Calabria Stinks

I was about to catch the biggest spiffero of my life as I ran completely naked toward a waterfall in the middle of a February. We had set out on a road trip to get away from the cold stones of Florence. Our first stop was at Saturnia in the Maremma, famous for a variety of spas and a natural hot spring just off the side of the road. My American traveling buddies, who had not been raised with fears of catching drafts or going out with their hair wet, ran joyously towards the hissing, bubbling, sulfuric water, ripping their clothes off along the way. I decided to forget myself a little bit, dive in and enjoy the moment.

Now that I had seen Nana’s hometown, I was excited to explore Calabria and visit the town of Taverna, where my maternal grandfather had grown-up. We hit the autostrada and watched Italy change. “Christo Si È Fermato a Eboli,” I mouthed silently to myself as the hills of Basilicata grew steeper and craggier. Fog overtook the deteriorating highway and soon we felt as though we were driving on a narrow ribbon that was unfurling deep into the Calabrian mountains. Every time we hit a bump, the smell of the sulfur that was still on our skin kicked up, and for an endless minute, our car smelled like Secaucus.

While we were all starving for dinner, we were reluctant to pull off the highway and find a trattoria. We had already become entrapped in several local southern Italian restaurants that brought new meaning to the concept of slow food. At one restaurant in Pitigliano, our waiter took our order and then went upstairs to wake up his wife to start the cooking. So when we came to a rest stop on the highway in Cosenza, we happily pulled over for a quick bite.

As we emerged from the car, two polizia officers greeted us and asked to see our passports and drivers licenses. My three friends all turned around and looked at me with a collective helpless gaze—I was the only Italian speaker of the group. The older officer inspected our documenti at great length and was about to hand them back when the younger (or at least shorter) of the two grabbed his arm and yelled, “BASTA. Non avete la patente internazionale.”

My dictionary was tucked deep inside my backpack and I didn’t know what patenta meant. When I asked, the younger, shorter and nastier officer took my license and danced it around in my face. He told us he had to take us to the station. We might be arrested.

“State tranquile, guys. I’ve got this under control. He probably just wants a bribe or something. The guidebooks don’t say anything about international licenses and the rental car company would have told us that,” I said as I tried to contain the quiver of fear in my voice. “Besides, I’m a paesana. One of my grandfather’s sisters alone had thirteen kids. This area has gotta be lousy with Pullanos.”

Down at the police station, I proudly revealed my Calabrian heritage, praying that it would be our get-out-of-jail-free card. No dice. The short cop was intent on making an example of us. He made it clear that he wasn’t fond of Americans and he believed my grandfather must have thought he was too good for Calabria if he had to go as far away as “il Bronx.”

Out of options, I turned to my friend who had been on the verge of tears the entire time. A crying blonde girl was the last of our options before being cuffed. She started sobbing buckets and heaving screams into her lap as she doubled over. I looked at her and then at the polizia with my eyebrows raised as far as they would go. If they weren’t going to accept my Calabrian heritage, I was at least going to try to impart some Italian guilt.

Suddenly, another officer bust through the swinging doors, took one look at us, and then began waving his hands in the air.

“ZOLFO!! Mamma mia, zooolfo, zolfo!!”

“Yes, it is awful. Just awful! We’ve done nothing wrong,” I replied, relieved to be hearing his strongly accented commentary on our situation. He threw some urgent instructions at the short cop who turned red with embarrassment. He was setting us free—but he was still going to impound our car. We were given our bags from the trunk and then let loose to find our way on foot.

“Wow, I can’t believe it. What made that guy let us go!?” said my crying friend. Tear streaks highlighted the thin layer of grime on her face.

“Zolfo,” I said as I paged through my dictionary, checking for words I hadn’t understood during our negotiations, “Zolfo means sulfur. He let us go because we stink!”

About the Author: Danielle Oteri shares her experiences navigating Southern Italy with all of its linguistic and cultural quirks.