It’s Sunday morning, 9 February. I’m having a cappuccino while sitting in the sun at my local bar and eavesdropping the conversation of the three elderly Italian ladies at the table next to me. The name Diodato is mentioned and I immediately know what they are talking about. Of course, what else should they be talking about. Diodato was announced the winner of the San Remo Festival last night in a live-show that lasted for hours. Today, it’s the talk of the town. Of the country, in fact. The seemingly oldest woman of the three – sipping her coffee in a wheelchair – raises her eyebrows from behind her over-sized sunglasses. She didn’t like him, she says. The woman next to her, with her face buried in the Sunday newspaper, now participates in the conversation. She actually loved him, Diodato with his gorgeous voice. The lady in the wheelchair protests. The whole festival has dramatically decreased in quality over the past few years, is her opinion. The third woman – clearly the one with the least articulated opinion – nods her head in agreement. And while the only fan of Diodato shifts her attention to her newspaper again, the other two continue arguing about how the songs were much better back in the days. Shortly after, the Diodato-fan closes her newspaper and sighs it was a long show last night. On her couch she had fallen asleep a couple of times to be awaken again by the sound of the over-excited TV hosts and a cheering and celebrating Diodato who was pronounced the winner at two o’clock in the morning. The other two ladies stared at her in slight disbelief: had she actually watched the festival? No, for them that would have been too much. In fact, what was the song called with which this Diodato guy (and what a crazy name that is?) had actually won?
“What are you doing here?!”, was his reaction when he came home from work that night and found me there: SURPRISE!
Last week has been a slightly different week than others, because I’ve spent the biggest part of it in the Netherlands. As a surprise for my father’s 65th birthday I took a taxi to the airport in the very early morning (4 am…) on Tuesday. “What are you doing here?!”, was his reaction when he came home from work that night and found me there: SURPRISE! On Friday, I flew back to Rome, after having spent precious time with friends again back home. And the question I already feared, was popped by literally everyone: “But you’re coming back for carnival, right?”, immediately followed by “Don’t worry, I can pick you up from the airport!”. Although coming home for Christmas is the best thing ever, those days from the beginning of February until Ash Wednesday are the only days of the year I do suffer from being homesick.
For both song contests, people had been looking forward to it for weeks already with the qualifiers and semi-finals being extensively covered by the media. And for both the song contest, the final winner was revealed this weekend
This past weekend, I’ve been following two very important song contests: the San Remo Festival – where the greatest Italian stars have been discovered including Andrea Bocelli, Laura Pausini and Eros Ramazzotti – and the LVK – the yearly competition to elect the best carnival song – in Limburg, the region where I come from in the Netherlands. Carnival, the party similar to Mardi Grass for which everybody dresses up and for which there are parades and other festivities in each city and town, is the most important folk fest of the year in Limburg. For both song contests, people had been looking forward to it for weeks already with the qualifiers and semi-finals being extensively covered by the media. And for both the song contest, the final winner was revealed this weekend: which song would be decided to be the best according to the judge and the voting population? Saturday morning, the day after the LVK finale, I was scrolling through Facebook reading the comments on the winning song: many congratulations, but also many strong opinions on how the festival was no guarantee anymore for music containing that authentic carnival feeling. Others actually preferred other songs over the winning one, so I read. In fact, the quality of the competition had decreased, was what I understood from the very critical Facebook audience.
How it’s rather an absurd thought in my family that you would need to call first before paying a visit
I couldn’t help but smiling. Oh, Limburg, the most southern and most Italian region of The Netherlands. And I mean it in both a positive and negative way. Having abandoned the church for years already, but still wanting a blessed palm branch every Easter to put up behind the crucifix in the kitchen and stealing the show with a Gucci handbag during the First Communion of the children. And no, that’s not considered hypocrite. The fact half of the village is family and you get to know new cousins (second degree, third degree) even after thirty years. The explosive media attention for ‘corruption’ when there’s only the slightest hint of it, whether it’s about a tender or the appointment of a new mayor. Well, when the name tags of my city Roermond where replaced by ‘Palermo’ during the municipality elections in 2014, we had hit a low point. How it’s rather an absurd thought in my family that you would need to call first before paying a visit, at my parent’s place there’s always family and friends spontaneously popping in. The ever existing fear of not having enough food and therefore buying five cakes for a birthday with 25 guests, so having more than 60 slices. And I can go on like this for a while…
Neither the Limburger, nor the Italian would want to be ‘from the North’ as both are strongly convinced of the fact that they were the true inventors of ‘the art of the good life’
Since decades already, many people in Limburg feel in a particular way somewhat inferior to or a little intimidated by the rest of the country. Italians have this exact same feeling of inferiority towards the North of Europe, which they consider very well organised and experiencing healthy economic growth, in contrary to Italy. At the same time, both the people in Limburg as in Italy are overflowing with pride for their own heritage. Neither the Limburger, nor the Italian would want to be ‘from the North’ as both are strongly convinced of the fact that they were the true inventors of ‘the art of the good life’. That’s what all those songs tell me at least. In fact, whenever I’m in a random bar in Maastricht – Limburg’s capital – ordering a coffee and it’s invariably served with a little glass of whip cream and accompanying liquor by a middle-aged waiter in a neat white shirt with black bow tie who has an accent that makes him seem to be singing when he says ‘there you go, young lady’, I do have to admit that we’ve really understood it in the south, that art of living.
I think it would be awesome that when I would ask a person in Amsterdam the same question, he or she would jump up out of joy starting to tell me about how their grandparents have grown up in the widest corners of the country, displaying a great pride about it
Outside respectively Limburg and Italy, we both seem to be fairly united, but nothing could be further from the truth. In Italy, a patchwork of very diverse regions, people always joke about how Italy only truly comes together at two occasions: when they play against the Germans at the world cup or when non-Italians are messing up their classic dishes once again. Back home in Limburg, my grandmother always used to say “he’s not from here” about any person who had lived less than half a century in her village, this person actually coming from the village next to hers. And don’t get me wrong, it was in no way indented to make the other person feel less welcomed. In fact, it was something positive as you may celebrate your heritage. Exactly how they do in Italy. Here in Rome you won’t find Italians coming from provinces trying to get rid of their accents. I pop the question to almost every Italian I meet: Where are you from? Not because the answer is important to me in any way, but solely because I truly enjoy the answers they give. Eyes lighting up: “My grandmother is Neapolitan, my grandfather Pugliese, but my mom’s parents come from Abruzzo”. The fact that this person has lived in Rome for all his life, doesn’t matter. Because when asking an Italian where he comes from, this is the only right answer. It’s up to me to reply with Napoli! Che bella! Puglia! Fantastica! What a wealth, what a joy. The most beautiful thing about it to me is that a Napoletano would be the first to admit how beautiful Sicily or Calabria is. I think it would be awesome that when I would ask a person in Amsterdam the same question, he or she would jump up out of joy starting to tell me about how their grandparents have grown up in the widest corners of the country, displaying a great pride about it.
Because this type of homesickness is something I don’t need to explain to any Italian
Sunday afternoon, I’m watching a documentary spoken in my own dialect called ‘Nao ’t Zuuje’ (translated: Going Southwards). It’s a gorgeous movie about the carnival in Limburg, making you feel homesick straight away. For the past years in the Netherlands, me being homesick to ‘the South’ had always been Italy, Now, on this Sunday afternoon in Rome, this homesickness to ‘the South’ is actually a homesickness to the North. Around 1200 kilometres northwards, to be precise. And while the sun is blistering in a clear blue sky, it annoys me in a way. It would have been so cosy to watch this documentary while the storm Ciara would be holing outside. Still, I consider myself lucky to live in Italy. Because this type of homesickness is something I don’t need to explain to any Italian. Right before going to bed, I open Facebook. Diodato, who won the San Remo Festival with the song Fai Rumore (translated: Make Noise), has dedicated his victory to Taranto, the city in Puglia where he grew up and which is experiencing rough times at the moment. His message: it’s a city that should make more noise, should stand up for itself stronger. It’s a message of pride and it quickly collects countless likes and shares on Facebook of all my friends from Puglia. Isn’t it funny – opposing actually – how longing back to my place, to the songs of my youth sung in my own dialect with my childhood friends and even to those chauvinist people from back home – make me even more Italian?
❤️❤️❤️