I’ve had a few false starts in writing this column. Tropea is so far removed from my life in Auckland that I don’t know what you would be interested in reading about. Also, how do you write a column called “My Year of Cheese” in a town where there is not so much cheese? Huge problems. So. I have moved to Italy. Specifically, I have moved to a tiny, ancient town on the Tyrrhenian Sea called Tropea, famous for its oldness, crystalline waters and red onions. It’s far, far south, on the little toe of the boot (if Italy was a toe boot, which would be disgusting, yet not something I’d put past la moda italiana.) I’ve been here for one week, and will stay here for three more before moving somewhere else. Not sure where, yet.
Tropea is pocket sized and medieval. It has narrow cobbled streets which house crumbling buildings, tiny trattoria, and faded murals of the Virgin Mary. The old town is perched on a cliff above the beach, which you descend 170 steps to get to. There are no footpaths, really, so you have to flatten yourself against buildings when tiny cars, scooters and trucks hoon down the streets (everything you’ve ever heard about Italian driving is true).
At the moment the town is quiet, but over the next couple of weeks holidaymakers will arrive to work on their tans. Tropea is where Italians go to holiday – it’s not that popular with foreigners yet. Perhaps this is because it is not a polished place: there are stray cats everywhere, rife unemployment, and lots of it smells like piss. People litter and their dogs poo everywhere. Men with mullets ogle, no matter what you’re wearing. Kids draw cock and balls on the sides of disintegrating 15th Century buildings.
Clichés abound in Tropea. There’s an intimidating man in black, always wearing Ray bans and leather sandals, that I’m pretty sure is the town’s Tony Soprano. I get a friendly grimace when I walk past him, which makes me both flattered and nervous. There are old women, bent over double, who pick up rubbish and pluck rosemary from the ancient brickwork. Groups of old men in three-piece suits argue while smoking cigarettes on street corners. Dudes ride scooters two to a seat. The girls favour clothes that are tight and black, and wear sneaker wedges with low slung track pants. They have that sort of “wet look” curl going on. On the beach, everyone sunbathes topless, slick with tanning oil. The food here is spicy and red. Tomatoes, dried chilli, red onion, garlic, spicy salami and seafood. No butter, just olive oil. Fresh ricotta and mozzarella balance meals out. There are little shops – most extremely, um, rustic-looking – where you can buy this stuff from. There are boxes of vegetables and fruit out the front, fresh and dusty. Inside there’s a wall of pasta, and a glass counter containing unlabelled, unpriced cheeses and cured meats of as yet uncertain age and provenance.
I went out for dinner, all alone, on my second night in Tropea. I chose a place at random and was a little nervous – I can barely speak Italian. While watching A Fist Full Of Dollars the owner established that my name was Hannah and brought over a crispy beer and a bowl of Fileya con N’duja. It’s a local dish made of narrow tubes of chunky pasta in a thick, spicy tomato sauce. I ate quickly and sat happily for a while longer, drinking beer and toasting Clint Eastwood with the trattoria staff. My bill was almost impossibly cheap, and was tallied on the paper tablecloth. I paid up and victoriously traced my way home through the scary, smelly tangle of dark streets, past stray animals, leering men and wasted teenagers, down all 170 unlit steps, before collapsing, full of pasta, coffee and beer, on my little bed by the sea.
(Source: alwayssometimesanytime.com)
