Jesus was born in Stromboli

Europe » Italy » Sicily » Stromboli
December 2nd 2006

Published: December 2nd 2006

Gabriel was pissed off that morning. Indeed. The boss was in a rotten mood, and the morning messages at the office did not raise the latter’s spirits. That damn favourite planet of his, the same he spent so much energies and hopes for the future on, even one of his own kids, was a fatiguing and not at all rewarding effort. Just an endless cry of complaints and little common sense. He ended up summoning His own private rainman, Count Negroni, who prescribed a biblical treat of the deadly concoction bearing the same name, and now God was hangover and prone to disaster. ‘Gabriel!!!’ the supreme had called ‘The measure is full. Which is another way to say that I am fucking tired of these humans. Go and announce: I’ll be back, with a vengeance’.
Now what? And, even more important, where? No way I am going back there, bloody killers…but cannot get too far either. Who’ll believe another Jesus in Switzerland? Better some godforsaken island in that old historical blue sea, find a nice chick, knock her up, announce the great venue and get the hell back asap. That black island down there, spitting fire and hell all the time with a bunch of crazy locals idiot enough to build under a volcano, is the place. No better place to deliver the true voice of Nature’s rage. Stromboli-ho, then. Target: the small square facing the church, probably no virgins around but definitely a nice atmosphere. ‘Energy!!’. All worked fine except the mischievous volcano burped badly and the beam delivered our seraphim few metres WNW, and instead of devout churchgoers Gabriel found himself facing Andrea, proud gay and co-owner of Barbablu, the Central Mediterranean lighthouse for bar-goers. ‘Fuck!’. ‘Yes’ answered Andrea, enchanted by the angelic glance of the winged client, and promptly shoved the God-sent bloke a red and velvety masterpiece of his, a Negroni, of course. ‘Beyond a Negroni, all is a desert, my dear angel…’. Gabriel was nonplussed, for he was supposed to travel incognito. But he was fast to make up leeway and drank the portent with style. Andrea saw the potential of the bloke, declared a happy-hour ad-personam, and a second drink blessed the seraphim’s delicate throat before he had time to react. Soon he was hovering out on winged feet, light as a feather, the whole world smiling at Him, the evening sea of a deep cobalt blue down behind the trees and the whitewashed houses, the imposing black cone towering over his shoulders with its stylish grey puff and quiet humans strolling along the tiny alleys. ‘Paradise, what-ho!’. But he did not forget the mission he had to accomplish. These seraphims are no lesser Angels…and a Virgin had to be found. Well, at least a woman. But somehow the drinks had slowed time down. No pressure, he thought. No rush. The place looks promising, let’s have a look around.
Out of the bar two sailors were having their red sundowner with the air of two Italian soldiers who just found an oasis in the Sahara desert while they were escaping from a British patrol in the first days of the African Campaign. ‘Jesus, Man’ said the first ‘what a bloody island to weather a gale… no shelter at all, waves coming from everywhere, gusts down he volcano and, last but not least, those devilish booms scare the hell out of you… a Godforsaken place, this… Last place to call a haven, why don’t they build a fucking harbour?’ ‘Why? What about that unique emotion and thrill you feel at the end of a rough night touring all bars when you go down the beach and you do not know if your boat will be there or not? This is Stromboli, the Land of God, take it or leave it’.
The Negronis in Gabriel’s blood had already passed level A (no worries in life) and B (Life is great), and was just approaching level C (What is life?), but could not remain unimpressed by the sailor’s conversations… to many keywords…. God, Jesus, Devil, Haven… that was a sign, and moreover he wanted to call it a day and get back to a couple of females of imperfect morals ready to do anything to find a place in heaven . So he decided to stare into the eyes of one of them, unwrapped his wings, took fire and delivered his announcement in Latin.
‘But, your excellence, I am not a virgin…’
‘Who is in these godless days?’
‘But I am a man…’
‘No one is perfect. See you in nine months’

I had been away from Stromboli for slightly over a month and this idea of writing something funny about it seemed the best way to handle such an extraordinary subject. This volcano is a desperate hand straight out of the guts of the planet, the cry of rage and fear of an imprisoned monster around which humans had built whitewashed houses, bursting churches and jam-packed bars. A critic might cavil whether Stromboli is the point of the Earth where Heaven and Hell are closest, but there is no doubt that it is the only place where the explosions from the Fiery Furnace are closer to the sky than the tolling of the church bells. The only place where the black sand and the white walls live in harmony, a kingdom of contrasts in perfect balance on a tight rope, enraged nature on one side and imbecile human dreams on the other. Anyway, when I let go last night just off the few lights and under the reddish glow in the clouds, anything funny or ironic faded away, and this tale will be a contrast of tragedy and comedy, only less perfect than this island.
Then after other two days, when the subtle worm of comedy nearly found its way back to the world of temptation and possibility, a thunderstorm came and the worm died forever. My vessel was at anchor several miles away when God decided it was time to end summer in glory, rage and wrath, and thunder and lighting came to split the world between darkness and light. After an hour the rage was over Stromboli, and there it was, a cascade of lighting and anger in a fluorescent atmosphere of ghosts and strobo-madness, a techno-show of terrific power over the sea and the horizon. Only, there, flashing black and triangular, oblivious of storms and rain, unaware of pains and disaster, careless of destinies and choices, the volcano again was bouncing between heaven and hell, a cone of perfect darkness, lost in time.
It’s a place where black and white do exist, like in the worst movies when a spotless good defeats a shameful bad. But still, the red of fire and negronis add a new weight to the balance, the burden of life and existence, of human beings sensing cocktails, kneeling in churches and hiking up the sandy slopes to the crater. Black, white and red.

Be sure to approach the ‘Lighthouse of the Mediterranean’ from the North West and in the last hours of the night. The thousand-metre high firework platform will show you the way and slowly a black perfect cone (Strombos means cone in Greek) will remain in the night while the rest lights up. Until 1934 the island was bursting activity, with thousands of farmers building terraces up the cone to transform the rich ashes into wine and capers. That year a stronger eruption killed a dozen souls, shrapnelled the others, but failed to destroy the recently imported vine parasites. Most inhabitants left, mainly to the States. Until a couple of decades ago, you could buy a house in Stromboli for the cost of its bricks. Microsoft stocks cannot compete with the values of the same houses in more recent days. But Italians are smart chaps and never advertised it too much around. Now, like I or not, you’ll have to drink your Negroni with left-wing politicians, stylish gays, glamorous fashion stars, summer charter sailors and large Sicilian notables, none of whom will ever think about climbing the cone, a deplorable activity left to French and German backpackers, kindly deprived of 25 euros each for a trekking permit. But winter selects, and only locals and backpackers remain.

Autumn clouds hang like a bracelet around the cone and pour down rain. The alleys are a desert, the bars less so but certainly active is the church. After ten hours of sailing, three anchoring manoeuvres and a rolly night I was looking for reasons to understand why this place climbed my list of favourite islands to reach first and second place. Then I reached the square and I had on one side the church where Tuesday mass, a renowned favourite activity of all Catholics, was celebrated, and on the other a double rainbow falling right over Strombolicchio, a 50-metre high pillar with compulsory beacon and sunset reflections floating over a sea of a whole bunch of shades of steel. Ok, I’ll stand the rolling another night… also because Andrea’s bar is closed.
The Barbablu is the closest thing to an old English pub you can find on the territory of the Italian Republic. Only, it does not look to a pub at all, with its red and yellow pastel walls (only one around) and stylish modern interior with 4 (four) highly valued stools. But it’s the atmosphere… it’s a place where you arrive alone and after an hour or so you know everyone. Maybe the merit goes to Andrea’s concoctions. One night a couple came in, and they ordered a Negroni and a tonic water. Andrea’s reaction to the latter order was mild, mainly due to the fact that my girlfriend had just ordered a tea - what? A tea? Who the fuck are you, snow-white? - thus reaching the tolerance limit. I naturally complimented the bloke for its choice. Only I was grossly mistaken and the red velvet was bound for the lady’s throat instead. When the two came out to join the majority of the company, who sat down as usual smoking on the sort wall outside, where a gigantic tray full of black sand swallowed the filters, the lady’s eyes were sparkling. God I feel good. Stromboli had harvested another victim. Expect to meet any possible variation of human being at Andrea’s: Australian gardeners, bad politicians (there are no good ones in Italy), lose sailors, Sicilian writers, serious engineers, pigtailed musicians, serious managers, dreamy tour-guides and Neapolitan lawyers.

Ginostra lies on the other corner of San Vincenzo , just half a mile South of the Sciara, the slide where the fiery rocks rolls down to the sea. Yes, because Stromboli main difference when compared to fireworks and other volcanoes is that what goes up do fall down again here, mostly down the Sciara, seldom somewhere else, occasionally on unfortunate heads. Japanese tourists cannot believe someone is even paying Ginza values to buy property here…
The tiny village proudly boasts the smallest harbour of the planet, a tiny haven hidden among rocks where the locals can easily haul out their gozzi. Old wisdom suggested not to build anything bigger, because Ginostra is only sheltered by dead calm weather. Needless to say authorities recently built a wharf for the use of evac-units and hydrofoils, but I am sure Nature will soon claim it back. The forty or so lucky hermits use modern solar panels and ancient stone-dug water tanks for their basic needs, and candles are a must.
The village of Ginostra is the closest thing to poetry that white paint can achieve. Seeing as a whole, apart from its location that can be considered either perfectly foolish or perfectly chosen, it does not hit the eye. Houses are not snuggle but rather sparse around agaves bushes. But again it’s the people who make the difference. Have dinner at the terrace, with candles your only light and swordfish your only choice, then stroll around the alleys in the dark. Music will attract you at the village ‘square’, just a bigger terrace in front of the church. There you will find a lady with an harmonium singing for the dancers around a lantern in the middle. But you will have to go back in time, to the days when girls and boys pirouetted from one to another, sweet and happy, touching hands. It’s not the sunny squares of Sicily, nor the villages in Scotland, it’s a music without time and place mingling north and south, east and west, and centuries gone by. You will meet the smile of perfect unknown girl, and you will, for once, desire the poetry of a hand rather than the longing for a kiss.
Because Stromboli is a place where you want to fall in love, and not simply to find a partner for the night. There is no time here.

And thank God for that. The island affords one of the best examples of trade inefficiency of the whole south of Italy, which is itself the most inefficient place in the Galaxy. If you want to do the shopping you have to tramp around the whole village. You do not want to be in a rush in Stromboli. But a clever shopper can achieve excellent emotions. First of all wait for the winter to set in, so dark comes earlier, say at six. Then start your shopping tour at one extremity of the high street, the one connecting the churches and not the beaches. In the young October darkness, when the barking of the dogs turns drier, switch off the torch and follow the echo of your steps between the white walls and the blue windows, noticing that also your steps have a different echo according to the season. Staring from the dock, where a girl from Russia runs a very good vegetable cart, after five minutes you find the butcher, a man of old days when meat was good and true and shops were cleaned with maniacal perfection. It closes at 8, sometimes 9, but starts cleaning at least an hour before. Another 4 minutes and you can stop at Donna Gabriella for the Arancini di Riso. Thank God newspaper and cigarettes are not that far away, but still uphill and they close earlier, at 7 30. Nearly in the square you find the superette, selling not much more than pastas, biscuits and wine. It’s indeed another five minutes to the bakery and another superette. For a book it’s other ten minutes. Fish is a random affair, but only a deaf would not be able to hear the vocal chords of the old bloke carting around tuna and squid. FRESCO PEEEEESCEEEE. Fish fresh, not fresh fish. He comes every day from the main island and is honest. Can you ask for more?
Let’s say than an average complete shopping expedition might take at least an hour and a half, largely more inefficient that the 30 minutes, including parking, in a Milan supermarket. And, needless to say, vastly more expensive. Aren’t tourists looking for tradition, for god’s sake? And here they are served. Traditional, old time shopping. There is also a lady who washes (no ironing, though) your sheets in her own house, asking for nothing else than an outrageous amount of money in return.

Oh by the way, does anyone care that the sea around Stromboli is the deepest blue you can find?

Jesus was born in Stromboli

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