Reason 4,436,223 why I'm in love with Italy

'ndjua.

For those of you who have not had the pleasure of tasing this regional Calabrian delicacy, it is a pork based salami like product, with the addition of unique Southern Italian spices - pepperoncini, orange peel, clove, cinnamon. And, as an added bonus, it is spreadable. The name is (allegedly) an Italian ''bastardization'' of the similarly flavored, spicy andouille sausage. I could care less about the name, all I can state for certain is that since my arrival in Calabria on Saturday, I have eaten 'ndjua for every meal. I had antipasto locale everywhere. It's usually just 'ndjua, bread, oil, a wedge of soft cheese, tiny calabrian black olives the size of peas, funghi misti, and some sundried tomatoes. I had pasta bathed in a light tomato sauce with 'ndjua crumbled in it. The best pasta I've had though, the waiter came up with a plate of fresh anchovies, still moving, salt water glimmering on their bodies. They were chopped up, glimmering silver in a bowl of spaghetti with pepperoncini, capers from the etoile islands just off the coast, olives, fresh basil and fresh squeezed tomatoes. Grassy, green olive oil was drizzled generously over the top, with shavings of ricotta salata, and crunchy toasted bread crumbs mixed in. Food always tastes better when you see it before it actually becomes your dinner.

I don't know how I'm going to carry the homemade 'ndjua I purchased from a man named Gianni for the rest of the trip. I am starting to have visions of my juggling suitcases, trying to climb on the tiny local train to Scilla on Wednesday, with an 'ndjua draped around my neck like a scarf. I have no shame about that, I just don't want my clothes to start to smell like pork product. I do have another 6 weeks after all.
Maybe I'll do what my great grandmother did on a trip to Italy. Picking her up from the airport, my family was surprised to see her bulky form in a coat. She had sewed the homemade sausages from our relatives into the lining of her coat - throwing them out was simply not an option.Tropea is - big shock - beautiful. A centuries old city built into jagged cliffs overlooking a sea with more crystal shades of blue then I have ever seen. The pictures I'm taking almost look doctored in some way. When I am able to upload them, you will see. The water really is that blue.
Unlike the beach towns in the north, though, Tropea is beautiful in a different way. There is graffiti everywhere, and Calabria is a poor state. Buildings are crumbling, and others covered by scaffolding - not a sign of new construction, a local told me, but a precaution that the crumbling building does not fall on someones head and kill them. It almost even more beautiful to me because of this. It's like seeing someone so good looking its almost not real, and then noticing their crooked nose, or chipped tooth. The beauty becomes more pronounced when there is just a little ugly to bring it out.
My hotel is, literally, right on the beach - a series of clean, whitewashed bungalows with wild roses and cactus growing on my red clay front stairs. When the wind is not whistling through the charmingly chipped, dark green shutters, the soft sound of the ocean is heard just a few yards away. Unfortunitely, for reasons I'm blaming on that stupid volcano, the weather has been incredibly windy, and I think I am starting to convince myself I can still hear the ocean even when it's pretty much just wind.
All I have been doing here is walking around town. It's not a big town, so one could make an arguement that all I am doing is walking around in circles, but that's not so different from what I usually do at home. I stop, have an espresso, walk some more. Try and come to the internet cafe. It's usually closed. Stop, have some lunch (today, pizza alla diavola - 'ndjua, tropea onions, capers, tomatoes, and mozarella). Walk some more. Go take a nap (yesterday, I was abruptly awakened by an insane cacophony of horns, whistles, yelling and screeching tires. I walked out the front door and confirmed my thought - typical Italy, it was a Inter Milano football victory related impromptu parade - one of the most ragtag parades I have ever sen, but still fun) Walk back up the 227 stairs from the beach hotel to the old town above. Write a little, say hi to the old man on the corner who keeps trying to talk to me. I tell him, ''signore, mi dispiace, non parlo italiano''. He stops, ''Ahhh'', and considers this. Regroups, and continues his thought in Italian. This has been a daily exercise in comical futility. He is sweet though, as is everyone in this town. They all stop to talk, and ask where you are from, ''turista?'', ''di dove?''. The seem satisfied when I tell them that my grandparents are from Curinga. ''Ahhhhhhh'', the waiter at lunch yesterday said, and walked back to the table his family (seriously. He was sitting and eating Sunday lunch with them and kept getting up to wait on people) was sitting at and telling them.
After dinner, I usually go and have a negroni at the cafe on the corner. The man who works there is Polish, and finds my accent amusing. And here I was convinced I had successfully beaten the New Jersey accent. He speaks Polish, Italian, English, Russian and French. ''That's all?'', I joked, and he pouted in response. ''I'm learning German too,'' he protested, as I tried to explain I was kidding. I thought sarcasm would translate better to a man who knows 5 languages...After that whole pizza for lunch, I can't say I'm so ready for dinner. It's insanely cheap down here though. An espresso is .80€. A .25 pitcher of wine is about 1.5€. Lunch today- a whole pizza, a bicchiere of vino rosso della casa (usually cirò), and a sorbetto was only €8.5. Insane.So, Wednesday I go to the port village of Scilla (pronounced She-lah). It's even smaller then Tropea, and I have to take 2 local trains to get there. The train is gorgeous though - it goes right next to the sea. Alas, it is very slow for a multitude of reasons. The train here took about 10 minutes at each stop even though there was no one getting on and only myself and 3 Germans on the 2 car train (seriously - it must be smaller then the Dinky). I looked out the train window, and sure enough, the conductor stopped at every stop, turned off the train, walked over the tracks and smoked a cigarette. I didn't even mind the delay. It was just so perfectly Italian.
A presto!

P.S. my spelling might be a little off - still adjusting to the italian keyboard.