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But the city’s splendid isolation gives it an atmosphere unique in all of Italy, a place where Byzantine, Arab, Roman and Norman cultures have all left their mark, most noticeably on the city’s stunning architecture. A place closer to Belgrade than Milan where the pull of the East makes itself felt, most keenly from the biting ‘Bora’ wind whipping in all the way from the Balkans. Africa, past and present is represented here, the past by the magnificently ornate Moorish dwellings on Station St, the present by the large number of mostly illegal immigrants, unrecognised by the state, looked down on by many of the population, yet almost to a person, literate and articulate, many speaking 4 or 5 languages. “They like to buy cheap cd’s off us” says George, a street hawker, “otherwise we’re invisible”. There is more serious crime here though, then the selling of cheap copies of pop cd’s – something much more nefarious: felt more then heard. “I thought he was asleep” says, Guiseppe of the man he saw slumped over the wheel on his way to the nearby NATO base where he works as a mechanic. It was when he took a closer look he noticed the bullet holes in the side of the car. Executions like these are an almost weekly occurrence, instantly old news, never making the front page of the daily Giornale. The locals shrug, “What can you do”? Like all of Southern Italy, the Mafia is a significant though shadowy presence here, its tentacles pushing into most corners of life, ready to squeeze. The daytime shows the city as affluent and business-like, and full of contrast. In the modern part of town, there is an air of hurried affluence as people bustle to and fro, accompanied by the soundtrack of a continuous, muted cacophony of car horns occasionally punctuated by the bass honk of a lorry or the high pitch squeal of a siren. Traffic here is on no more than nodding terms with the laws of the road whilst not only young ‘raggazzi’ but also sharp looking businessmen, and portly grandmothers play a suicidal game of chicken as they weave around the speeding traffic to cross the road. Yet the turn of a corner suddenly insulates you from this controlled mayhem, as you reach the old town, whose stunning rococo churches and squares exude serenity. Here in the main ‘Piazza Arronzo’ at noon, the sound of a tenor singing Verdi, coming from hidden speakers, suddenly, unexpectedly, fills the square with beauty. Turn another corner of the Piazza, and reach a warren of narrow back streets, which now and then unfold to reveal a small family owned restaurant or a café which fills the air with the aroma of coffee tasting like nectar. Come 1.00 clock, and all movement comes to an abrupt halt, as the town winds down for its daily slumber, all shops shut until at least 4. The north of the country may be moving to the all day opening prevalent throughout most of Europe, but here in the south the siesta is still religiously observed. Yet at 4.00, it is as if a switch has been thrown as the town springs to life again. Shops open and where was silence is noise as the traffic begins its angry yet somehow benevolent complaint once more. At night the whole city comes out to play as couples pushing prams, teenagers, laughing and shouting, boys openly eying girls and generations of the same family, from grandfather to small children, stroll gently round the town, dressed in their finest, coming to see and be seen. By ten o’clock, the ‘passegiata’ is in full swing and at the weekend, some parts of the old town are so crowded, it becomes difficult to move. Everywhere there is the noise of conversation, as friends meet up to discuss the week’s events. Those not talking to anyone in person, make do with an animated conversation on their mobile. Everything is stylised: a middle aged woman, dressed head to toe in red leather, walks her poodle past a legless man; begging in front of the best dressed crowd you’ll ever see, waiting to play the next session of the latest craze: bingo. There are street vendors selling crepes or hot chestnuts, fire-eaters, even a snake charmer, the people gathering round, though not too close, as the turbaned charmer seduces the snake with his flute. Once one or two circuits of the ‘centro historico’ have been made, it is customary to retire to one of the myriad restaurants from the pizzarie serving the slightly doughy, yet superlative pizza, redolent of the south, to sumptuous, upmarket restaurants serving four or five course banquets. Food here is taken seriously: far too important to be only assigned to the weekend or a special occasion. Almost imperceptibly, by around eleven the crowds start to thin as people make their way home. Toward the edge of the centre, there is an ice cream bar, rated the best in town. Ragazzi, their immaculately cared for scooters parked on the street in pristine, unruly rows, spill out onto the pavement, chatting loudly whilst eating ice cream, before disappearing into the night as the city begins its slumber.
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