Strangers are the friends you haven't met yet...

Ciccu

Ciccu's vespa

sweet red onions of Tropea and pepperonicini (hot peppers)

Fichi D'India

Pentidattilo, previously abandoned, now being restored, enroute from Tropea to Reggio

Sicily and Calabria are full of ruins

Villa Antica Tropea

Tropea in the distance

Tropea has a lot to offer

local produce

typical house

26^th April 2011

I spoke to an old boyfriend of mine many years after we had split up, and he asked me a curious question. “Do you still talk to strangers? It’s something that I always remember when I think about you” (or words to that effect). His comment came to mind this morning when I met Ciccu, a feisty Octogenarian, proud Tropean and caretaker of an old Villa and its vast gardens. 

It was still early when I decided to walk into Tropea, supposedly a 2.2km walk from where I was staying, but I obviously took the “long route” and ended up climbing over the railing from the high road and scrambling down the  narrow pathway to a small local path past orchards and abandoned villas into the centre of town.

The town hardly resembled the lively festive place we experienced the previous day. Gone were the crowds and colourful shopfronts, gone the sounds of laughter and chaos and gone the tantalising smells from all the local eateries. Instead the town was eerily quiet, and the still wet ground, cold wind and grey sky gave everything a colourless and heavy appearance.

I explored the town again, finding a set of stairs that led down to the port and climbing back into the town from another direction. By the time I walked back up the main street, the first signs of life were evident. Tourists waiting for transport congregated at a café where the delicious smell of freshly brewed coffee and fresh pastries made my stomach growl, brightly coloured clothing hung from open shop doors and council workers swept and cleaned the streets.

I was feeling hungry and tired when I started to walk back up a hill towards the B and B and then I saw Ciccu. He was riding his red vespa slowly up the hill past me and I greeted him as he drew alongside. He returned my greeting and asked me if I needed a lift. I paused for a moment pondering the wisdom of accepting his invitation and then thirsty for a local encounter agreed. We rode slowly up the hill past a few orchards and then he stopped at the gates of an old villa. Turns out he was the caretaker and was checking on the damage the storm had done to the crops he had planted. He showed me round the grounds, introduced me to his dog and to the other women who worked there, told me the story of the villa and gave me a bag full of fresh fruit to take home with me.

As I waved Ciccu goodbye and carried on up the hill, I knew I would probably never see him again, but I will always remember his kindness and the kindness of the other strangers who I have talked to in the past…and who have ended up being my friends.

A presto

Mon x