Gimigliano, southern Italy


Of all the things I expected to find in Gimigliano, the tiny mountain village in southern Italy where my father was born, I never expect to find the CN Tower. But there it hung, between a crucifix and a picture of the Virgin Mary.
This scene was to repeat itself over and over again throughout my trip to Calabria.
During a visit full of surprises, the greatest one was confronting images of Canada at practically every turn. The maze of narrow streets and the tiny stone houses in my father's home town couldn't have seemed more foreign, and yet I had only to enter a kitchen or living room to come face-to-face with the familiar.
As my father and I made our way through town, visiting friends and family he hadn't seen in 30 years, I felt as though I were on a cross-country tour of Canada.
The Rocky Mountains, seemingly superfluous in this mountainous landscape, adorned a carved wooden plaque that hung upon the wall. The unmistakable Toronto skyline decorated the tray that brought glasses of liquer to the table. The lights of Halifax Harbour winked at me from a set of coasters. And Niagara Falls, Ont., my home town, graced the place mate upon which my bowl of gelato had been served. I had only to eat the ice cream to see the famillar sight of the falls at night shining through the bottom of my bowl.
For every image of Canada that I saw, a story emerged: "My brother, he went to Toronto in 1955. He sent me the postcard." "My daughter, she sent me the plaque for Christmas. She lives in Edmonton." My grandson got married in Niatgara Falls. I bought the place mats when I went there for the wedding." Different words, all telling the same story - the story of loved ones separated by time and place.
As I listened to the stories unfold, I heard the wistful affection with which these people spoke of Canada, their voices revealing the pain of people left behind. More than just another foreign country, Canada holds their brothers and sisters, children and grandchildren. It is a place synonymous with love and longing, a place of dreams, not only for those who left home, but also for those who remained behind. They dream of reunions, of hugs and kisses, of talking face-to-face instead of over the phone. They dream of vacations to Winnipeg and Moncton, N.B., and Mississauga, Ont., the way we dream of trips to London, Paris and Rome. The Eiffel Tower might be in France, but cousin Luigi is in Canada.
And so I came away with tightly wrapped packages of cheese, hand-knit sweaters, gold chains and carefully folded letters - gifts to bring across the ocean, gifts to pass on from an Italian sister to her Canadian brother, from a mother in Gimigliano to a son Niagara Falls.
Finding Canada in Calabria made me realize the extent of immigrations's impact not just on our country but on all the countries that send us their sons and daughters, cousins, aunts and grandparents: for every foreign face that arrives here, a familiar face vanishes somewhere else. And in its place are postcards, plaques and placemats.

Written by Terry Rotella




CN Tower, Toronto, Canada