schizophrenia

Alas, a rather low point.

Three things first:

1. I needed to do this, I needed to put myself physically into the part of Italy that has produced the most culture in some ways so that I could see just how bad it really was. Reading about it wasn't enough, I had to be for a month here to see what made everyone need to go to America, Germany, and The North. In case there was any doubt, the greats of Italian film and literature are not making much up.
   
2. My Italian identity has very little to do with Calabria. This is a completely different culture, one I've grown up around but that I am not a part of.
   
3. If one more person from San Demetrio asks me how I like it here, I'm going to freak out. Yesterday I decided to start being honest, and so I said, I like it here, but I can't wait to get back to Rome. The response, inevitably, is "well, here the air is fresh and there's no traffic." I'd kill for some traffic and pollution at this point.

The same guy I told I couldn't wait to get back to Rome, when I asked him what his name was, he said "Mimmo, like the town." ...Mimmo being the diminuative for Demetrio, but I thought it was hysterical. When it comes down to it, there are four male names in this town: Luigi, Demetrio, Angelo and Mario.
I have one professor who generally starts the class speaking slowly and in Italian and then reverts into fast Italian with a thick Calabrian accent by about the fifteenth minute of class. He doesn't speak any English and only speaks to me. This is a problem because there are four other people in the class and I don't want to have to pay that much attention. He loves me, and in class yesterday said, "you are a revolutionary! you're going to be the next president of the United States!" I asked him how he knew I was a revolutionary without me saying anything about it, and he said he could see it. Fact of the matter is though, he's hysterical, more bookish and professorial than the worst stereotypes ever, and he writes poetry under a pseudonym, all of which is ok. The ultimate though is that after a long discourse about how he'd love to be a monk and just be in a monastic library all day, he mentioned that he really wants to be reelected mayor of his town, because he likes being close to the people and helping them with their problems. I asked him what the problems were, and it seems that (since he lives at the beach) that the biggest problem is keeping the beach clean for everyone and making cultural initiatives. Eh. At any rate, I asked him how sinistra, or left he was, like L'Ulivo left or Democratici della Sinistra left, and he whispered rifondazione. Alas, I have an insane poet reformed communist politician professor. My description, verbose as it was, does not enough justice, because a picture is absolutely necessary at this point, otherwise it just doesn't make sense.
Tomorrow I'll have time to write some more, and there are of course more stories to tell, maybe even a photo or two, although this internet connection leaves much to be desired and I've got two take-home midterms to write, and I'm physically and emotionally exhausted. I'm feelling kind of not always good about being here anymore, because it tends to drive me nuts and most of these people are totally insane, seriously. However, I have met some awesome people (who are not from San Demetrio but rather in this boat with me) as a result, which is positive. Still, I could be ok here... I could last here if I had to. This is the type of place where Mussolini sent Italian political prisoners during the 30s, it's that crazy (cf. Primo Levi's Christ Stopped at Eboli and let the jokes keep on coming).

BASTA!