasts and a large bowl of spaghetti, tossed with olive oil, garlic, and parsley.
She then handed out Italian hot peppers to everyone—small, green, but potent. These peppers are a defining element of Calabrese cooking. I accepted a pepper, but Giuseppe passed with a shake of his hand and a smile.
“So, where are you going to travel?” Mimmo asked me.
“All the way north to the edge of Basilicata, to where they speak Albanian. Then I want to go south to Reggio, and travel through the Aspromonte Mountains.”
Mimmo shook his hand as if waving a towel, signifying that it was a long journey. “È pericoloso, Marco.” It’s dangerous.
Giuseppe and Mimmo began explaining the problems they’d had and stories they’d heard. They warned me of all the kidnappings that had taken place throughout the 1980s and 1990s.
“Just a few years ago they found a boy who had been held for over a year, eating only every other day!” Giuseppe said.
“Why every other day?” I asked.
“The shepherds would only come by every other day. Maybe they didn’t have enough food. Maybe it was too far away to make the trip every day.”
Mimmo kept our glasses full to the top. Having traveled from the United States that day, all I could think of was of putting my head down on a pillow.
Giuseppe and Mimmo said something to each other in dialect. My aunt and cousins fell silent. Angela then walked to the kitchen. My cousins headed into the guest bedroom, where I had stayed before. A six-foot-long wooden plank connected the bedroom to the living room window of Luisa’s house on the next alley. Rather than walk around the corner, my cousins and their kids entered the house through this bedroom window.
“Ah … Marco … how long are you staying?” Mimmo asked.
“About a month,” I asked.
Pause.
“So you are welcome to eat dinner here whenever you want,” Mimmo said.
“Thank you,” I responded.
There was another pause. Mimmo looked at Giuseppe, who nodded and looked down at his plate.
“Ah … Marco … where are you staying?” Mimmo asked.
I realized that I wouldn’t be able to lie down anytime soon.
“Here, I thought,” I answered. At that moment I heard my father’s voice: “Remember, guests are like fish, after three days … .”
Mimmo looked at me, startled; he looked at Giuseppe, who glanced down at his plate.
“We thought you would only be staying three days. I’m so sorry, but we have no room here. Angela’s mother has moved up from her apartment down below” He pointed to the bedroom with the plank. “She can’t move around so much …”
“Don’t worry, I can stay in Catanzaro, in a hotel there,” I blurted, not bothering to disguise my shock. I had no money for a month in a hotel; my wife and I had just bought a house, and because I had taken a leave of absence from my job, I wouldn’t be receiving any paychecks for the next month.
I thought, how could they put me out, a relative? But I didn’t feel like a relative; I felt like a visitor.
Giuseppe offered his place, but I didn’t want to inconvenience him. I was already indebted to him for his generous offer to take me around Calabria.
Angela came out of the kitchen and pointed to the floor. Mimmo smiled shyly, then looked to my aunt for approval. “There’s always Angela’s mother’s place downstairs. She hasn’t lived there in a year. There’s no heat, but I think the electricity is still on.”
Angela nervously awaited my response, covering her mouth with her hand. This seemed to me to be a wonderful option, but perhaps they felt they could not offer accommodations that were less than optimal to a family member.
“Perfect,” I said.
Angela, Luisa, and Sabrina smiled, then went downstairs to begin cleaning.
Domenico brought out another liter of wine and topped off our glasses.
As we drank, I thought about having guests stay with me back in New York. A month is a long time for anyone, family or not.