Ten Euros, or How I ended up at Rodì Milice - PART II

Part 2

A few weeks back, I wrote in passing about a lunch invitation I received between Mortilla and Pizzo. Here's the full story:

I had seen a number of orange tree nurseries throughout the course of the day, and as I passed each one I felt my appetite for oranges increase. When I saw that one of the nurseries ahead had set a tower of crates full of oranges along the side of the road, I turned into the driveway. This process is always somewhat awkward and uncomfortable for me, as my request for two or three oranges is nearly always met with a long sigh, an impatient snort, or at the very least a sullen silence. You see, most people buy four or five kilos of oranges at one time, so my purchase is peanuts in comparison. Call me oversensitive, call me weak-willed, call me what you will, but until you have had the experience of disappointing a fruit vendor as many times as I have over a short span of time, you can not possibly know how it feels.

So, firming up my resolve and preparing my "oblivious to your annoyed look/set on eating oranges at any psychological cost" face, I approached the house, only to discover that the family was eating lunch. Ay ay ay - not only was I wasting the nursery owner's time with a tiny purchase, I was also interrupting the most important hour(s) of a Calabrian's day. Still, it was too late to turn back, say "nevermind, wrong house," and escape, so when the owner came out, frowning but not unfriendly, I told him what I wanted. He nodded silently, I apologized to the two ladies cautiously peeping out from the dining room, and followed sheepishly behind the owner to the roadside crates.

He told me to pick what I wanted, and so I did, selecting delicious-looking navels and two juicy mandarins. Then, without a word, he made way back down to the house, and rather quickly, as it had just started to rain. I followed, and pressed against the house to avoid getting wet, let my backpack fall from my shoulders, so I could pack the oranges and remove my rain gear. While I was doing this, I heard one of the ladies shuffle out toward the front door, and when she was beside her husband, she asked me what I was doing there.

I began to tell my story, all the while covering my backpack and donning my rain jacket. The man listened closely, stone-faced but engaged, but his wife only heard the beginning, and soon reentered the house, only to emerge with a sandwich, which she handed to me. Having finished packing, I was urged to eat, and was motioned to sit down on the front steps. Husband and wife started to reenter the house, when the wife, having reconsidered, told me to come in from the rain.

Panino in hand, I walked gingerly into the house, and with shoulders hunched in weary wayfarer fashion, approached the table. I was immediately put at ease by their kindness and simplicity (much like Valentino had described to me just a few days before), and thanked Angela with each item she lay before me. The three of them, Ninno, Angela, and their daughter, had already eaten lunch, but they sat patiently as I ate mine, composed of cheeses and bread and a bomba calabrese (a spicy tapenade made of minced hot peppers, garlic, oil, anchovies, sundried tomatoes, salt, and a few other ingredients that I now forget), then sampled the same delicious oranges as the ones I had just purchased. Fully satisfied, I leafed through a book on Rodì Milice, Ninno's hometown in Sicily, as Angela prepared coffee. I asked him questions about the town, his impressions of Calabria vs. Sicily, and listened as he wistfully recounted the orange trees there: "you can climb up into a tree in the morning, pick until lunchtime, and still there are oranges left to pick when you get back." He was particularly proud of the book's dedication, written by his Nephew, the vice-mayor of the town, and had me read it aloud.

After Angela brought the coffee, we watched some news, commented on world events, and as I still had a long distance ahead of me, I excused myself from the table.

We all walked outside together, and after flipping up the hood on my rain jacket, I reached into my pocket and pulled out coins to pay for the fruit. "Don't worry," Ninno said, and though I wanted to pay, I knew it was useless to insist. Instead, I hugged each of them in turn, thanked them for taking me in, and was on my way.

Wait, shouted Angela, and scampering up to me, shoved something into my hand. I looked down, saw a folded bill, and started repeating No No No No No No, trying to give the money back, by force if necessary. I told them I didn't need money from them, that I appreciated the gesture but that they should save it for someone truly in need, but again there was no use. A little ashamed and still in shock, I looked at each of them with profound gratitude, and this time I was on my way for real. I had never received such direct charity from someone before, and can say that it is one of the more humbling situations I have experienced.

When I was about 100 yards away from the nursery, I looked down at my clenched fist, slowly opened it, and registered the denomination of the bill. Guess how much it was? Ten Euros.

Calabria had taken two fives and given me a ten in return.

For the next 30 minutes or so, I walked in the gray drizzle, letting this string of events sink in, once more with the music off. I was very moved, in awe of what I had just experienced, but this time there was no crying, no excess of emotion. I simply realized that these ten euros were not mine, that I had to pass on this same bill, representative as it was of an other-worldly phenomenon. So to whom should I give these ten euros? The first thought, the easiest solution, was to pop into a church and stuff it into one of the many guilt-inducing slots. I considered this for a while, but the more I thought about it, the less it inspired me. I pictured priests getting the strands of gold replaced on their vestments, or sending it on to some huge vat of money tucked somewhere deep in the Vatican, and I was not satisfied. Of course, the church could also be a force for good, giving it to needy orphans and so on, but why should I go through a middle man when I could do the same myself? The answer to that particular question came in the form of a bunch of farm sheds under an overpass, directly to my left. I considered spontaneously appearing, the bill in hand, and realized that things could go less than perfectly. What if ten was not enough, and they robbed me blind? What if they were indignant at my assuming their poverty? No, this ten was destined to go somewhere else, a place where it would not go to waste or serve to glorify me, but instead be given in the same spirit in which Ninno and Angela had given, the spirit of hospitality and new friendship.

And then it hit me, a flash of inspiration that made up my mind, so logical and so cinematic at the same time. No matter where it was, no matter how long it took, I was going to Rodì Milice, Ninno's birthplace, and would give the ten euros to his nephew.