IT MUST HAVE BEEN DIFFICULT for immigrants to leave Gimigliano. To go northwest to Naples, my grandparents first would have had to backtrack by train southeast to Catanzaro. With a population of more than one hundred thousand, Catanzaro is the second-largest city in Calabria, and it serves as the political seat of the region, with the bureaucratic feel of a state capital like Albany, New York.It is still a regional hub today—not only can you still catch the train west to Lamezia, where you can continue north to Naples or Rome, but you can take trains or buses north to Apulia and south to Reggio—and for that reason Catanzaro was often my point of entry into Calabria. And so it happened that I gradually warmed to a city not generally considered the most attractive in Calabria. Invariably, whether arriving from Naples or Lamezia, I would miss the last train to Gimigliano and would have to stay in Catanzaro for the night. At other times, during my stay in Gimigliano, I would take the train to Catanzaro to exchange money, to travel elsewhere in Calabria, or just to spend time in a bigger city.
Catanzaro was built between the ninth and tenth centuries on a
ridge of rock that lies at the southernmost part of the Sila massif. While its location has brought occasional devastation by earthquakes and landslides, it has also protected the city from intruders throughout the centuries.
Catanzaro was once a beautiful, thriving Byzantine city, but centuries of earthquakes have erased its glorious architectural past. The city has collapsed on itself; where buildings were destroyed, new ones had been built in the same place on the same streets. The buildings have changed, but the city’s labyrinthine, winding streets remain, and access is almost as difficult now as it was in earlier times.
The main road, Corso Mazzini, is a serpentine two lanes that slither along the thin mountain ridge. It is often congested, and most guidebooks, if they mention Catanzaro at all, advise leaving one’s car on the outskirts. Since the main way to get to Catanzaro is along a series of suspended bridges, this means that during the daytime these bridges become suspended open-air parking garages.
The Ponte Morante joins the ridge of Catanzaro to a lower ridge to the south. Built in 1967, the bridge is the pride of Calabria, and especially of Catanzaro, whose citizens will tell you that it was the first single-arch bridge to be built in Italy, the second in Europe. To the north, a web of suspended bridges allows direct access from Catanzaro Lido, the touristy beaches two miles to the east. A concrete runway winds up the cliff like a Matchbox car track. At the top, at the center of a figure eight, is a lone stoplight.
George Gissing visited Catanzaro in 1897 and found it a refuge. He was treated nicely, ate well, and was able to rest his sick body. A certain Signore Paparazzo sometimes joined Gissing for dinner at his hotel. Signore Paparazzo soon revealed himself to be the owner of the hotel and proprietor of the restaurant. He told Gissing that he could procure anything his guest wished, provided, of course, Gissing not dine in any other establishment. “It would give me a bad reputation,” Paparazzo explained to him. To Gissing, Paparazzo was the ultimate annoying opportunist.
It is Federico Fellini, however, who is credited for popularizing the hotelier’s name. In La Dolce Vita, Fellini bestowed it upon one of his main characters, a wily, pushy photographer. Soon the name Paparazzo
was attributed to tabloid photojournalists, first in Italy, then throughout the world.
The hotel where Gissing stayed no longer exists, and no one I asked remembered where it was. Instead, I always stayed at the Albergo Grand Hotel, which proved to be more convenient than grand (it was just off the elevated highway system and within walking distance of the train station). It never changed in the decade that I visited there. The same drab brown carpet extended to the drab tan walls, and the same heavy cream-colored curtains—always drawn—blocked the sun. It was a hotel for businessmen and lawyers—the courthouse is just across the street—making up in efficiency what it lacked in charm.
Because Giuseppe had met me at the airport this trip, I had not yet visited Catanzaro, so I decided to take the train in from Gimigliano, behavior Giuseppe and my family thought extravagant. Before checking in at the hotel, I decided to cash some traveler’s checks. I selected a bank from half a dozen that dotted Corso Mazzini. I took a number (a civilized system, I thought), looked up at the number just called, and realized that I would have at least an hour to wait. I decided to check in at the hotel in the meantime.
The same dark-haired clerk who had always checked me in approached the counter. He never smiled and always looked at me as if he had never laid eyes on me before.
I greeted him with a friendly hello nevertheless and asked him how he was.
He looked up and answered, “Fine, thank you,” then looked back at my passport. After a pause he asked, “And will your wife be staying? Or have you brought your father this time?” He flashed me an uncharacteristic grin, letting me know that beneath the formality he knew exactly who I was; I was a Calabrese son.
When I returned to the bank, I was still ten numbers away from the window When my number was finally called, the clerk handed me a ream of paperwork to fill out. She looked at me as if I were going to rob her, or my traveler’s checks were counterfeit, or my exchange would break the bank. She told me to take my paperwork to the supervisor. After another ten minutes the supervisor called me to
his cubicle, checked my passport, asked what I needed the money for, then told me to go back to the same teller.
The woman looked at me as if she had never seen me before, so I had to explain the transaction all over again. She took my paperwork and traveler’s checks with a sneer and brought them to two more supervisors to sign. Finally, the lire were presented to me as if they were gold bullion. It had taken me nearly two hours to exchange my money, thanks to a banking system that had jumped directly from postwar hard currency to ATMs, bypassing the traveler’s check phase of tourism altogether.
It was now lunchtime. On the way to Da Salvatore, my favorite trattoria, I stopped off at a bookstore for some mealtime reading. The shelves were stocked with translations of books by American writers such as Stephen King, Tom Clancy, and David Baldacci Ford (David Baldacci had been asked by his Italian publisher to adopt an American surname because Italians don’t believe that Italians write good thrillers). I asked a young clerk working there what Italians liked to read, and he shrugged with a smile and said, “Not much.” But the shop had the Touring Club Italiano guidebook to Calabria that I had been looking for since I had first arrived, so I paid for it and headed on.
Da Salvatore was packed, but as it was my home away from home—even if it had been a couple of years since my last visit—the maitre d’, Massimo, managed to find me a table.
“Ciao, signore … come si chiama? … Rotella? Si … Rotella.” Massimo still remembered my name. “How are you?”
“Fine, thanks,” I said, and shook his hand. He was my height, with a full head of dark hair and a smooth, tanned complexion.
“Dining alone?” he asked. I nodded, and he directed me to a table in the middle room, against the window and a direct shot across to the kitchen. When he brought me a carafe of red wine and a bottle of sparkling water, I ordered an antipasto of spicy Calabrese meats, soft cheeses, and pickled eggplant. I followed that with a tagliatelle bolognese, then, reading all the while, moved on to a parmigiana di zucchini, which was a layered casserole of zucchini and eggplant with eggs, mozzarella, salame, and tomatoes.
I finished with a cup of coffee, paid eleven dollars for the excellent meal, then returned to the hotel for my siesta.
When I awoke, I joined the city in its awakening passeggiata. The streets filled with the sound of whining motorini, mopeds, and mufflerless cars. The sidewalks were packed with people. I stopped into a store that specialized in Calabrese candy. I noticed a picture of a person in a red-and-gold eagle costume.
“That’s the mascot for the Catanzaro team,” the store clerk said.
“Great, I’m going to the game this weekend,” I answered.
“Really?”
“Yes, with my cousin.”
“They were great in the 1980s, you know—Serie A. Now …” His voice tailed off. “Well, now they’re not so good, of course.”
We both looked down in mutual disappointment, as if a moment of silence had been requested.
“Which seats do you have?” he asked, hopefully.
“I don’t know, I think they’re the cheaper seats outside.”
“Good, you’ll be sitting with the fans.”
I stopped off at an establishment called the Mallard Pub. It was dark and cozy, with exposed wooden beams and an impressive selection of beers on tap. It looked as if it had been transported directly from Ireland. I later found out that it had. An Irish company set up Irish pubs throughout Europe, and although Italians aren’t pub drinkers, Italy does get its share of British and German tourists whose stomachs never quite get used to the copious amounts of wine the Italians drink and who prefer a pint of homestyle brew Here in Catanzaro, though, I couldn’t imagine too many Britons dropping in for a drink.
Close to eight in the evening, I decided it was time to eat. A pizzeria called the Giallorossa, named after the colors of the Catanzaro soccer team, occupied two stories of a building with exposed rafters inside, which gave it the feel of a country farmhouse. The ovens were on the first floor. On the second, families ate in one room, while the other two were packed with men, young and old. The blare of television echoed off marble wood and stucco. I realized that I had happened upon the Italian equivalent of a sports bar,
which in Italy had taken the form of a pizzeria, for food must be served at any social event.
A strong breeze to my back rushed me along Corso Mazzini to my hotel. The palm trees that lined the street swayed in the wind, the fronds sawing together above me. Drops of rain began to fall. At ten-thirty, Catanzaro was tucked in early for the night, just like a country village.