Calabria, the Fata Morgana

At the very toe of the Italian emblematic thigh-high boot, a forgotten region is basking in the sun. This is the poorest part of Italy, and in so many ways its richest. It is called Calabria, and it is a land of myths essential for the history of the Mediterranean. Calabria grew out of Greek, Roman, Byzantine, Norman, and Spanish influences. Scylla, a frightful sea monster sung by Homer, lived there and sank the passing ships to pass its days. Stretches of its coast have such poetic names, like the Coast of Gods, established by Hercules according to the ancient legend. Farther along is the Violet Coast, due to such a deep shade of its blue sea that it appears violet at times. A land of tales and vivid imagination. Roads twist down to the seaside towns, offering a dizzying view from the cliffs across the sea, the view that goes all the way to the first neighbour, mighty and extravagantly alluring Sicily. Across the waters of the legendary Strait of Messina, a sight that myths are made of: mountain Etna, with its volcano constantly fuming and spitting ash, a beast dozing off threateningly. Its domineering sides are all white, covered in snow. A few years ago, during an eruption, photographs were taken of skiers on Etna slopes deftly avoiding the lava rivulets. Welcome to Calabria!

Calabria is a region between two seas, the Ionian and Tyrrhenian Sea, and this makes it rich in the bluest possible shade of water, as pristine as the Caribbean blues, and in countless kilometres of rocky seashores. We hurtled past the swift little cars that had their side doors universally damaged and scratched. The mild spring sun shone on the impossibly tight streets, stingy with the amount of space they allowed, and we watched in awe the endless avenues of palm trees, fat succulents, and the sea, oh, the endless sea. Contrary to the narrowness of the streets, everything else in Calabria screamed abundance. There were ubiquitous lemons, but other kinds of citruses too: oranges, mandarins, kumquats, and golden little bunches of Mirabelle plums. The fertile Calabrian land births every imaginable fruit and vegetable, as well as vibrant flowers coming out of rocks. Adding to that, there is the infinite generosity and warmth of its people, all the way to the ridiculous signs along the driveways: pizza a metro. Forget a standard pizza round, or the lonely, pathetic slice, and eat pizza by the meter, as if it were indeed possible to eat a whole meter of it. It is apparently so in Calabria.

My husband and I have a theory that nothing ever tastes as good as the first pizza you taste in a restaurant, when you are still famished. Everything you eat afterwards will fail in comparison. Normally, we get three of them when we dine out, one for each of us, and then we share and sample each other's pizzas. But somehow, when we discuss and rate them later, everyone always prefers the pizza they tried first. It's called "the first pizza rule", and its applications are manifold.

The first place to taste in Calabria was a town, accidentally called Pizzo, and we loved it perhaps the best, for many reasons, not only due to "the first Pizzo rule". Pizzo is a perfect fishing village, and it seems almost fictional and fake in how beautiful and atmospheric it is. When our son was very small, we visited the amusement park devoted to Popeye the Sailor Man on Malta. It was perfectly positioned, idyllic, fun, and brightly coloured, designed to bring to the visitors the magic of being a cartoon sailor and the nostalgia of a simpler seabound lifestyle. Pizzo was the real, authentic version of that fantasy utopia. There is an ancient ruined castle on the edge of a cliff, overgrown with cacti plants, like a rudimentary lighthouse forever overlooking the sea in search of the pirate attack incoming. A picturesque marina below, with the gorgeous bay and crystal clear water, and an adorable promenade shielded by maritime pines and dotted with restaurants, mostly out of season in April. We had our first meal in one of these port pizzerias, and the best thing on the menu was an incredibly orange, pink and peach coloured sunset, gratis for all to enjoy. In the night, the lights were twinkling on the castle ramparts, and you could hear the gentle sound of live acoustic music drifting from the beach bars.

Pizzo is not just a tourist magnet or a place of leisure. It was and still is a tuna fishing industrial centre, where the bluefin fish is caught through a system of fixed nets, called tonnaras. The smell of fried seafood is so pungent and mouthwatering while you climb up through the maze of ancient stone stairs that lead to the top of the hill, that it fills your stomach even without actually taking a single bite. You arrive at the belvedere named Spuntini, where, not a steep strenuous climb, but a view takes your breath away. You are inside the old, chromatic song: "Nel blu, dipinto di blu. Felice di stare lassù..."

There is an unusual sculpture there, called The Collector of Winds, representing a seated man wistfully gazing over the infinity of the sea, wishing to take in all the winds coming his way from the horizon. Levante, sirocco, mistral...He appears pensive, melancholic, longing to become one with the winds. Interestingly enough, the statue is not solid, as one might expect, but made of wire and full of little holes through which the air can stream and enter. An important lesson from Calabria: To get what you want, you need to become that, to be ready to receive your dreams when they come true. If the wind is what you need, you must be open to its breeze, instead of fighting it or shielding yourself from it.

The food of Calabria does not lend itself to dieting. The physical cast of the local people clearly shows this, for they are mostly round and ruddy, and it is easy to understand why. Cakes, creams, fatty cheeses and hearty sausages, lots of spicy hot dishes, generously sprinkled with their red gold, pepperoncino. Seafood straight from the boat, so fresh it's still in rigor mortis. Spicy pork sausage called 'nduja is so laced with chili pepper that it brings tears to your eyes. Unless you are our son, who ate it prodigiously slathered on bread without even wincing once. Sweet red onions find their way to all their delicacies, including sweets. Originally Sicilian arancini balls, which are rice bombs filled with all kinds of unexpected delights, from salmon to pistachios, and Texan barbecue. But the most famous food of the region would arguably be Tartufo di Pizzo, a huge ball of ice-cream infused with chocolate or hazelnut cream in its molten centre, and it all looks like it contains 1000 calories at least. Buon appetito to all the lucky people who can allow themselves to eat this. None of them is me.

There is a poetic justice that I like to witness, and it is related to the peacefulness of the shoulder season in very touristy areas of the world. In the blessed months of April, May, and October, before or after the hectic work and stress of the high season, the locals finally get the chance to enjoy the beauty of their own hometowns. At last, they can take back their iconic beaches, park their cars without payment or complex and lengthy manoeuvring, and enjoy their espressos in the peaceful local bars without having to stand in a queue and listen to English all around them. I am a tourist, and I very well contribute to this problem, so my guilty conscience appreciates seeing how their beautiful world is aligned again.

Life out of season seems less agitated and less performative. There is no one to impress and please with the la dolce vita schtick and the pretence of eternal summer. The days are not intense nor always entertaining. Nature shows its less appealing face too: grey, coldish, rainy days happen. The inhabitants of Calabria, so-called Calabresi, had their puffer jackets firmly zipped this April, shivering and muttering disapprovingly under their breath, "Che gelido!" A few meters away, some northern tourists were splashing in the water, already sunburnt.

There are not many tourists in Calabria, though. Everyone who does find their way to it, comes to visit Tropea. Tropea is a beach town that provides everything the sea people (gente di mare) love. The turquoise colour of the water, sandy beaches, peaceful sea swims, sunshine, all of it embraced by the dizzying cliffs above, from where you can rest your eyes on the infinite blue ahead of you. The promise of a Vespa ride while hugging an Italian boyfriend, you two off somewhere to have guilt-free Aperol Spritzes and later a swordfish meal in the candlelight. An irresistible sunlit dream with Tropea as its cinematic background. But there is something surreal and unexpected in this scene that makes Tropea look even better in real life than it does in the most professional photographs. In front of the town, an alien-looking rock protrudes, a stone formation on top of which there is a small church, Santa Maria of the Island. The fairytale church from the 4th century is surrounded by a small Mediterranean garden, with oleanders, macchia shrubbery, succulents, cacti, olive trees, lavender and rosemary. An iconic Calabrian moment: you have just climbed the wooden stairs that surround the rock like a thread of lace, and when on top, a bit breathless, you gaze at the volcanic archipelago of the Aeolian islands, Stromboli, Volcano, and Lipari in the distance. This has to be done.

The Tropean rock resembles a mini Mount Olympus, while the shrine on top is the home for demigods. Much of the Calabrian coast was colonised by the ancient Greeks, and the whole region was known as Magna Graecia in antiquity. Remnants of this are visible everywhere, and there are still remote villages where a dialect of Calabrian Greek is proudly preserved and used. The belief that Greek gods had their say in the design of Calabria makes nowhere more sense than in Tropea. Only a divine strength could place the rock in its current position and build a whole church at its apex. A near impossible task worthy of the Labours of Hercules.

Unwilling to break the spell of Homeric legends and eager to spend more time in the land of mermaids and sea nymphs, we drive on to Scilla where the namesake monster reigned, assisted by the equally murderous whirlpool/sea monster Charybdis. In this peaceful fishing village where the restless sea laps at the houses in the picturesque marina, we were literally between Scylla and Charybdis, and in no danger at all. It would be hard to imagine a more restful village than Scilla, in fact. Another, more recent legend has it that the most famous son of Calabria would also come here for inspiration, to gaze at the sunsets, dramatic landscapes, and shores and think about the rich heritage of the land where he was born. His name was Gianni Versace.

He was born in Reggio Calabria, the very city where Sicily seems so close that you could swim across, which is exactly what many daredevils regularly do. Between the two land masses, there is only a narrow strip of water called the Strait of Messina. The topography so dramatic as this one was bound to gush out many folk explanations for the impassable strip of water that separated once united Sicily and Calabria. Historically, it was associated with optical illusions because the water was claimed to sometimes project images of buildings or cliffs, ghost ships and phantom land. Under the right conditions on a summer, humid morning, the city of Messina would seem clearly visible and painfully close. This is the famous Fata Morgana of Calabria. Myths link this phenomenon to Morgan le Fay, the sister of King Arthur and the sorceress who lived in this area and created these mirages to deceive and disorient sailors, who would be convinced that the other side was just a few footsteps away. I assume she was fed up with men at that point in her life. It's fine, we have all been there.

Even the term itself, Fata Morgana, is the Italian translation of this character from the Arthurian legend. Italy must have been abundant with various witches of its own, but apparently, the Normans were the first to describe the phenomenon and consequently got to name it. There is a perfectly rational scientific explanation of this illusion that involves thermal changes, light ray distortion, refraction, reflection and such abysmally boring things. In the dilemma between science and folklore superstitions involving fairies, enchantments, and spells that erase the sea to bring together the cursed lovers of Messina and Reggio Calabria, did scientism ever truly stand any chance?

I tried to imagine how it must have been to be born in such a magical place. Reggio Calabria, also known as the city of fragrant bergamot, is imposing. It has two spectacular, grand theatres, wide noble boulevards, majestic buildings, giant fig trees that resemble the Tree of Life and stop you in your tracks by their monumental splendour. It has the Falcomata, which is its seaside promenade with the view of Sicily and Etna, fondly known as the most beautiful kilometre of Italy. The city boasts the venerable institution of a passeggiata, a favourite pastime for all ages, which is so beloved that the walkers can cause a traffic jam on Saturday evenings. To be seen there in all your finery, with all the family on display, is an absolute must, if you wish to "fare una bella figura", i.e. make a good impression on others. If you do not care for that, are you even a true Italian?

Reggio Calabria looks relatively modern, because a catastrophic earthquake demolished the city in 1908 and severed its connection to the ancient buildings, piazzas and churches that used to stand there for centuries. One of the modern buildings is the National Archeological Museum that hides within a treasure chest of artefacts of Magna Grecia. From countless layers of history underneath them, Calabresi have dug out the expected fare such as orange-black vases, statues, bucketfuls of coins, and weapons. But there are some utterly mesmerising items such as nutcrackers, tweezers, mirrors, safety pins, and golden jewelry in the shape of antelope that are all dated to many centuries before Christ. Yet, they look as if they were made today.

The absolute stars of the museum and the much-awaited culmination of your tour, and deservedly so, are the Riace Bronzes. They are the naked bronze statues of two male warriors, dating back to the 5th century BC. Colossal heroes, almost two meters tall, are among the most significant examples of ancient Greek art ever found. Every detail is rendered to perfection, every muscle and every vein under the metal skin are clearly visible and anatomically precise. The locks of hair are flattened because the statues originally had helmets. Talk about a bad hair day! Their eyes are meticulously made of white inlaid stone, and their tiny teeth of silver. They are both impossibly perfect. Yet, the most spectacular thing is the story of their discovery.

In a plot twist that could be plausible only in a country as controversial as Italy, these giant, 160 kilograms heavy statues were simply found one bright day in 1972, lying in the shallow sea at only 8 meters of depth. A recreational tourist diver spotted them with the naked eye and alerted the authorities. Mind you, no professional divers, nor modern amenities such as GPS, underwater sonars, lights or cameras to map the seafloor. A godsend! The authorities, in turn, managed to fumble for two weeks to haul the statues out of the shallow sea. During that time, the more mobile parts like shields, helmets, and a legendary, unproven third warrior, have disappeared. Gone with the current, or more likely, with the demands of the black artwork market.

We don't know anything about the bronze warriors. Who were they, what did they represent, who made them or ordered their expensive creation? How did they end up at the bottom of the Ionian Sea? I suppose that, as with all statues, they were made to protect and guard, to appease the gods. Further than that, it's all silence and mystery. The thing that struck me the most is how Italy is one of the rare places on earth where miracles are still possible. A find of this value and archeological importance for the whole cultural heritage of the world comes once in many centuries, if ever. However, on a normal sunny day in a small, completely unremarkable village of Riace, after breakfast, a tourist goes underwater and voila! There they were, waiting in plain sight, ripe for the taking. No wonder Italians are predominantly people of faith, because practical miracles like this help underpin their belief.

Oftentimes, you get the feeling that the Calabresi do not get the chance to enjoy their paradise in the middle of the Mediterranean as tourists do. Ghost towns and villages are all over the region due to the very high levels of emigration in search of work, induced by economic hardships. At the same time, in the midst of poverty, there is a kind of hopefulness or megalomania in the inhabitants, because there are so many phantasmagorical mansions that are half-built and abandoned, enormous and so complicated in their design that they most surely were not approved by an architect of sound mind. The houses are huge, ambitious, envisioned for multiple generations to live together under the same roof. Calabresi do not believe in age gaps and healthy boundaries. These houses are complex, multi-floored, elaborate, and most of the time with a view to die for. But more often than not, they stand deserted and forsaken, whether because the money for the construction has run out, or the proprietors failed to obtain the construction permits, which they hoped to get post facto, naturally. "Ci arrangiamo dopo!" is a universal Italian credo of nonchalance. I kept thinking that instead of a McMansion, a more modest home would have far greater chances of being finished, and well, lived in. The rusted wires stick out of concrete floors, pointing their accusatory fingers to the heavens.

The other issue you cannot not notice is the garbage. There is a lot of it, and it's constantly being disposed of in the most unlikely of places. On the beaches, in the parks, on the sides of cute medieval streets, and most of all along the highways. It is a normal daily chore to stop your car on the side of it and hurl your black bin bags down the panoramic slope that boasts the five-star view of Etna. Sometimes, even domestic appliances get tossed away in this manner. This is not because Calabresi have a fetish for disorderly living, or care little for their home region. Apparently, the garbage disposal services are known to be the domain of the local branch of a questionable organization and they simply misappropriate the governmental money allocated to this. Understandably then, an ordinary citizen cannot complain to a Don Corleone that his garbage stinks to hell, but he is reduced to dealing with the problem in the aforementioned, inelegant ways. To add insult to injury, garbage disposal is not the only general service that Calabresi are deprived of, so daily life is far more difficult there. Calabria is definitely worth a visit, but don't judge Calabresi too harshly. Remember, the art of judging is only justified when you are taking part in a passeggiata.

Calabria, this blessed land where lemons grow effortlessly even out of the junk backyards, made me think about many things. I caught myself reminiscing about my grandfather. He had a dream to grow his own lemon fruit. Not on a plantation, mind you, or in a garden close to the sea. He wished for homegrown, yellow, puckered-skin lemons that would sprout out of one huge flower pot somewhere in the midst of intemperate, continental Balkans. We had no idea where the actual sapling came from. But his beloved lemon tree was always present on the outskirts of my childhood memories, and it was an important part of our ancestral mythology. Naturally, all of the grandchildren tried to curry favour with him by watering and tending as much as possible to his precious lemon tree. The tree did put effort as well, it had leaves and gnarly branches, but it was, unsurprisingly, stunted in growth. However, it has never, ever produced a single yellow lemon. The best it ever managed to do was to give us a tiny green fruit, the size of a midget lime. We have never made a lemonade of it, we have never even picked one, we watched it in admiration, forever hopeful that the plant just needed more time, or that we should try harder with our nurture.

I got the chance to live inside my grandfather's dreamland for a few days this April in the most southern part of Italy, on its very tip. This would have been his dreamscape if he were still alive. I realized that, try as you might, and he tried so much, it is not all up to you. He never stood any chance in his harsh climate. You can provide the best seed, you can put your heart and soul in it, you can engage others to assist you, but your surroundings matter a ton and can enhance or destroy your dreams. This applies to lemon growing and to every other endeavour.