I HAD ARRIVED in Reggio di Calabria in the early afternoon. The train tracks cut a swath through this long, narrow city of almost two hundred thousand, Calabria’s largest, which sits on Italy’s toe and overlooks Sicily Reggio has the greatest expanse of poor urban housing, and it has been a poor city for a long time. Much of the region was leveled during the 1908 earthquake (a similarity with California that Calabria’s president didn’t mention). Messina, Reggio’s twin city in Sicily, a couple of miles across the Strait of Messina, was also destroyed, but with better allocation of money it was rebuilt quickly and attractively, while the economics and politics of Reggio never permitted such reconstruction. Instead, the city built slipshod apartments between the sharply rising green-and-brown Aspromonte Mountains and the gray ocean, where a thin tract of white beach runs the length of the cityOn the train in, we passed through stations covered in graffiti until we stopped at the ocean port of Villa San Giovanni, where entire trains are carried aboard ferries across the Strait of Messina. Engineers
have decided that the spot just north of here would be the optimal point to build a bridge linking Calabria with Sicily, just over two miles away. Such a bridge has been debated since Mussolini’s time, but the talk now seems to be turning to action, and the proposed designs look a great deal like San Francisco’s Golden Gate Bridge.
I checked into the Albergo Miramare, which has a grand lobby with polished wood trim and rich-looking leather chairs. At this time of year it was not much more expensive than other hotels, of which there were surprisingly few for a port city. The bar, with burnished oak tables, had wide windows from which you could look down at the boardwalk that lined about a mile of Reggio’s beaches. An outdoor breezeway, on both the bar level and the balcony above, could be set up with tables, but on this weekend because there were official guests, probably judges, all tables had been taken in for security, and an Uzi-toting military guard was posted on each floor. Lamps and palm trees lined the streets of the center city, and the buildings were painted a dull yellow that reminded me of old photos of Havana, Cuba.
Every brochure of Calabria features four items: clear blue water lapping a rocky coast; sunsets over forested mountains; a string of hot red peppers; and the bronze warriors of Riace. The statues were discovered in 1972 by scuba divers who came across the raised arm of one of the warriors only twenty-four feet below the water’s surface, about six hundred feet off the coast of Riace, close to Locri on the Ionian coast. The Italian government thought they should be displayed in Rome, the Sicilians proposed Palermo, but Calabria wasn’t about to relinquish this relic of her glory days. And so, in the guarded basement of the Museo Archeologico Nazionale, set up on pedestals, stands the pride of Calabria, warriors from an era when the Greeks first started settling Reggio, or, as it was called then, Rhegion. With no glass around them and with their shields and weapons long vanished, their proximity and upraised arms make
them seem almost human. At a distance, they look like two uncircumcised gay men dancing at a disco.
While Reggio is far from being Italy’s most beautiful city, its passeggiata is renowned for its incredible views of the lights of Messina. In the evening I joined the couples holding hands, groups of teens talking to each other, and children running around their parents on the wide boardwalk called the Lungomare Matteotti. This was the first city I visited where I knew no one, and it was here that I felt my first pang.
Like most people who visit Italy, I love the food, the wine, the communal evening strolls; I am drawn to the exuberant, expressive atmosphere. I never expected to feel alone in one of the most sociable countries in the world. Perhaps it’s precisely because Italians are so social, however, that the solo traveler, however outgoing, can feel an acute sense of loneliness.
I turned away from Sicily and watched everyone stroll by me. The only other person I saw alone was a man in his thirties, leaning against the railing, talking on his cell phone, and looking around anxiously. A moment later a woman wearing stylishly snug pants and high-heeled sandals walked up to him, dropping her cell phone into her purse. They embraced, clearly relieved to have found each other. I thought of my wife back in New York. I wanted to look out over the Strait of Messina with her, feel with her how the breeze cooled the air. Italy’s beauty is meant to be shared.
I struggled with the idea of introducing myself, perhaps sliding down on a bench next to an older couple who were watching everyone else walk by. Or maybe I’d ask directions of a group of Italians my age, then segue into a conversation. I might even get up the courage to approach a group of Italian girls, whose embarrassed giggles I always found endearing. But it’s intimidating to approach a group of any size, and in Italy there’s no such thing as solitude. In fact, in Italian the word for “alone,” solo, also means “lonely” Italians are simply never by themselves, or when they do find themselves alone, usually when they are in transit, they talk on their cell phones. After a while anyone
I approached would wonder why I was alone, why no one else was with me. Eventually that person would start to feel uncomfortable.
I gave up on the idea of initiating a conversation and continued along the passeggiata. I walked past a surprising number of Africans, Asians, and Arabs; some of them were selling their wares, but others obviously simply seemed to be joining the evening stroll with the Italians. It was the only place in Calabria, and one of the few places in Italy, where I encountered such a blending of cultures.
I turned once again and gazed out over the strait. It was once believed that a city lay submerged beneath the water and that at certain times you could see it emerge. This illusion was noticed by King Arthur, who is said to have been mesmerized by Reggio. It was known as the Fata Morgana, Morgan’s Mirage, a name attributed to the king’s sister, Morgan le Fay, who dabbled in sorcery.
Even today it is said that if you look across the strait—with the correct positioning of the sun and just the right amount of ash from Mount Etna floating in the sky—a glistening city emerges. The apparition is actually the reflection of Messina.
With not even the hope of a mirage, I decided the best way to soothe a lonely soul was to do what any Italian would do: eat. I walked farther into the city along Corso Garibaldi, Reggio’s major shopping street and its second passeggiata. But at night the ornately wrought iron streetlights gave the postwar buildings an unwelcome romantic glow, and I turned off and made for La Bracieria, a restaurant that specializes in Calabrese-style grilling.
I was drinking a glass of red wine when the appetizer came. The waiter set down an embarrassingly large portion of thinly sliced grilled eggplant, zucchini fritters, and an assortment of cheeses and meats, a single order obviously meant to be shared. When I looked up to acknowledge the waiter, I realized that everyone in the restaurant was stealing glances at me, some with sympathy, some with curiosity. I felt like the molting goat in a petting zoo that none of the kids wanted to touch. It seemed that everyone in Italy had at least one family member to take care of him, to eat with him. I remembered a discussion I’d overheard in Rome. Two Italian women were talking about an old man who had just gotten up from a nearby table.
“He’s crazy,” one woman said.
“He’s just quiet,” said the other.
“No, he’s a little off.”
“What makes you say that?” the second woman asked.
“Well, look at him. He eats by himself.”
It occurred to me that while I was eating antipasto and drinking homemade wine, I was fantasizing about having a beer in, of all places, a rural Irish pub. There solitude is a common experience and an accepted concept. You can guess that the man sitting next to the empty barstool that you are about to take will be just as eager—especially plied with enough beer—to hear your story as you would be to hear his. In such places even the lonely have company.
The restaurant began filling up. The waiter brought out my first course, which was bucatini, a thick, hollow spaghetti, tossed with porcini mushrooms and zucchini and baked in a terra-cotta pot.
“Are you here on business?” he asked.
“Kind of. I’m visiting relatives in Catanzaro,” I said.
“Aah. So you live, what, up in Torino?”
“No, New York.”
“So you’re American?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know Rick Steves?”
“Just by his books,” I said, commenting on the author of America’s ubiquitous travel guides to Europe.
“I’m in one of his books and in one of his videos—Rick Steves’ Tuscany,” he said, becoming excited. “What are you doing here?”
I launched into my biography
“You should write one about Tuscany It’s beautiful, and that’s where all the tourists go.” The waiter paused. “During the summer I work at a restaurant in Siena, and I’m one of the waiters in his video. You can see me. I’m serving the pasta and instructing on how it’s cooked.”
“Maybe tourists don’t come here because they don’t know about it.”
“We get tourists from the north, some Germans, but hardly any Americans,” he said. “Reggio is just a stopping point between Naples and Sicily They don’t really come to visit. They’re here long enough to get on ferries.”
The table in front of me, a group of young couples, had been glancing in my direction. The waiter went up to them. He must have explained what I was doing because they turned to me and nodded, and a few of them raised their glasses.
I wasn’t quite hungry enough for a second course, so I asked for the check.
The waiter brought out a pear tart and a tiny glass of chilled liqueur. “These are our house specialties. We welcome you as our guest,” he said.
The tart was small but rich, and the liqueur proved to be bergamotto, made from the citrus fruit that resembles tiny oranges and is the distinctive ingredient in Earl Grey tea and perfumes all over the world. The tree has very specific climate requirements, and Reggio is one of the only regions where it can thrive.
Back at the hotel, I decided to have a quick drink before going to bed. A wedding reception was taking place in the dining room, and the lobby was filled with tuxedos, evening gowns, and gorgeous people. I sat down in a corner of the bar, and one of the bartenders poured me a Maker’s Mark. He introduced himself as Nino, and I told him my name and what I was about.
“How’s Reggio?” he asked.
“Better than I thought. Nicer, cleaner.”
He nodded his head, but seemed neither to agree nor to disagree.
“But I want to go to the Aspromonte,” I said. “I want to go to … Roccaforte.”
He stepped back. “Roccaforte, boh,” he grunted. “That’s far. I mean it’s just up the coast, but it’s deep in the mountains.” He paused for a moment. “Why do you want to go there?”
“I need to hear Greek.”
“I’ll take you to the Greek department at the university,” he said, and smiled. “Anyway, it’s a dangerous area. A few years ago anyway.”
I shrugged my shoulders and thought, How dangerous can it be?
“I’ll make some calls. I’m sure I can find someone to take you,” he said. Then another bartender tapped him on the shoulder. The wedding party needed another round.