Calabrian Curses

After our ordeal in Calabria, my sense of belonging in Southern Italy had disappeared and I felt like a true outsider here in the land of my grandfather. Without a car, my traveling companions and I had to scratch plans to visit Taverna. Abandoned at the train station in Cosenza, we agreed to take the first train that came, no matter where it was going. Six hours later, we ended up in Reggio Calabria, the region’s capital, where the cityscape is composed of hard, concrete blocks stacked precariously on top of each other. Walking around the city scarred by earthquakes, organized crime and the resulting poverty, things did not seem to be getting better on this trip. I felt betrayed by the Italy that had seeped in and taught me how to live a more sensory life. Just a day before, I was dragging my fingers along ancient stone walls trying to feel the electricity of their age. Now I was gripping my wallet in my sweating palms as a group of men harassed my bionde friends.

“I don’t know what to do guys! I’m sorry, this Calabria thing was all my idea,” I cried as I collapsed into my seat at a small bar near the train station. I stared blankly at the cannolo I had just bought with my cappuccino, preparing to drown my sorrows in dairy.

“Oh man,” said my friend as she closed her eyes in a moment of ecstasy. “This is the best darned cannoli I’ve had in my life.” The barista reading the buon gusto on our faces pointed out the window towards Sicily, easily visible across the harbor and told us that he had brought them over on the ferry this morning.

“The cannolo—she is Sicilian,” he explained. Finally coming back to our senses, we decided to press deeper southward. We went to the ferry station and bought our passage across the straits to the city of Messina. With an hour to wait, we stretched out on a series of benches and began to relax and let go of the tension of the past few days. A gypsy approached us, as was usual everywhere in Italy, and began delivering a common litany of requests.

“Signorine, per favore, soldi, soldi. Per buona fortuna, per suo matimonio, per mio creaturo,” she said as she cocked her head from side to side, pushing her hands out in front of her as her children surrounded us from behind. At this point, I was not going to open my wallet and risk anymore misadventures. In my continued role as the group spokesperson, I shook my head firmly and told her, “Non posso aiutare. Mi dispiace.”

She hesitated and then pointed at me with her middle finger twisted over her pointer finger and spat out, “Una schifosa,” Suddenly, my Italian self snapped back in to place, not because she had just called me disgusting, but because I recognized the pose of her fingers as that of a Calabrian curse. I stood up calmly, lifted my hand and outstretched my pointer and pinky fingers at her to ward off the curse as I yelled, “Oh yeah? You can take that malocchio right back!”

I looked at my friends who stared at me in stunned silence for a minute. Then as though they had been coached, they placed their fingers in the same pose and yelled in unision, “MALOCCHIO!” The gypsy walked away stunned as I doubled over with laughter.

“How did you know what I was doing?” I said gasping for air.

“Hey, this is the land of your people so we just followed along,” said my friend as he turned to look at the pose of her own fingers. “But I always thought this gesture meant rock on.”

Later, while safely on the ferry, I looked back toward Reggio Calabria and at the beautiful statue of the Madonna in the harbor, a sort of catholic Statue of Liberty. I promised her that I would hold no grudges toward Calabria, and I would certainly be back someday. Among the many things I had learned on this trip, the most important one is that life is best lived in the present. Because for this moment, I was in Italy, and that alone was too special to spoil.

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